DISCLAIMER. Everyone knows I don't own this. George R. R. Martin does.

Sansa

One fetter-free day later, the great castle of Harrenhal came into view. A large black smudge on the horizon, even from a distance the mountainous place seemed cursed. Sansa hesitated at the thought of all of the burnt ghosts and tortured souls that must still keep the place haunted.

She shivered.

They rode towards the great castle, but soon had to stop for food. The fifth member of those who called themselves Mummers was and old man, frail and decrepit. Sansa found herself wondering how one such as he came to be of use to a ferocious man like Vargo Hoat.

Sansa had heard tales more terrible of Vargo Hoat than she had of Harrenhal. Tales that made her shiver and move closer to Sandor Clegane in the night. Sansa felt that Sandor would protect her, even if he didn't have his sword.

The men had taken Sandor's broadsword when they had come upon Sansa and Sandor rolling on the ground, expressing their newfound mutual passion. Sansa was still a bit frightened when she thought of how many the Hound had killed, but the fear soon left as he put his arms around her.

He watched the sword constantly, Sansa could tell. She would have placed a golden dragon that Sandor knew exactly where his sword was, and could find it without stumbling, even if blindfolded.

Sansa wasn't sure if he watched her as much as his missing affect, but she thought that he would be able to find her too, if she was lost. He seemed to have a sense for where the things dearest to him lay.

A morning grey and dreary dawned on their party, and Sansa could not see in front of her nose. They had staked the horses to ground that was as hard as rock. It had taken the lead man five minutes to pound in all the stakes.

She saw Sandor Clegane watching the man labor over such a task. Sansa was sure that he could do the deed in mere seconds. She knew that it killed him to be held so loosely captive; Sansa could tell that he wanted to be free, and wondered when he would attempt something.

The place where they had camped was on the shore of the God's Eye. The land was flat to Sansa's fore, aft, and left, but to her right, a small forest lay covered in fog.

Ahead of them lie Harrenhal. Behind them was the way they had come, and Sansa could not bear being one step closer to King's Landing than was necessary. To the left, the gentle slope of the shore of the God's Eye rose to meet them.

The forest looked ever-so promising.

They were breaking their fast on sausage and wine when Stranger gave a whicker. Then Sandor was on his feet and soothing his trusted horse before the men could get up to stop him.

Sansa drew her breath in anticipation and fear. The saddlebags that Stranger carried had long been an object of fixation for her Hound. Even Sansa had noticed the sword hilt sticking out of the top of them.

Sure enough, her Hound grabbed his long broadsword and whirled. Sansa whirled around, and took cover behind the horse she had stolen in King's Landing.

As Sansa pressed her face into the mare's whickering flank, she heard a sickeningly wet thud.

After the first sound, all the fire in the Seven Hells broke loose. Horses and men were screaming, the sounds blending and becoming eerily alike. Sansa heard another thud and the twanging release of a bow.

The thing that drew Sansa from behind her now bucking horse was Sandor's growl of pain.

The scene before Sansa made her sick to her stomach. When the singer's wrote songs of death and war, they forgot to mention the coppery smell of blood that permeated the air, or the heartbreaking moans of dying men.

Two of the men who called themselves Mummer's were already on the ground, bleeding. Their leader lay not five feet from Sansa's toes, opened from brow to breast. The red headed man lay closer to Sandor, intestines spilling out of a gash in his belly. Sansa watched him frantically trying to hold them inside his hands as the man slowly bled out and died.

Sansa turned and violently threw up the sausage she had eaten moments ago.

The shaft of an arrow imbedded itself in Sandor's shoulder. From where she stood, ten yards from him, Sansa could see the blood seeping sinisterly into the fabric of his shirt.

Sandor closed in on the elderly man that was hurriedly trying to reload the bow with an arrow, his broadsword, though stained with red, gleaming wickedly.

As Sansa watched, Sandor brought his sword up and around in a deadly arc. The old man with the bow had had his head down, but at the last moment looked up to see his death. The steel struck hard and true, cleaving the old man's skull in two between his eyes.

As another man snuck up behind her Hound, Sansa cried out.

"Sandor!" she yelled in alarm, frozen as the man advanced on her Hound.

Sandor Clegane turned, and saw the nearest threat. The man came at Sandor with only the frying pan of sausages in his hand. Sandor turned, taking a hit from the pan on his back as he crouched low and brought his sword sweeping up from the ground, severing the man's limb at the armpit.

"The Stranger!" Sandor roared, as he pivoted and struck the head from the man in one foul stroke.

Sansa threw up again, emptying her stomach of acidic bile.

And as the tears cleared from her eyes and she straightened, Sansa felt the bite of a dagger at her throat and the hand of a man grip her shoulder.

Sansa saw Sandor's face in front of her, widening in horror as Sansa felt blood trickle down her neck.

The fifth Mummer held Sansa captive.

"Drop the sword," he said gruffly in her ear. When Sandor didn't obey, he repeated his demand. "Drop the fucking sword, do ya' hear me?"

He squeezed Sansa tighter and she felt a fresh stream of blood fall down her neck.

Sandor Clegane stared at the man who held Sansa hostage, chest heaving. Blood from the arrow had soaked the fabric of his shirt, but Sandor didn't seem to care.

"The sword!" the Mummer yelled. "Drop it, or I drop your little singer here!"

The dagger once again pressed against Sansa's throat even harder and she cried out in pain.

Sandor raised both his hands slowly, and took two painstaking steps forward. Sansa wanted to tell him to keep his sword, to save her, to kill the man hurting her. But Sansa Stark couldn't speak. She was petrified, and completely in the jeopardy of the man holding her.

Sandor Clegane lowered himself to the ground; and wincing in pain, placed the red broadsword on the ground next to him.

"Now that's better." The man holding Sansa mocked. "We wouldn' want this little angel to get hurt, woul' we?"

Sandor Clegane rose and spat at the man's feet. "Hurt?" he asked slowly. "Hurt like the rest of your companions?"

"They deserved what they got an' more," the man said. "I'm well rid o' them, and I din't even have to do it meself!" The man with the dagger laughed, and each wiggle dug the knife in deeper to her throat.

And suddenly Sansa was furious.

Her anger burned away all timidness as the instinct to survive struck in. Sansa realized then that she had held all of her fury at Joffrey, at the queen, at the world in until that moment. Her blood boiled, and rage overcame her.

Sansa exhaled hard, and slammed her heel into the man's cod with all of her strength. She elbowed him in the stomach, grunting in fury.

The man doubled over, still clutching his knife. Sansa whirled away from her captor and kicked him in the shins, knocking him to the hard, bloodstained earth.

Faintly she heard Sandor calling her name in alarm, but all Sansa could focus on was the man's knife. All of her fury that she had carried from King's Landing flew into her limbs and she flew at the man.

She landed on top of him, and before Sansa knew what was happening her hands were gripping the dagger and plunging it into the man's windpipe.

His blood soaked her hands and Sansa realized what she had done.

All of her fury left her in that instant, replaced by utmost horror. She looked at the red stains on her hands in disbelief.

She leapt of the man and doubled over, clutching her chest. Hoarse, racking sobs ripped out of her lungs, painful in their exit. Sansa could not control her breathing and shuddered violently.

Unable to clam herself, Sansa rolled onto her side and wrapped herself in a ball, not caring about the rest of the world. Sobs still tore out of her throat and Sansa hated herself.

She was vaguely aware of Sandor Clegane's hands on her waist, his voice begging her to look at him. Sansa could not focus on anything, and felt the world slipping away from her.

As she fainted, Sansa Stark's last thought was of the smell of blood.

The crackling warmth of a fire heated Sansa's face. Underneath closed lids, the flesh of her eyes was extremely hot.

Sansa breathed in once, and was relieved to find that she could no longer smell the stench of death that she had come to know all too well.

She opened her eyes, and saw that she was surrounded by darkness and wrapped in Sandor Clegane's cloak.

Her neck felt odd and thick. Sansa raised a hand to it and felt a makeshift bandage tied over the small wound on her throat.

Her head was elevated above her body, and Sansa found that her head rested in the lap of Sandor Clegane.

"Wh-where are we?" she stammered out, sitting up.

Sandor grunted beside her. "A day's ride east of the God's Eye."

Sansa nodded and looked at him. Sandor met her eyes wearily. Other than when her head had been on his lap, he held himself unusually distant of her. His head was lowered cautiously, and the arc of his torso bent away from her.

Quite shockingly, Sansa realized that Sandor thought she was afraid of him.

"Sandor," she said softly, reaching for him.

He took her reaching hands and dwarfed them with his huge ones. "Sansa, are you hurt?"

"No more than you've already seen to," she replied, nodding to her neck.

He nodded, and withdrew his hands.

Sansa wrapped his cloak more tightly around her and gazed into the fire for a long moment. On their trips so far, she had lit the fires, knowing how much he hated and feared them. Fire was the very reason that he had taken her from King's Landing, the thing that had driven him away from the Lannister's he had loyally served.

He had held her at knifepoint and made her sing. He had scared her so badly that she had wanted to run away herself.

Sansa was unsure if she should smile or cry at the memory.

But she had gone with him, and things were fine thus far. With the exception of that morning. Sansa shuddered, remembering.

Her brave Hound. He had fought and killed four of the five men that had taken them prisoner, escaping unscathed.

And then Sansa started, thinking of an injury that he had obtained.

Sandor Clegane looked at the fire, clearly thinking dark thoughts. When she turned to face him however, he met her eyes curiously.

"The arrow!" she gasped. "You're hurt."

"It's nothing, little bird." Sandor shifted his eyes back to the fire, but Sansa would not have it.

She moved towards him and determinedly worked at removing his shirt. Sure enough, it was stained with dried blood, and when Sansa's fingers ran over the lump of the broken arrow shaft, he hissed in pain.

She raised a scathing eyebrow at him. "Oh yes, it feels like absolutely nothing." She intoned.

"Sansa." He said plainly.

She met his eyes. "Sandor. I doubt that you can even lift that arm above your head."

He averted his gaze, gritting his teeth, and she grinned in satisfaction.

"I'll have to cut the shirt off your back." Sansa said pointedly.

Catching the hint, he handed her the same belt knife that he had held her with, the same knife that she had cut greens with that rainy day that seemed so long ago.

She inserted the knife at a side seam and sawed gently. The dirty fabric fell into her hands as she worked, revealing his skin in the firelight.

He was a fine figure of a man, she had always known. She had felt the strength in his arms as he held her, seen the power of his sword cutting through his target. It was hard to imagine Gregor Clegane being larger than his brother; if Sansa had not seen Ser Gregor joust; she would not have believed it possible.

When she bared his shoulder, Sansa nearly lost her courage. The flesh and muscle puckered around the protruding shaft. A deep purple bruise flowered from the spot where the arrow had pierced him.

Unfortunately, the arrow had not gone all the way through his shoulder, which would have made it easier to remove. Instead, she would have to pull it out the way that it had come.

Imagining the pain, Sansa gulped.

"Little bird," Sandor rasped. "You don't have to. We'll find a healing-woman at the next inn."

Sansa couldn't believe that. With her luck, the wound would become infected and rot, killing him.

"No," she insisted. "I'll take care of it now."

He chuckled, and she felt it more than heard it.

"As you wish, little bird."

Sansa gritted her teeth and placed one hand around the shaft, touching his shoulder as light as she could.

Her first tug was as disappointing as it was painful. The arrow moved not an inch, and Sandor grunted painfully.

"I think it's embedded in your bone," Sansa told him sadly.

"Just do it." He rasped at her, trying to control his voice.

Sansa tugged again, harder this time, and felt the tip of the arrowhead scrape free of his bone.

"Stranger save me," Sandor Clegane groaned.

Sansa paused, curious. "You keep faith with the seven?"

He gave one laugh, weakly. "Is this the time for that?" he asked her.

Sansa shrugged. "I heard you cry to the Stranger when you killed the fourth man." She replied, tugging.

The arrowhead budged another few centimeters, getting stuck on the swollen flesh that surrounded it.

When he had regained his breath, Sandor replied. "I keep with one of the Seven."

"Interesting," Sansa said, and pulled one last time, yanking as hard as she could. The arrow sprang free in her hands, and she had to stop herself from tumbling into the fire.

Sandor Clegane groaned once more then wriggled his shoulder around.

"Not so interesting, really." He said after, as Sansa rummaged through their packs for the wine she knew he had.

"A faceless figure, ignored by most, feared by all. His specialty lies in killing and trafficking the dead, which he is quite good at. He's hardly spoken of, but everyone knows he's there." Sandor grinned. "I'm sure you can see why he appeals to me, really."

Sansa had found the wine. "That's quite sad."

"It's the truth."

He flinched as she applied the wine to his injury, and watched her as she cut strips of semi-clean fabric from the inner layer of her dress.

She began to bandage his shoulder, mind working curiously. She learned more about this man that had stolen her from King's Landing everyday.

And as they lay down in their bedrolls, Sandor's warmth at her back, Sansa realized that he had stolen her heart as well.

A/N I apologize for how long it took me to update! Truly, it was getting ridiculous. I hope to be steadier in the future, but with volleyball and school starting up, I'm not as hopeful. :/ Thank you for reading!