Summary: Sandor pulls Stranger's reins and he rises up again, but a sudden turn makes him lose his balance and he falls, landing heavily on his side. Something cracks and snaps under him and he curses. Bloody fucking hells!


Sandor

Part of Sandor wants to acknowledge the dizzying depths of his first love, letting it swallow him whole like a bottomless sea, not leaving even a ripple of his previous existence on its surface.

Another part of him sneers at his carelessness and warns him about the dangers of letting himself lose his head to the unattainable.

The latter part wins and he struggles to keep his emotions in check and letting none of them to peek through. Yet when he thinks back at the way he has treated her thus far, he feels ashamed, and he tries to make amends.

He stops calling her 'girl', stops pleasuring himself next to her in the darkness, and he lets her wait on him only as much as necessary to keep up the pretences of their roles. He goes out of his way to help her in her chores, carrying heavy water buckets and sacks of grain for her and refusing to let her make their beds or pack their bags.

She frowns and is clearly perplexed by the change, but after trying to deny his help several times and always failing, she lets him be. One evening, as they get ready for the night, she smiles at him.

"Do you know that our travelling companions think I am with a child?"

"What the fuck!?" Sandor can't believe his ears. Sansa's smile widens.

"Yes, they have noticed how you are helping me, and that is the only explanation they can think of. One of the daughters even asked me if I know when the babe is due."

Sandor stares at her. Just the thought of her carrying his child is disconcerting, and for a moment his mind travels along the paths he has denied from himself. Sansa getting heavy from his seed growing inside her, her breasts filling with milk for the babe… Coming back to the present he realises he is still staring and he wonders if the assumption offends her. From the looks of it, it doesn't, as she is still smirking. Then she turns serious.

"Why do you do it? You refuse to tell me, but after all we have gone through together I believe I am entitled to know what has changed." Her gaze is steady and he is the one who turns away, muttering something about only trying to earn his reward.


She doesn't touch him again and that leaves Sandor relieved and disappointed in equal measures. Every so often he regrets his hasty actions the one time she did. She had clearly thought him to be too drunk to detect her approaches. Why in the seven hells did she do it? Young maiden's curiosity, was that it? Had he only allowed her to continue, what would have happened? Her hand sliding into his breeches… He winces and hopes he could re-live the moment again.

He takes his enjoyment out in the wild now, late in the evening or at first light, when nobody else is around. Once, on a day when the caravan rested, he pretended to be too tired to get up and after Sansa left, pressed his face against the indentation she left on their bedding. He inhaled her scent and fucked himself into his hand imagining her slender body squirming under him, she wrapping her long legs around his loins and receiving his heavy pounding, until he felt his seed spurt out in a heady explosion of bliss.


Sandor is ready to mount, Stranger dancing anxiously on his spot, eager to get going after weeks and weeks of slow trudging. Sansa is standing next to a docile mare, all their belongings bundled on the two horses. It is time they departed the merchant's company, his way taking him towards White Harbor, theirs towards Winterfell.

Terse farewells are exchanged. Both parties have benefited from the arrangement, but since Sandor was recognised as the Hound, the others never truly let down their guard. Yet Sansa was universally liked and she embraces the merchant's daughters with tears in her eyes.

"Should we meet again, I hope my position will be much improved and I can return to you some of your kindness," she tells them. Their mother looks on and smiles condescendingly, undoubtedly not being able to imagine a situation where a soldier's whore could do them any favours. Sansa turns to the merchant and curtsies to him, repeating her promise.

Then they mount their horses and start the last leg of their journey.


[A few years later the merchant visits the court of the King in the North. When he sees a woman with auburn hair standing proudly beside the king, and a few steps behind her the form of a tall, broad-chested warrior with a terribly scarred face, it takes him a while to reconcile them with the deserter and his whore he met several years ago. Unsure of whether he really saw it true, he says nothing, but Sansa approaches him after the audience and reminds him of the times past. Hardly believing his eyes and ears, he is eventually convinced.

Sansa is true to her words and personally ensures good marriages to the merchant's two daughters and stands as the guest of honour in their wedding ceremonies. Both sons have already married, but she is there when their first-borns are presented to the gods and blesses them personally. Since then the merchant's wife never stops talking about the time when she helped the Lady of the Gifts in her escape from the pretender king's court back to her homeland.]


They travel swiftly, aiming to reach Winterfell in the least amount of time - with any luck they could reach it within a week. The first night when they make camp Sandor assumes them to go back to the arrangement they had when they first left King's Landing, both sleeping on their own bedding across the campfire. Yet Sansa drags their bedding next to each other and states matter-of-factly that since nights are colder in the north, they must maintain all the warmth they can get. Sandor doesn't resist and as they lay close to each other, he nudges right next to her and lifts his arm on his side for her to put her head against it, if she so wishes.

She does, and he gets bolder and envelopes her fully in his arms, knowing these to be the last times he will get to hold her. As her breathing slows down he stays awake for a long time and stares into a starred night above their heads.


A small party of men approaches them on horseback along the road and Sandor eyes them warily. He hopes they have no foul intentions, as there are four of them and only one of him. His wishes turn out to be futile because as soon as the party sees them, they start hollering and throwing insults.

"A juicy bone here, and look at the ugly dog guarding it!"

"Much too good for him, she is, let's take them!"

Sandor pulls out steel, hoping now instead that the men would be just ordinary thieves and outlaws, inexperienced in proper fighting. A castle-trained knight can defeat a many-fold number of opponents who don't know the ways of battle. Yet once again his hopes are squashed as the men meet him sword on sword, strike on strike. He is better than them, that's for sure, and Stranger does his part amicably rising to his hind legs and thrashing their opponents with his hooves. Sandor fights against the three of them, turning and docking and swinging his sword, but also leaning forward for a fraction of a second to slap Sansa's horse on the buttocks and yelling "Ride Sansa, ride to Winterfell! I'll keep these bastards occupied!"

She looks at him in panic but her horse has already bolted and sprints her away, and Sandor turns his attention back to the fight. One man is already down on the ground, another bleeding from a cut in his shoulder.

The he feels piercing pain in his right shoulder; an arrow protrudes from it and he sees the fourth man a small distance away getting his bow ready for another shot. He curses, and in the moment of distraction another man near him lunges forward. Sandor pulls Stranger's reins and he rises up again, but a sudden turn makes him lose his balance and he falls, landing heavily on his side. Something cracks and snaps under him and he curses. Bloody fucking hells!