Hello everyone! Sorry for the delay, but I was unhappy with the road I'd set out on and I went back to unravel everything and start over.

Minor squick warning: Menstruation referred in this chapter.

She woke hours later and slid from the covers to make water behind a screen. When she had finished, she ran a brush through her hair and stood at the window, watching the white drifts shift in the wind. Her attention was caught by movement on the battlements. There was a commotion going on at the keep, although she could barely see well enough to tell there was movement, let alone discern its meaning. Keeping her eyes on the window, she scooted sideways and shook Sandor gently.

He grunted and grabbed her wrist to pull her back to bed, but she whispered his name and prodded him in the back. "Woman!" he muttered sleepily. "Leave me be. Come back to bed."

"Wake up!" she insisted. "Something's happening! I think there's a fight."

His eyes flew open and he was on his feet reaching for a weapon before she could breathe. "Not here," she clarified. "Winterfell. Come see."

He stood naked before the window, squinting to make out what was happening through the distorted glass. "Can't see a bloody thing."

"Wait. There! Someone's on the high walk!"

He leaned forward, his nose nearly against the glass. All he could see was snow and stone. "Someone fell!" she exclaimed, grasping his hand.

"Who?"

"I don't know. I think they're alive though, they landed in the high drift."

He snorted and left her side, pulling on wool leggings and his breeches before searching for his shirt. "I'll see what the thinking is in the village," he told her, rubbing sleep from his eyes and mouth. "Might be somebody saw better than you could."

"Please don't go," she implored, her eyes perfectly round as she reached for him.

"Why not? You woke me to see a fight. I can't see a damned thing from here."

She glanced back to the window. There was no more movement, none that she could see anyway. "The news will spread," she reasoned, "It will reach the inn by midday."

"Not if no one goes to see what happened," he countered. "It could have been a dead watchman who fell, it could have been Stannis. It would be wise to know which."

"The army isn't moving. If it was a battle, surely they'd be attacking. If not, the men who aren't on watch today will come by later, you can talk to them then."

"Words are wind," he said, looking around for his boots. "Better to know with my eyes than to believe with my ears."

There was no discernable danger, no looming threat or foe, but for some reason, Sansa couldn't bear the thought of him leaving. Something held her back, made her cautious and patient. He was set on going now. Although she trusted his instincts and would allow him to go if he felt he ought to, she had a feeling that a good part of his insistence was irritation at being woken up.

Clearing her throat to get his attention, she waited until his eyes settled on her before releasing her hold on the cloak wrapped around her. It fell to the floor with a dull thump and she resisted the urge to wrap her arms around her body to ward off the sudden cold. Sandor too seemed frozen, holding a boot in one hand and a scabbard in the other. Their room was drafty. A slight current lifted a strand of her hair to send it floating across her breasts where her nipples were hard and puckered.

"If you feel it imperative to go, my lord, do please. If not…," she paused, letting him understand the decision was his, even if she had loaded the dice. "… perhaps we could wait for news together?"

The firelight sent shadows dancing across his face, the spark in his eye and heavy breathing belying the stubborn furrow of intent across his forehead. He dropped the boot and set the scabbard aside before pulling off his shirt and unlacing his breeches once again. He moved toward her slowly, quietly.

It reminded her of the way Lady had hunted: seeking, slinking, waiting. Thinking to tease him further, she leaned down to retrieve the cloak and before she could right herself, he stood before her and hoisted her over his shoulder as he had done, long ago. She gasped at the suddenness and at the feeling of their bare skin touching, rubbing her hands down his back. Without warning, she was on the bed, not so much set down as heaved.

Although they had been married for some time now, she was still nervous and unsure of herself in many ways. The tension between them now was exhilarating and smoldering. She thought back to her nighttime gossiping with Randa and the older woman's stories of her exploits. Randa's favorite litany came to mind as she watched the brawny man towering over her: "A man is no different from a horse. Sometimes he needs coddling and brushing and sugar lumps, other times he needs spurs in his sides and mud on his hooves. The trick is to know your mount and play along."

Hoping she sounded seductive and enchanting, she kept her eyes on the big man but rubbed her hands forward on the bed, stretching like a cat. "Is this what it's like, on a hunt?" she asked throatily. "The prey is sighted, men watch and wait?"

He lurched forward, sliding onto the bed behind her and holding her hands down to the mattress. "No, little bird. The prey is scented, then dogs give chase."

His breath was hot in her ear and she shivered in expectation, pulling tentatively against his heavy grip on her hands. He tightened his grip in response and pressed himself to her, letting his weight and his size overwhelm her. "Don't you know what dogs do to wolves?" he growled against her neck.

"Tell me," she murmured.

He grinned, murmured, "They rip them apart," and sank his teeth into the side of her throat.

As she mewled and arched into him, he braced his weight on his strong leg and used the weak one to nudge her knees apart. "And what," Sansa panted heavily, "do dogs do to direwolves?"

He didn't answer immediately and when she felt him reaching for her mound to line himself up, she dipped her hips away from him, supporting herself awkwardly on her elbows. His frustrated growl made her giggle lustily. "And what of direwolves?" she asked him again.

"Direwolves?" he panted. "Direwolves they fuck. They mount them and fuck them. Because the direwolf can take it, she wants it."

"Needs it!" she groaned in agreement.

With that, he released one of her hands to grab her hip and snap it back to him, growling possessively as she giggled again and rolled her ass against him. It was a new position for her and was strangely exciting. Many times before had she lain with him propped above her but on her knees as she was, he let more of his weight rest against her. He was heavy, but it was a seductive, pleasing heaviness.

It startled her when he pushed in to her, the angle new and the pressure completely different. She gasped and clenched, then rocked backwards, trying to get him to start his 'mounting', as he'd called it. He obliged, but stopped to adjust his stance, tucking his hips up into her with each thrust. Using her hip to center himself and to stop her from slipping away from him as he pounded into her, his fingers dug deep into her flesh and he knew she'd be bruised. Although he felt some remorse for hurting her, the idea of leaving marks to claim her stoked something in him and he bit down on her shoulder, licking away the salt of her sweat.

She was amazed again at how dearly she loved being indecent. As a young lady, she had been told what happened in a marriage bed, or rather, what her responsibilities where therein. As a young woman, she came to understand the concept of men's lust and desire, suffered Theon's deplorable stories of conquest, and seen her brothers' longing glances at some of the prettier maids and servants. When she asked Septa Mordane for a better understanding of this new world, she was given a lecture on using modesty as her armor, restraint and cordiality her weapons. The great ladies in the stories were always chaste and pure, the knights honorable and kind. Sandor Clegane had been right all along - there were no true knights, life was not a song. And for that, she thanked the gods.

Here now, in bed with a renowned campaigner, she moaned and keened and grunted as no storybook lady could ever conceive of doing. Sweating, panting, thrusting, she took her pleasure as her man took his. It was only minutes later that he climaxed, the front of his thighs pressed to the back of hers, his hips straining to mold themselves to her. He shuddered and moaned, thrusting a few last times before his vise grip relaxed, slowly running his hands along her sides like a horse that needed calming after a hard ride.

When she whimpered at his hand's gentle brush over a nipple, he grasped her breast and held her against him as he lay back against the bed. "Fell without you, little bird," he murmured, using his freed hand to slide down and tease the hair of her womanhood. "Was I too rough?"

"No," she moaned, "I … I was almost - AH!"

Her moan was a lilting wail, her body clenched and seized as he rubbed her in tight, fast circles. She twitched against his fingers as they slowed and she pushed his hand away gently. "Oh," she breathed out in a shuddery sigh. "Why have you never taken me like that before?"

His chuckle ruffled her hair and he patted her hip happily. "Opportunity never presented itself. Or perhaps I should say that you never presented yourself like a bitch in heat."

"You've called me that before," she reminded him. "Why is it that you think I must be in heat but you are in a constant state of readiness?"

"That's the way of it," he laughed. "A man wants constantly. Women are taken by the mood."

"Truly?" she smirked incredulously. "Have you ever found me not wanting?"

He sighed happily and patted her hip. "I'm a lucky bugger."

It was hours later when Sansa woke, alone but wrapped up tightly in their linens and bed furs. Although their morning exertions were pleasantly tiring, she was exhausted beyond belief. She had almost decided to simply go back to sleep when she glanced over at a side table where a trencher sat steaming. It must have been the maid's leaving that woke me, she reflected, sliding wearily from the covers to retrieve her lunch. The stew was thick and pungent, a slick oil sheen covering the meat and potatoes. Sansa took two bites and set it aside, nauseous. It took only moments for her to bring it back up, barely making it to a chamber pot as she vomited twice. Too tired to stand for the moment, she slumped against the wall, pushing the soiled pot as far away as she could. She must have slept, for when she was woken by a sudden pain, the candle marking the hours had shrunk. Glancing down, she gasped. Blood had seeped through her undergarments and her bed gown, staining the fabric caught between her thighs a vibrant, dangerous red. Although she had acclimated quickly to this new life of self-reliance, there were days she dearly missed having ladies maids. Pulling herself upright, she stripped off the stained clothes and used them to sit on while she cleaned herself of the sticky blood. The task shouldn't have taken nearly as long as it did, but she was still exhausted. Finally, she pulled on clean clothing, careful to secure a rag in her small clothes, and went back to bed.

The overwhelming fatigue was enough to slow her, weigh her down, but the unpredictable stabbing pains through her abdomen were worse. She had only just made it to the foot of the bed when Sandor returned. He stared at her, his forehead creasing in worry and his eyes sharp. "Are you hurt?" he asked, glancing at the pile of blood-stained clothing on the chair.

"No," she muttered, clutching the bedpost. "I have my moon blood. It makes me sickly."

She watched as he walked to the chair where she'd sat and picked up her clothing, frowning at the large stain, already starting to turn brown in the air, and deposited them on the pile of the clothes still covered in the Frey boy's blood.

"I have not been with you during a moonblood," he said quietly. "Is it always so … profuse?"

Shaking her head, she sat on the edge of the bed. "Each is different. I do not get them as regularly as I should. The maester at the Eyrie said it happens that way, for some women, while some are as regular as the moon. My aunt Lysa suffered similarly."

"Your aunt Lysa had quite a bit wrong with her," he snorted. "No surprise there."

She whimpered with a sudden pain and winced, pressing her hand against her lower belly. He moved to sit beside her, stroking her hair as gently as he knew how.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut as her muscles cramped fiercely.

"Sorry?" he growled. "I thought you'd given up your empty courtesies. What are you sorry for?"

Swallowing heavily to work past the nausea, she opened her eyes to find him staring down at her fixedly. "It is a woman's trouble," she offered. "Men are disgusted by it."

He snorted but didn't look away. He didn't look disgusted. Discomfited, maybe, but not disgusted. "I've never known a woman on her flow, or at least never known when one was. Except your first, of course, everyone knew then. Nearly burned the Red Keep to the ground," he teased her. "I've seen a lot of blood in my life, bird. Shed a lot. I'm not afraid of it."

She smiled at him as sweetly as she was able, relieved that he wasn't disgusted, relieved that she wouldn't be left alone to manage by herself when she could barely walk. "I was sick," she told him, glancing at the chamber pot in the far corner.

"I'll have it cleaned," he assured her, still staring at the pale girl leaning against him. "Are you certain you're alright?"

Although she loathed to do so, she shook her head. If she had the blood to spare, she would have blushed fiercely. "I have never bled so much."

He nodded and lifted her into bed, tucking the blankets around her and kissing her gently. "Stay here."

Whether it was minutes or hours later, she wasn't certain, but Sandor's return woke her again. He ushered in a young woman before he shut the door behind them, glancing over to where Sansa lay.

The girl had the look of a barmaid, an apron tied loosely around her waist and her hair in a long plait down her back. She was short with a thick body but a pinched, tired face and stood with her hands planted on her narrow hips, watching Sandor warily as he moved. "You know me?" he asked, keeping her attention on him as long as he could.

"Yes, milord," although her stance and expression were stalwart, her voice belied her nervousness. "You were with the king's party when he were here. The Hound."

"What else?"

"Heard you was pillaging and raping at the Saltpans when I first came back to the 'Log, then I heard it were someone else."

"I was nowhere near the damned Saltpans, but that doesn't mean I'm not a vicious dog, you understand?"

She nodded, waiting.

"Innkeep said you might be able to help my wife with some lady troubles," he said, trying to remain calm.

"My mother was a healer, taught me some."

"A woods witch?" he asked, snorting when she wrinkled her nose.

"We just say healer. Never claimed no magic, just knew how to heal," she corrected with the air of one who has fought a battle many times over.

He grunted in acceptance and gestured toward Sansa with a jerk of his head. "She's got her moonblood, seems near to draining her."

It was only then that the tavern wench and apprentice healer looked over to the bed. Seeing her patient pale against the pillows, blue eyes dull with pain, the girl gasped and took a few steps toward the bed. "Lady Stark!" she whispered, her mouth agape.

"Yes," Sansa replied sleepily. "Lady Clegane now."

To her credit, the wench didn't look askance or doubtful, just nodded and moved to sit beside her charge. "I'm Bessa," she murmured. "You mightn't remember me, don't know as we ever met proper. Met your father once though, he was a good man. I am sorry for your loss. All of them."

"Thank you, Bessa."

"What's ailing you?" Bessa's eyes swept over Sansa, taking inventory of symptoms.

"My moonblood, it's so heavy. I'm so tired and weak."

Bessa nodded, pressing her hand to Sansa's face. "Never been so heavy? Where's the pain?" she continued when Sansa grimaced and twitched. "Had that before?"

While they spoke for a few minutes more, Sandor faded back into a shadow to watch. He was worried but didn't find the situation nearly so horrifying as some men made it out to be. Soon enough, Bessa stood from the bed and turned to find him.

"She's young yet. Some women settle into their ways like wheels into a rut, some never have one month like the next. My sister had pain like this. I'll get you a rock to heat over the fire. Wrap it in linen when it's hot and put it on her belly and I'll make her some anise tea, that'll help a bit. And you've got to make her eat, 'specially meat. She'll be alright."

Glancing over to make sure Sansa couldn't hear, he murmured, "That's all, then? It wasn't … a child? A lost child?"

Seeing the hulking warrior like this, worried eyes cast over to his wife and hand absently clenching and unclenching nervously, her heart softened to him. "No," she reassured him. "She says the pain is normal. There's a lot of blood, but … just blood. Nothing else."

"And it's nothing I did?" he pressed, quickly clarifying, "Didn't hit her or anything. Just … more than she could take?"

She cocked an eyebrow and smirked at him. "Oh, I'm sure milord Hound is quite the beast, but this is none of your doing. She'll be fine in a few days."

He sighed in relief, shook his head to clear it, and turned to glare at her. "My thanks for your help. If I hear one whisper of her name on any man's lips, I'll kill you."

She smiled sweetly. "They'll not have heard it from me, milord. The Starks did right by me and mine for many years, I'd not give up the girl."

She nearly reached out to pat him as she left, but restrained herself. No matter how he might love his woman, he was still the Hound. But she brought the promised tea along with venison, and helped the lady bathe herself while the Hound went sniffing around for more information about the goings on at the castle.

It wasn't until the next morning that Sansa got a full report, over a day since she saw two shapes fall from the battlements. She woke feeling better and brighter, though not much stronger to discover Sandor wrapped around her, his large hands pressed across the front of her hips, their heat radiating in waves through her.

He insisted that she eat when he woke, and disappeared to return with enough food to feed a guard unit. She ate what she could while he told her what he'd learned.

"It's said that Greyjoy kidnapped the bride and pushed her from the battlements. Followed her over rather than risk being retaken," he said, ripping through a thick heel of bread. "The little shit may have done something right, for once. They made it to Crowfood's men, he sent them on to the Wall. When you're better, I'll go back to the keep and find Manderly, see how the dice fell for him."

"I still cannot believe all that Theon has done," Sansa murmured.

"The world is full of shit, we can't all of us stay pure," he shrugged. "Seems Snow has been working him over."

"Jon?" Sansa frowned.

"What?"

"What did Jon do to Theon?" she asked, confused.

"Who in the … oh, the bastard. No, not Jon Snow. Ramsay Snow," he clarified. "Some Lannister sent a note of legitimacy, but he's been Snow so long, it's hard to remember."

"Oh. I've never met him, Ramsay that is."

He snorted. "Pray you never do. Gods, from what I hear, he makes the little blond shit look like Baelor the Blessed. Had he married the real Arya Stark, they'd have found him dead long before Theon Turncloak would have stirred himself to help her."

She wrinkled her nose and looked across the room to the window. "I suppose I should be glad that my sister is so hardened. I wish I had her strength."

"You have strength enough, girl," he assured her, pulling her back to lean against him. "She's wild, is all. A slash with a sharp blade will cut most anyone. But a sword that has been burned and quenched and hammered again and again, that is strength."

She wriggled and cooed, pleased with his assessment. "I had a dream last night," she told him confidentially. "But you'll only laugh at me."

"Very possible."

She sighed in annoyance but continued all the same. "I dreamt that I stood on the steps of the Great Hall in a beautiful dress. Everyone I'd ever met was there, and many strange men. They cheered for me, loved me. And I told them that they might stay, if they would help to set Winterfell to rights again. Everyone did what I asked, except … well, except for those who would never have listened, let alone obeyed. Joffrey and his mother, Olenna Tyrell, others. But from nowhere, you stood beside me and as they came at me, you killed them. And everyone cheered for you."

"Hmph. Dreams are wants, fragile as spun sugar."

She shrugged and pressed her head to his chest. "I was just pleased to have happy dream," she murmured.