Sandor could tell his sour mood was bothering Sansa. Good, he thought to himself. Let the little bird think he was nothing but a dour villain. It was for the best. Her unfettered optimism even after all she had endured spoke to him as a reminder of her youth and naivete. He would have to be the one who remained aware of the consequences of anything that came between the two of them, because she clearly had decided it was a non-issue. It was just so difficult… Sandor had bought her a horse at the inn, so he at least didn't have to spend his days with her floral scented hair inches from his nostrils, but as she rode ahead of him, the sight of her slim waist, flaring into her hips perched on the saddle was a nagging reminder of the way her body had felt against him the night before.
He just needed to get her to her family. They would pay him handsomely for her and he could forget about her for good. He could move on and work as a mercenary somewhere in the west and she could marry a lordling and have fat babes and nice dresses and a happy life. That had been the plan all along, he reminded himself.
Liar. A voice said in the back of his head. He couldn't ignore it. If he was honest with himself, he hadn't really had a plan when he'd offered to remove Sansa from King's Landing. He had been fighting, as was expected of him, when unbidden, an image of Sansa Stark and practically blinded him. Before he had known what he was doing, he had found himself in her chambers. A sickening feeling of worry had filled his stomach when he'd realized she wasn't there and he had been about to leave when the door had opened and Sansa had swept in, barring the door behind her.
The truth of the matter was, in the heat of the battle, the single mindedness he had been famous for had moved from bloodlust to the Stark girl in the blink of an eye. Finding her and protecting her had become his only motivation on that dark night, and no matter how he cursed himself, the inclination had not left him since.
Throughout the day, Sansa's mood had moved from confused, to curious, to annoyed… and now she was livid. How dare Sandor treat her like this? All of her questions and attempts at making conversation had been met with bitter sarcasm and Sansa felt like a naughty child being scolded on more than one occasion. It was clear that Sandor was mad at her, and though she supposed she might have an idea as to the origin of his displeasure, she refused to believe that it was an excuse for his behavior.
Fine, she thought to herself. If he was going to act hideously, than so would she. If he thought her some vapid noble girl, she would act one. She hadn't complained about anything on their journey so far, even though sleeping on a thin bedroll in the forest was not something she generally chose to do in her leisure time, and her back ached from the hours they'd spent riding, and her dress was much filthier than she would have liked. But she would be lying if she said there wasn't a time in her life when she would have been completely petulant about all of those happenings, and if Sandor still saw her as that girl, that's who she would be.
"Stoke the fire," Sandor said gruffly, tossing a pile of kindling in her direction.
"No," she said, unrolling her bed and sitting heavily on it. He looked up in surprise. It was the first time he'd made eye contact with her all day and she relished it.
"What do you mean, no?" he said harshly. Sansa blinked back at him, as if she had no idea why he was surprised.
"I'm too tired, and isn't that what you're here for?" she said, primly inspecting her nails.
"What I'm here for?" he snarled, stalking over to the kindling and moving it to the fire.
"I can't be expected to do this on my own, can I?" she said allowing her voice to sound as petulant as she could manage. He stared at her, his face simultaneously a scowl and the perfect picture of disbelief. It only lasted a moment before he turned his back to her and proceeded to completely ignore her.
The rest of the evening progressed in much the same manner, and Sansa's irritation grew until it had reached the boiling point.
"Are we going to hit an inn tomorrow? I don't fancy spending another night out in the woods if it can be helped," Sansa snapped, growing increasingly desperate to draw a reaction from him. As expected, Sandor didn't reply. Sansa felt a deep, all consuming irritation, and barely even realized what she was doing until the small stick she'd picked up off the forest floor hit Sandor in the back, causing him to pause mid-motion. His head turned slowly, and Sansa felt herself frozen, her mouth opened in an "o" shape, absolutely surprised by what she had done.
"Sandor….I'm sorry, I-" she said, her voice shaking with embarrassment. What had she been thinking?
"Please tell me, little bird, exactly what you're hoping to accomplish by being a petulant brat?" he said, his voice low and dangerous, his eyes locking on to hers. Sansa felt her face grow hot.
"If you're going to treat me like a child…" she trailed off. Sandor raised his eyebrows.
"What? You might as well act like one?" he said, his voice poisonous. Sansa bit her lip, looking down.
"Yes," she said quietly. Sandor snorted in disbelief.
"And again, I ask, what is the purpose of this?" he said.
"I was angry! Alright? I'm not a girl anymore. I've been through more than most women twice my age have, and yet you insist on treating me like some fragile child. I know what I want, Sandor, and I'm sorry if it's surprising to you, but you're just going to have to deal with the fact that I. Want. You," she finished, surprised by her own outburst. Sandor stared at her for a long moment, and then, so quickly that she felt she hardly saw the movement, he was across their camp, clutching her upper arms.
"One of these days, there will be no turning back, little bird," he growled. Sansa felt a little shiver of something travel up her spine. Not fear, she realized, but desire. She was about to speak, when his lips crashed down on hers and somewhere deep in the recesses of her mind she realized that perhaps today was the day he was referring to.