There were nights of good dreams and bad. The good outweighed the bad twenty to one instead of the other way around as it had been before the Quiet Isle. And then there were nights filled with nothing at all. Nothing but peace, rest, and darkness. No emotions of any kind to sort or analyze. No feelings given to him during the night to haunt him the following day. He could close his eyes, exhausted by work and leave everything for a few hours. The world didn't matter, she didn't matter, and best of all, he no longer mattered while he escaped into the deepest parts of his mind. Those nights he woke with the first rays of light and felt the smallest amount stronger. He could continue to go on. Everyone thought him strong because of his size and his use as a weapon. The Little Bird thought him brave. It didn't take courage to wield steel. It took an iron stomach, an ability to disconnect and a talent for letting hate and anger take hold. There wasn't a damned thing brave about it. Bravery was looking her in the eye when she spoke to him instead of lowering his head. Courage was lifting the boy onto one of his shoulders so the little lad could laugh, pretending to be a giant. Every step towards his own version of honor was slow, startling and sometimes painful. But it was also fulfilling; swollen with a grace he felt he didn't deserve.

The dreams of Sansa and he writhing and tangled within each other's limbs were welcome but tortuous in a way. Sitting near her after a night spent envisioning her wrapped in the sheets of his bed was nothing short of pure agony. The nightmares that still plagued him left him sitting up on his small pallet, clutching his knees to his chest in the dark for hours until the light of dawn allowed him to breathe again. He couldn't stand to have a fire going as he drifted off to sleep no matter how small. Coals he could manage but not a flame. The room grew chilled in the night but it was a small price to pay in order to sleep. Sometimes the fire followed him in his sleep if he left the hearth burning. Thousands of arms, blood running down them, that seemed to never have any bodies, dragged him into world built of nothing but flames. His entire body burned while women and children stood sobbing, calling him murderer while watching him scream. At least he woke up these days with a pounding heart that left him unable to seek anymore sleep, and not continuing on shrieking as he did in the dream. The Elder Brother and he had gotten little rest his first few months on the Isle.

He had shut his eyes that evening and slipped into blessed silence where no dreams bothered to touch him. But he woke, too early, and didn't know why. There had been a noise. A small thump, maybe, before he had pulled himself up out of his slumber. The coals were nearly out and the light of dawn had not yet started to creep into the room. His door began to open with a creak and he woke instantly, years of instinct kicking in to sit him up with haste. He was about to lunge under the bed for his sword when he saw a bit of fire flash in the light of a candle. Fire everywhere! He was going to burn in this place too. Lust, love, fear, joy. They were all going to strip him bare, he thought, watching the Little Bird shut his door and scamper over to his bed.

She stopped short of his pallet by a few steps and placed the candle on shelf carved into the stone wall. Her robe was open, giving him glimpses of a long, dark green sleeping gown underneath. Her hair was in a single, long thick braid suitable for bed. She was barefoot and he swallowed thickly. He'd intended to wed her first before having her again, if that's what she wished, but if she was seeking him out now for bedding he didn't think he could refuse. If she said yes, and meant it, he wasn't entirely sure he would be able to say no. She was shaking, eyes wide with panic. It wasn't the right sort of look for coupling in the dark.

"I dreamt of Ramsay," she managed to get out through her quaking, her voice choked with unshed tears. She hugged herself, unsure of what to do. His cock had sprung to life when he saw her burst through his door, but it quickly softened. She didn't want that of him now. He didn't know what to do either. Women didn't seek him out for relief after bad dreams. The Hound was something most ran from not to. He sat up straighter, thinking to leave the bed and hold her or lead her to a chair but she dropped to her knees at the edge of his pallet.

"Please," she cried, two fat tears leaking out of her eyes and trialing down her face. Fuck it, he thought, she was obviously distressed, begging him and he wouldn't refuse her. It wasn't right for the Little Bird to be kneeling in front of him. Lifting the furs of the bed, he moved over on his side to give her room while she hurriedly scrambled into the space he had made for her. She pressed her self flush against him, rubbing her face into his chest and clutching at the hair she found there. Her feet, cold fucking blocks of ice, sought out his own, bare flesh on flesh. They were soft and he could feel her toenails scraping into his shins as she stretched her self out fully against him. It stole his breath away. They'd never been this close before, though he'd felt her from the inside out, once, long ago. She started to cry, sorrowful little wails, muffled by his skin. He was torn. His heart told him to serve while his body said to take.

A flash of the night of the Blackwater came to mind. He'd felt more fear in the face of battle that night then he ever had before. The only thing that terrified him more was admitting he loved the Little Bird. When his world was falling apart he had sought her out. She was doing the same now as he had done then. She was asking for his love, his acceptance and comfort. Deep understanding took him and he felt a pride so awesome he had to bite at his own tongue to keep from bawling along side her. She'd come to him in her time of confusion, fear and despair. She needed him as he needed her!

It was something more than lust or love that took over at that point. He wrapped his arms around her and gave her kisses in her hair while she continued weeping.

"He's not here," he tried to reassure her."You're alright. You're safe. It's only me now."

She cried harder and he remained silent, unsure if his words had helped or not. He could smell her. It wasn't loud and obnoxious like some other women's scent; perfumes that would enter a room before them and linger long after they left. One had to be close to her to sense her scent. She smelled exactly as one with her gentle nature should. It was light, delicate and left him thinking of bees and butterflies, flitting around an orchard to lazily lap at the blossoms found there. He held her tighter and rumbled in his chest, trying to calm her. He didn't know what else to give her.

It seemed enough. Eventually her sobs died down to sighs and wet sniffling. Using her robe she wiped at her face and his chest that had been covered in the wetness of her tears. When she spoke her voice was so quiet he had to scoot down in the bed to bring him self face to face with her.

"I always felt safe with you," she told him. "Always, deep down. You're temper was wretched, and your steel cold, and the first few times you laid your hands on me I expected my arm to be ripped from the socket. But you never did. You touched me like I was something precious. You swept me up into your arms gently. You always touched me as I thought a man should touch the woman he loves. Your words may have frightened me at times but your hands never did."

He had to swallow several times around the lump in his throat before he could answer her. The shade of darkness made it easier to speak to her.

"I didn't know how to do anything when it came to you. Half the time I did want to scare you so you'd let me alone. It never worked did it. Not in the end?" he asked. She shook her head and he continued. "Sometimes I wanted you to be gone forever, but mostly I wanted you to see me. Really look at me and see me. I thought if you could see me maybe I'd be worth something."

She sucked in a loud gulp of air. He felt one of her hands leave his chest to trail up his neck and towards his face. His good side was pressed into the pillow with his scars facing up. He hadn't meant them to; it was just what happened in the moment. He knew the light of the candle would give him some cover. They weren't as bad in candle light as they were when harsh daylight struck them. Her fingers were at his throat now and his hand automatically snapped up to catch her wrist.

"Don't. You don't have to," he growled. "That's not what I meant. You look at me and you don't fear anymore. That's all I need from you."

But she shook her hand free of his. "I see you," she soothed, determination in her tone. "All of you." He felt a subtle pressure on his cheek and slammed his eyes shut. He absolutely could not look at her while she graced him with her touch. One, two, three, he could count the points of pressure where her fingertips stroked down his face from temple to jaw. She made the same pass several times and then there was the sweep of her thumb across his chin. He struggled to breath. He had meant to be her foundation but he was crumbling in her hands. It had never seemed possible to him that she would touch him there.

Then her lips were on him, the lower one easily felt on his tightly closed eyelid while the other was nothing but a soft press on the dead, numbed skin of his missing brow. He broke. It was too much, having her give attentions to him as if he were normal, as if his face was truly nothing but the flesh of her lover. His jaw clenched shut, teeth bared while his breathing went harsh. His eyes were stinging but he still couldn't open them to look at her. If he did, he'd bring the whole household to his door with his wailing. There was warmth at where his ear should have been as she used her hand to touch him there and he could feel her nails scratch the skin behind the hole he was left with. He jerked in her arms; she had found one of the places where feeling remained. She gave a pleased noise and did it again, causing him to moan through his tears. She granted him mercy, moving on to comb her fingers through her hair. Waves of frightening pleasure took him when he felt her there.

"Sansa, Little Bird, that's enough," he sobbed. She did as he asked immediately, placing her hands back between the two of them at his chest.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly.

"Not used to it is all," he got out, rubbing at his eyes and trying to calm his breathing.

"You're not handsome," she murmured, settling back into his embrace. "But you're mine and I love. All of you."

She started to relax in his arms while he wiped the last of his tears away in her hair. One by one her muscles loosened and sank into the pallet. Her head fell forward onto her chest while her breathing slowed. He could make out her mumbling little phrases as she fell asleep.

"Your eyes are nice," she told him in the space between awake and asleep. "And your hair's soft."

A few minutes pause and she'd whisper something else at him.

"Your smile. I love your smile."

"You smell like the dry leaves in autumn and the feeling before a storm. And your mine?"

"Aye," he whispered, knowing it was the truest thing he'd ever said.

"That's good," she cooed, slipping off into slumber. He smiled. She'd fallen asleep in his arms talking of him in a pleasant way. It was far more than he had ever dreamed of. She could stay for a while. It was still dark outside. If she could find rest, here, with him, he'd stay awake to let her know when dawn approached.

…

He must have dozed off. Opening his eyes, he saw that she had shifted in her sleep, though he couldn't remember her doing so. There was the pale orange glow of sunrise in the room. She had her back pressed to him. One of his arms was flung over her side. She had pulled his hand right up to her face, her lips pressed to his thumb. Something was wet. He lifted his head to look at her and saw she was drooling, making him laugh. At least she didn't snore! Gripping her tight, he dropped his head to kiss at the nape of her neck. If there was a heaven this was it. He was certain. Sighing and whimpering she woke in his arms. He couldn't stop the one quick thrust of his aching cock into her backside while she stretched. She stopped immediately when she felt him, shuddering hot and hard against her. Moving his hips back a few inches he tried to make it clear she held all the power between the two of them coupling. She rolled over to look at him.

"Do you dream about me?" she breathed.

"Aye, day and night."

"I dream about you too," she confessed.

"You tell me when," he rasped, placing his hand on her cheek. "Say you want me and I'll make you sing, Little Bird. Sing like you were meant to. It won't be the damned Mother's Hymn. We'll make a song all our own. I'll give you new memories. Good ones. I can do better than the Blackwater."

She grabbed at his hand, still cupping her cheek, kissing the palm lightly.

"I know," she said, nipping at his fingertips. Then she looked at him seriously, a hint of apology in them. "I do want you. But not like this. Not with the whole household waking. I don't want to rush like last time."

He nodded his acceptance and kissed her forehead. His cock screamed at him to pound her into the mattress beneath him but he understood her want. It was his true wish as well. He ached for time when he could have hours with her to treat her properly, as he should have done years ago. Moving himself farther from her body he kissed her lips one last time. He could make everything right by giving her the wedding night she had always deserved. She squeezed his hand as long as she could while she rolled out of his bed and stood. Taking back her burnt out candle, she quietly left, shutting his door with a click.

He groaned and drew the pillow she had been laying on to his face. It still smelled like her. His cock throbbed within his clothes. He had not a clue as to how he had managed not to beg her to at least touch him. His own fingers trembled as he sought out the laces on his breeches. He'd lain for hours with her pressed against him and he was ready to spill within a minute of two of pulling at his length. He shuddered something close to a sob as he spent himself on the sheets, stifling his cries into the cloth that carried her scent.