Gods and Monsters

by Supernova Dragon Cat

A few weeks shy of her 18th birthday, Sansa Stark has lived a charmed, quiet life. That is until one fateful night when her life is turned into a nightmare and she becomes entranced by a mysterious man, propelling her into the dark paradise of his world. Pulled deeper into the underworld of the crime syndicate of which he's both god and monster, can Sansa hold onto her innocence?

10. Chapter 10

I owe a thousand and one thanks to mendedheart and Criminal_Intent for beta'ing this madness. I know it is not an easy task given my wordiness. Show these ladies some love, they are wonderful! This chapter would have taken even longer to get up, and would have been less polished, if not for them.

Warning: Violence and mild racial tensions apply to this chapter. Mentions of rape and suicide. As a reminder, I touted this fic as being dark. Keep this in mind as we move forward. This is not cotton-candy fluffiness. It's real, it's visceral, and, at times, downright uncomfortable.

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Gods and Monsters

Chapter 10

"I see a storm bubbling up from the sea. And it's coming closer..."

-Kings of Leon

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The rain was coming down in droves since morning, audibly rushing through the gutters, piling up in sodden puddles throughout the yard, and thickening the air with a heavy humidity as the sun feebly broke through layers of clouds.

Glancing down at his shirt, Sandor noticed the buttons were mismatched; the last button occupying the second to last hole and leaving the bottom hem of the white dress shirt sloppily asymmetric. Perhaps this was a testament to tiny, little buttons which were, themselves, mismatched to his oversized, clumsy fingers, but more probable was the fact that Sandor hadn't been paying much mind to what his fingers were doing. Instead, his eyes were steadied on the vision of Sansa in the mirror as she sat on the bed behind him. She had wrapped her arms around her legs, tucking them close to her chest, as her chin rested on her knees. She was wearing a T-shirt of his, one that seemed to swallow her whole as it engulfed her lithe frame.

Now, as he unbuttoned his shirt, content to just wear the white T-shirt underneath, Sandor watched her reflection as she assaulted her bottom lip, chewing it with a fervor that might suggest it would soon be bloodied in a ruby red sheen. Unburdening her legs from her arms' hold, Sansa snatched up her brush with a sigh and began pulling it through the dampened tresses of her hair, wincing a bit as she worked through tangles.

Sandor smiled towards her reflection, the sight of her something to behold and offered in stolen glances through a mirror. The culmination of her apparent poutiness, coupled with the way she seemed to disappear in his T-shirt, broke any residual sense of foreboding that had encapsulated him this morning.

In slow, purposeful steps, Sandor paced to the end of the bed, letting the white pressed shirt fall to the floor as he approached. Sansa had ceased both the chewing of her lip and the brushing of her hair as he stood before her. With eyes downcast, she simply let the hair brush tumble from one hand to the next, her thoughts seeming to render her silent. Pressing his hands against the mattress on either side of her, Sandor bent forward and sought out her lips in a kiss; warm and gentle, but still quite sufficient to elicit a steady rising of his pulse.

The evening before came back in flashes against the darkness behind his eyes; the sensations almost as tangible now as they were last night- the sweetness of her whimpering, the wetness between her legs which had welcomed his touch and communicated her want, the sound of his own name escaping her lips as she touched herself while he watched, entranced. She had come undone at his touch, breathless and panting, and it was her face at that very moment which remained chief amongst his memories of it all. He had watched her while she came, memorizing the sight of her writhing against his fingers inside of her in motions fluid and automatic. Her eyes had fluttered closed and her lips had parted, granting his own lips access to her mouth, an opportunity which he fervently took.

The memories played back in Sandor's mind as he deepened this current kiss, flicking his tongue against Sansa's lips until they opened for him. Feeling his cock harden against the confines of his pants, Sandor's mind wandered back to the memory of Sansa's slender fingers wrapped tentatively around his hardness. He had shown her how to proceed and found himself enthralled at teaching her these sorts of things, leading her on this exploration of one another and showing her the way to her own pleasure as well as his. He wanted her now and thought about her nakedness underneath his T-shirt, save for her panties which he imagined, or at least hoped, would be soaked with all her delicious wetness. That thought alone elicited a steady pulsating of his cock with the pounding of his heart. Without missing a beat, Sandor's mind made the connection between the two; a marriage of his thoughts which culminated into the imaginings of how perfect she would feel-warm, wet, and tight- around his cock as he slid in and out of her.

Sandor abruptly broke the kiss at that, lest it lead to activities rendering them indisposed for the next couple of hours; activities which once started, he wasn't sure he possessed the willpower to stop. Instead, he remained where he was, leaning forward towards Sansa and anticipating the thoughts of her mind to come pouring from her lips. Instead, she shifted towards him, scooting to the edge of the bed and wrapping her arms around his waist with her face buried against his chest. Sandor stood to accommodate her sudden affection and took the opportunity to run his fingers through the length of her hair, smoothing it away from her face with each pass.

"Do you have to go?" Sansa murmured as she lifted her gaze to meet his eyes, her lips pouty and swollen from the incessant chewing, or perhaps the fervor of their kiss. "Can't you just stay?"

Her voice quavered a bit as her eyes glistened beneath the light infiltrating the room; however, it was the profound worry in her eyes that caught Sandor's attention, not the brilliant blue and consistent sweetness that was staring back at him. A surging of guilt within him had answered the call to her worry, each self-sustaining yet perpetuated by the other. The sensation was foreign to him, but no less bittersweet. No one, save Mirabelle, worried about him when he left on business, but even his own sister understood the implications each time he walked out the door on an assignment. At some point she had come to terms with it and coped by sealing herself off from a barrage of troubled thoughts at the potential, but no less real, outcomes. In this way, she had equipped herself with a resilience brought on by acceptance. Whatever happens, happens was Mirabelle's mantra, yet beneath that armor of words, Sandor knew she feared for him now more than ever, although she never said as much.

Unable to hide much of her own fear, Sansa kept her stare resolutely on Sandor as her fingers clutched against his back.

"If I could stay, I would," he finally offered with the full knowledge it was insufficient at vanquishing her unease. "You know I can't do that, though."

His words, though honest, seemed to dash whatever fleeting hope she was clinging to. It was the truth, and it would be a recurring truth as long as Sansa stayed with him. Sandor was never one to lie, and he certainly wasn't about to build a castle of false security to put her up in. That, in his mind, went beyond lying; it was a manipulation of the worst kind, the cruelty of which went far beyond the temporary sting of honesty.

Accepting for now, Sansa unwound her arms from Sandor and sat back, silently nodding her head.

"I know," she whispered, perhaps more to herself than to him. Sandor lowered himself to sit on the bed next to her and patiently watched as her mouth subtly opened and closed, the words not quite ready to exit her lips. Whatever was going through Sansa's mind, she was seemingly drawing strength from it. Whereas moments earlier she had looked something like a porcelain doll in his arms, childlike and fragile, Sansa now shed that frailty as she sat up to her full height, sucking in and then releasing a deep breath before turning to him, her countenance now composed and resilient.

"Is it always like this?" she queried with a faint smile; not one of happiness, but rather a show of tepid acceptance.

"Not always," Sandor replied with a shrug of the shoulders, yet somehow that itself sounded like a lie given all that had transpired over the past few weeks.

Sansa turned to him, studying his face in earnest until he knew for certain she was not satisfied with his answer and was ready to call him on some perceived bluff. Sandor folded, unwilling to keep her from the truth. Running his hands over his face with a deep sigh, Sandor bought himself some time to gather a proper response.

"Things have been intense lately," he began, elbows resting on his knees and his fingers interwoven with one another as he settled his gaze on Sansa. "Everything is just really complicated right now. There's a lot I need to deal with. Hopefully, it will all settle down soon and you'll see it's not as bad as it seems."

"I wish you would tell me about these things you have to deal with," Sansa intoned with firmness, despite the quiet gentleness of her voice. "These complicated things."

Pulling one leg up on the bed, Sansa turned to face him, their bodies now perpendicular and strangely communicating something of their willingness to engage down this particular path of conversation. Sandor could not look at her, although he knew he should. Instead, his eyes bore into the dresser directly in front of him as he mindlessly studied the grain of the wood rather than meet Sansa's stare; a stare which held a heart-wrenching plea that very well might break him. Still, he chased after the words he might speak now. He needed them to match the sentiment he was trying to accomplish by not telling her exactly what he was doing today, what he had ordered done yesterday, and what he might have to do in the comings days.

Selfish as it may be, Sandor found himself seeking sanctuary in her purity and her innocence, hoping that perhaps some of her light would forever eradicate the darkness that had consumed his life for so long. In return, Sandor would protect her from the demons in the darkness he himself had created, stave them off for as long as possible with the improbable hope that they could never reach her. Whether he told Sansa or not, she wouldn't understand either way, and with that realization in mind, Sandor finally shifted his stare from the dresser to meet Sansa's expectant eyes.

"They're not something I want to expose you to if I don't have to," Sandor began after clearing his throat with a deep rumble. "You're a smart girl, Sansa. I think you can imagine what happens when I leave to deal with business. It's not all good, but it's not always as dangerous as you might think."

Sandor watched as Sansa's brow furrowed at that, eyes clouding over with confusion and possibly hurt at his lack of divulgence.

"Alright," Sandor rasped as he turned towards Sansa, mirroring her body language and cupping the softness of her cheek with one of his massive hands. "Do I look scared?"

Holding his gaze, Sansa silently shook her head with the tiniest of movements, scarcely discernible even as his hand remained tucked against her cheek.

"Do I look worried?" Sandor continued, his thumb sweeping over her cheekbone. Once more, Sansa gave a shake of the head by way of reply. "If I'm not worried, then you shouldn't be either. If the day comes you see me worried, then you can be worried too."

She wanted more; he could tell by the way her eyes searched his face, sweeping over the angles of his nose and jaw until finally settling back on his eyes, which had been watching her the entire time. Sated with what tidbits he had offered her for now, Sansa leaned her head against his hand at her cheek before nodding her head, understanding and complying if only temporarily.

Sandor pressed a kiss to her forehead and pushed himself from the bed, not knowing what else there was to say and entirely certain anything beyond what he had already told her would only add to the worries surmounting in her head.

"I'll let you get dressed and do whatever you need to do in here," he stated blankly before pacing out of the room and closing the bedroom door behind him.

Stillness seemed to consume the house, the aftermath of merriment scattered throughout: dishes stacked in the kitchen sink, a half-eaten lemon cake sitting on the counter with frosting hard as a rock by now, the stale smell of wine and whiskey lingering pungently in the air. By night, everything looked different, felt different.

Somehow, by the light of day, things became clearer, and the startling sense of reality was illuminated now, whereas before it could dwell in the shadows of darkness to proliferate before dawn. The rooted sense of foreboding lurked amongst those shadows, infuriated at its abandonment and seeking vindication now. The world looked different through eyes wide open.

The thrum of a running dishwasher filled the room with white noise and was accompanied by the shuffling of Mirabelle's slippered feet as she wiped down the countertop. This was Mirabelle's way of worrying; instead of sitting solemnly on a bed and asking questions, Mirabelle resorted to domestic tasks which occupied both her hands and her mind. On days Sandor and Bronn had business to take care of, Mirabelle could be found Swiffering the fuck out of something or baking ungodly amounts of muffins, cookies, and cupcakes.

"Good morning, sunshine," Mirabelle chirped with a smile as Sandor stepped into the kitchen. "Coffee?" his sister queried as she held up the pot after filling her own mug.

Sandor shook his head, opting rather for orange juice and aspirin in an effort to remedy the slow pressure that was building into a headache. Sitting at the kitchen table, Sandor massaged his forehead with the tips of his fingers, pinching the bridge of his nose in some futile effort to alleviate the dull pain.

"Where's Bronn?" he asked gruffly as Mirabelle pulled out a chair and sat across from him.

"Still rolling around in bed," she answered between cautionary sips of her coffee. Sandor shot a cursory glance towards the microwave clock. 10:47 am.

"Still?" Sandor snorted a mocking laugh as he shook his head.

"If you didn't notice, he was more than a little drunk last night." Lifting his eyes, Sandor found his sister shooting him a quasi-chiding glare through narrowed eyes.

"Well, if I remember correctly, you were a bit of a lush last night too," Sandor pressed, fully aware of just the right ways to ruffle his baby sister's feathers.

With her mouth agape in feigned offence, Mirabelle reached across the table and slapped the flat of her hand hard against Sandor's shoulder as they both exchanged a laugh.

Settling back in her seat, Mirabelle clutched her coffee mug between her hands, seemingly relishing the warmth that it emitted. A steady silence passed between them as Mirabelle's eyes raked over Sandor with a quizzical smile spreading across her lips.

"What?" Sandor growled, knowing full well this was one of those infamous "Mirabelle looks". Rolling her eyes, Mirabelle leaned forward and cocked her head to the side.

"The necklace," she demanded with a bit of exasperation at even having to ask. "Are you going to tell me how that went or am I going to have to interrogate Sansa about it?"

Sandor shrugged his shoulders, not understanding what exactly Mirabelle wanted to know about it. He gave it to Sansa and she liked it. End of story.

"She liked it, said as much," he finally responded, pushing himself from the table to throw a few pieces of bread into the toaster.

Even from across the kitchen, Sandor could see his sister's frustration; her lips were drawn in a defeated scowl and her eyebrows creased with annoyance.

"I'll have to grill Sansa about it," Mirabelle remarked with an ornery pout. "You're not too forthcoming with details this morning. Is everything alright?"

Snatching the toast from the toaster and tossing it onto a paper towel, Sandor rolled his eyes. He hated these types of questions from Mirabelle. Whether something was wrong or not, this was the beginning of an onslaught of questions all leading towards the end result of Sandor revealing something shocking to Mirabelle, some bit of truth he wouldn't normally share with anyone else. The problem was that most of the time he had nothing to reveal to his sister. She had a way of making a mountain out of a mole hill in no time, reading into his silence and making it her mission to "fix" whatever imagined troubles he had.

"Yeah, everything's fine," Sandor retorted, retrieving butter and jelly from the fridge before retreating back to the table with his meager breakfast.

"You're worried," Mirabelle declared with an exhaled breath as she twirled the end of her pony tail around her index finger. A smug smile pulled on her lips, one which suggested she knew she was picking up on something legit, and that alone spurring her on even more.

"I'm not fucking worried," Sandor grumbled as he attended to his toast, slathering it in the proper accoutrements.

"You're worried," he heard Mirabelle mumble from across the table as she eyed him carefully, entirely cognizant of his moodiness and gauging how far to push it.

"I'm not worried about today," Sandor snapped as he dropped the butter knife against the table with a loud clang. Taking a deep breath, Sandor retrieved the knife and lowered his voice. "I'm worried about Sansa and how she's going to handle things with me being gone today."

Mirabelle gave a sympathetic nod at this particular confession, gently setting her coffee mug to the table as she gathered her thoughts. Despite all the prodding questions which toted the line on being annoying as fuck, Sandor did genuinely appreciate this part; the part where he finally reveals his worries and Mirabelle offers a bit of valuable insight and advice. His sister could be pushy, but she was perceptive, that was for damn sure.

"She's not used to any of this, Sandor," Mirabelle softly responded as she met Sandor's eyes with a delicate gaze. "Of course, she's going to be worried. I think that's natural. You've been her protector for the past two weeks and now you're leaving. Granted, it's only for today, but still. She's allowed to be worried."

Having thrown in her two cents, Mirabelle shrugged her shoulders, content regardless of whether or not Sandor responded to her input. Lowering his eyes to the jelly and butter melting against the toast, Sandor slowly nodded his head. Mirabelle had a point, but that point only further validated Sandor's concerns for Sansa. This was her christening into the Underworld as it applied to their relationship, if that's indeed what they were in right now. Sooner or later, this scenario was going to play out, only now the stakes were higher.

"Keep an eye on her," Sandor finally spoke, tossing his piece of toast down with the sudden realization that he wasn't hungry.

"I always do," his sister assured with a smile. Lifting herself from her seat, Mirabelle paced around the table and draped an arm around the breadth of Sandor's shoulders. "And I always will," she added while squeezing him into an embrace.

Sandor watched as Mirabelle dumped her coffee out in the sink and disappeared down the hallway, presumably to rouse Bronn, or so he hoped. Glancing once more up at the microwave clock, Sandor groaned at the time. 11:08 am.

Grinning into his juice glass as he took a gulp, Sandor reminded himself to give Bronn hell for this, to bust his chops about not being able to hold his liquor anymore. The man hated jokes that either implied his age or implied that he was losing his machismo swagger.

Once more the house fell silent; the dishwasher no longer humming, the shuffle of Mirabelle's feet across the kitchen floor having been quieted for many moments now, the house itself like a crypt. Sandor shifted his gaze out the bay window next to the kitchen table. The sun had finally triumphed over clouds and was now breaking across the glistening blades of grass. In the silence, he thought of Sansa, admired the vision of her in his mind; her beauty unparalleled, her kindness unwavering, her laughter infectious, her lips sweet and willing. And she's mine.

Smiling to himself again, Sandor wondered what the fuck he had done to be so lucky. You stole her away. The thought came careening from the depths of his mind to assault his conscious or perhaps his conscience. Resilient against any sort of self-reprimanding, Sandor buried the thoughts away. It's not as if he forced himself on Sansa. He had kept his distance at first, his brooding reserve unfaltering. Both he and Sansa had headed down this particular path together. But you set her on this path. She very well may have never chosen it herself under other circumstances. Sandor stiffened at the sudden clarity of his inner oracle of wisdom. Typically, this inner voice was silenced by the myriad of other concerns running through his head at any given moment. But Sandor knew all too well that in moments where silence reigned supreme, his thoughts would play out in his mind, coming and going as they willed, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Light footsteps heading towards him blessedly roused Sandor from his thoughts and pulled his vision towards Sansa coming across the kitchen. His eyes flickered up and down her form. She was wearing jeans and a white tank top, a casual ensemble he only now realized he hadn't seen her wear before. The tousled tendrils of her air-dried hair tumbled over her shoulders in waves of auburn. Whether or not she was wearing make-up, he couldn't tell. All he knew was that her face looked natural, beautiful as always, but not painted with the same crap that Mirabelle put all over her face. Around her neck, his mother's necklace was set against the creamy porcelain of her skin, the purple hues shining as the gemstone caught the light. Sandor knew with a certainty he had made the right choice; the choice to protect her from the start, the choice to bring her here, the choice to let her see him, really see him, the choice to give her something that belonged to his mother and by doing so allowing her to be a part of his family, the choice to let her into his life, and more significantly, his heart.

"You're looking at me funny." Sansa laughed softly as she shyly tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and continued traversing the distance between them.

"I'm looking at you like I always look at you," Sandor replied mischievously as he swiveled in his seat, holding out his arms and pulling Sansa onto his lap. She seemed so small in his arms, her form consumed by his.

"Hmm," she pondered quizzically. Sandor could feel her gentle humming vibrations against his arm wrapped around her back. Nuzzling her head against his chest, Sansa exhaled a contented sigh as one of her hands began running smooth circles over the contours of his muscled forearm. Sandor closed his eyes at the sensation of her touch and the warmth of her body in his arms. Everything about this girl felt so damn good. With her presence, her sweetness, any residual qualms fled from Sandor's mind, leaving his thoughts to remain solely on the woman tucked in his arms.

The resounding dinging of the doorbell echoed loudly throughout the room. Sansa jumped, startled by the sound and lifted a wide-eyed gaze to Sandor.

"Up you go," Sandor sighed, patting Sansa twice on the thigh. "We've got company," he added as he pushed himself from the table and stood to his full height, welcoming the popping in his back as he stretched.

Before Sandor had made it halfway across the kitchen with Sansa following behind, Mirabelle came skipping down the hallway and darted towards the front door.

"I'll get it!" she shouted out with a girlish giggle as she made for the door and disappeared into the foyer, out of Sandor's line of sight.

Although Sandor could not see, he heard Mirabelle's instantaneous squealing as soon as the door creaked open with a metallic groan.

"Viiiiinnnnnyyyy!"

The sounds of heavy footsteps crossing the threshold reverberated through the foyer and were accompanied by the familiar sound of Vincenzo's voice.

"Well, I'll be goddamned, Mirabelle Clegane," Vinny bellowed through the foyer joyously. "You just get prettier every time I see you. I better tell your brother to lock you up, girl."

As Vinny rounded the corner, Sandor was instantaneously met with the man's toothy smile, his arms extended as he made his way towards Sandor, who was leaning against the back of the couch in the living room, Sansa next to his side.

"Eh! There he is," Vinny exclaimed, his cheeks red and sweat beading on his heavy brow as he pulled Sandor in for a hug.

Allowing a half smile to crease across his face, Sandor begrudgingly complied. One of the many misgivings he had with the Italian mafia traditions was the often gratuitous affection the men shared amongst one another; the lengthy, almost suffocating hugs, the kissing on the cheeks, each in turn, as a way of greeting someone. Sandor understood the mafia was a brotherhood; these were the men that would have your back when shit went down. That was all good and well, but Sandor found he could do without the fucking hugs. Regardless, he obliged Vinny, letting the man pull him in for one of his infamous embraces which ended with pats on the back packing almost a violent amount of force. Sandor could only imagine how Vinny's wife survived her husband's hugs.

Finally released from the embrace, Sandor sucked in a breath, imagining Vinny had cracked a few of his ribs.

"Good to see you, Vinny. It's been too long," Sandor spoke, his voice deep and severe in comparison to Vinny's animated jovialness.

Vinny had always reminded Sandor of a cartoon version of a mobster; every stereotype residing in this one man to an exaggerated extent. Despite having left the Bronx some twenty years ago, his New York accent was distinct, preserved with pride. That same pride extended to his Italian-American upbringing, one which instilled in him the value of family and a love for his heritage. He was a tall man, stocky although time and age had padded his once chiseled physique, rendering him a self-proclaimed Italian meatball. Time had also assaulted his hairline, forcing it to retreat until nothing remained on top except the sheen of a bald head. What Vinny lacked in traditional good looks, he made up for with his personality. He was boisterous, over-the-top, and could drink any of the men under the table, but the man had a heart of gold and his loyalty to Sandor had been unwavering since the beginning.

Sansa shifted next to Sandor's side as Vinny's men filed into the room, many familiar faces to Sandor although he had little direct contact with them. He could understand how it was an intimidating sight; each of the men sported something between a scowl and a poker face as they offered Sandor their respect by nods of the head and nothing more.

"Vinny, I'd like you to meet Sansa," Sandor finally broke in as he swept his gaze down at her by his side. She looked terrified; eyes wide and uncertain, a slight blush emerging across her cheeks.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Sansa," Vinny intoned in a softened timbre. He took one of Sansa's petite hands in his own and bowed his head politely before pressing a kiss to the back of her hand.

Sansa's body seemed to lose a bit of tension at that as she smiled warmly back at Vinny.

"Nice to meet you too," she replied gently, her voice honey sweet and filling Sandor with a sense of pride.

Turning towards Sansa so that she was between him and Vinny, Sandor lowered his voice, his reassuring words meant almost exclusively for her ears.

"Vinny and some of the men you see here will be staying with you and Mirabelle today." Sandor fought the urge to touch her; to take her hand, to pull her next to him, to press his lips to hers in a stolen kiss. Instead, he stood with his arms at his side, his eyes the only thing expressing that want. Sansa looked up at him and nodded her head, the trust apparent and inflaming his urge to touch her.

"We'll take good care of you girls," Vinny interrupted as he rested one of his hands heavily on Sansa's shoulder, nearly engulfing it entirely with his thick fingers.

From behind, Sandor could hear Bronn's voice merrily infiltrating the room. Turning around, Bronn ambled from the hallway in swaggering strides, a cocksure smile plastered to his face that still, despite copious amounts of sleep, looked fatigued and worn.

"Look who it is!" Bronn cried out as he found Zulu amongst the men that had made the trip from Redding. Pulling the kid towards him, Bronn put him into a head lock and rubbed his knuckles against Zulu's mohawked head.

"Hey little buddy, you on guard duty today?" Bronn added with delight as Zulu writhed feebly against Bronn's hold. As Bronn finally released, Zulu stumbled backwards, flushing a deep red with embarrassment and rubbing his head with a pained expression on his face. Sandor hadn't seen the kid initially; somehow he had managed to dissolve away from Sandor's vision as he settled behind the group of about ten men.

"Vinny, good to see you," Bronn greeted with a nod. Resting his hands on his hips, Bronn took in the sight of the men that had filled the room as he approached Sandor and Vinny.

At the sight of the three of them together, Sansa discreetly slipped away, intuitively understanding that now was the time they would be talking shop. From the corner of his eye, Sandor could see Mirabelle eagerly ushering Sansa to the outskirts of the room, leading by example as she engaged Sansa in conversation while paying no mind to the business taking place right in front of them.

Settling his stare towards Vinny and Bronn, Sandor crossed his arms about his chest and ran through the details of his plan once more in his mind before speaking. Patiently, Vinny and Bronn waited, neither saying a word.

"Vinny, you'll stay here with the girls and four of your men. I don't care which ones. The other half will come with Bronn and I."

Vinny nodded his head in agreement, ever willing to assure Sandor that he trusted the decisions that were made. Sandor leveled a stare towards Bronn.

"I want Zulu with us today," Sandor asserted with a deepened voice. Bronn pursed his lips and bobbed his head to the side with a shrug of the shoulders. While he wasn't exactly disagreeing with Sandor's decision, Bronn certainly was making no moves to express his agreement either. Something about that grated on Sandor's nerves. Bronn had been adamant about bringing Zulu on board with the Moriarti, had raved about the kid for-fucking-ever and now was reluctant to let Zulu do anything.

"Look, you fucking made him and now I want to see what he's worth," Sandor growled out through clenched teeth. "He's coming with us."

"You got it," Bronn spoke, defeat or perhaps wounded pride lacing his words as he walked away to organize the men. Sandor didn't have time to maneuver his way around his men's pride. He could give a fuck that his words might deflate their egos a bit. In the end, it was probably for the best anyway.

Sandor's attention was pulled back towards Vinny as the man settled both of his hands on Sandor's shoulders, catching his eyes in a sincere stare.

"Listen, boss. I've been meaning to tell you that I'm sorry I couldn't make it to Alonzo's funeral. I loved the man; you know that." Sandor nodded his head in response. He did indeed know that. Everyone loved Alonzo. That was no secret.

"Che peccato," Vinny added with a forlorn shake of his head as he removed his hands from Sandor's shoulders and let them settle back by his side.

Sandor's Italian was rough at the very best, but he understood well enough that whatever Vinny had said seemed to speak to the senselessness of it all. A growing fraction of Sandor's attention was pulled to the sight of Mirabelle and Sansa in the periphery of his vision. One of Vinny's men had made his way towards the girls, seemingly engaging them in small talk.

"I know you mentioned our associate yesterday over the phone," Vinny spoke as he lowered his voice despite the fact that the others in the room, involved in their own conversations, were paying no mind to them. "This doesn't have to do with the mannagge we're gearing up to have, does it?"

'Sansa. That's a beautiful name. I like it. Is it Italian?'

Sandor heard perhaps every other word Vinny spoke and knew by the inflection of the man's voice that he had just asked him a question. However, Vinny's words were a whisper in comparison to the conversation Sandor had somehow tuned in to; a conversation between Sansa and one of Vinny's men.

"No, Damian is a separate issue," Sandor responded absentmindedly, his eyes flickering towards Sansa. The made-man chatting her up was young, probably close to Sansa's age; a fucking Cugine that was probably made yesterday. The kid's body language alone sent a rush of heat to surge through Sandor's veins. With hands shoved in his pockets, the kid was turned fully to face her, his head cocked to the side, a wide grin plastered to his face as he roved over Sansa with greedy eyes.

"What's his taste?" Vinny asked, either blissfully unaware of Sandor's growing agitation or perhaps trying to distract it altogether.

Reluctantly pulling his stare away from Sansa, Sandor turned to Vinny with a response, his words coming biting and harsh from his lips.

"Enough to get what I need from him and no more." The corner of his mouth was twitching now as it always did when irritation was on a steady rise within him.

Sandor's attention was pulled back to Sansa. The kid had taken a step closer to her, and while she was being polite, Sandor couldn't help the anger brewing inside of him at the sight of her offering smiles to this kid. Her lips and all that went with them- smiles, kisses, pouts- were meant for him and him alone.

"You know I don't trust the fucker," Vinny declared in a cautionary tone, not realizing the irony of his words in this moment, although Sandor knew he was referring to Damian. "But you do what you've got to do, boss."

Mindlessly, Sandor nodded his head as he kept his eyes steadfast on the sight unfolding before him, despite Vinny's imploring stare that was boring into him.

'Portland. That's a great city. My grandma lives there. I would have visited her more often if I knew girls like you lived in Portland.'

Sandor watched as Sansa seemed to tense at that, well aware now that this guy wasn't just engaging her in a nice conversation. Mirabelle, still situated next to Sansa, discreetly shot Sandor a what-the-fuck look.

"Who the fuck is this kid?" Sandor seethed as he motioned his head towards the fucker talking to Sansa.

"Eli Zaccaretti. We call him E.Z.," Vinny volunteered immediately as he shook his head, disappointment flaring in his eyes. "I'm sorry, boss. He doesn't know. I'll go over and break that shit up," Vinny added as he took a step forward.

True enough, Sandor was angry. More than that, he was fucking livid. However, darker entities than just anger existed within his being; ones that fueled the sadistic pleasure he got from watching those who crossed him squirm. He could make a scene now, rage at the kid until he pissed his pants in fear and stammered out promises to stay as far away from Sansa as possible. Or he could kill two birds with one stone: ensure that this fucker never again got anywhere near Sansa and at the same time demonstrate to the others what happens when they disrespect Sansa Stark or question her place here.

Reaching his arm out, Sandor blocked Vinny's path forward, stopping the man in his tracks. Confusion flooded Vinny's face as he stared up at Sandor with questioning eyes.

"If he doesn't know, then I need to educate him. He'll come with me and Bronn today," Sandor rasped darkly, his eyes settled icily onto Vinny.

"What are you going to do?" Vinny asked on a thin voice, one which suggested the man was fearing the worst.

"I don't believe Eli Zaccaretti and I have been introduced," Sandor began casually with a devilish grin. "I think he and I will need to go for a little ride together so he can get to know the Hound. And if I happen to put the fear of God into him, then so be it."

Nodding his head, Vinny broke into hearty laughter. If he disagreed with what Sandor wanted to do, he didn't show it and dared not speak it. Instead, he just laughed nervously and nodded his head.

"A little fear of God never hurt anyone," Vinny replied as he patted Sandor on the back.

Around here I'm both God and Monster. Sandor remembered speaking those words to Sansa, willing her to understand during a time that seemed like ages ago. Soon enough this kid would come to know the truth of those words.

Sandor realized then that he hadn't yet grabbed his pistol. Seeing as how he was meeting Damian in a public place, he would have to pack discreetly and forgo his normal accessory of a shoulder holster. As Bronn organized the men, Sandor slipped away, retreating to the bedroom to grab his gun.

Returning back to the living room, Sandor saw as the men assigned to come with him were filing out the front door, laughing as they went, perhaps to quell any nerves they might have. The men that were staying behind had gathered in the kitchen at Mirabelle's offer to make them sandwiches. Sweeping his eyes across the room, he found Sansa standing where she had been the entire time, her eyes once more filled with unease as her lips were drawn in a pouty frown.

Sandor motioned her towards him with an incline of his head and watched as she moved towards him, seemingly careful to pace each of her steps lest she run towards him. With the alcove of the foyer obscured from sight of the kitchen, Sandor pulled Sansa flush against his chest and brought both of his hands up to cup the sides of her face, his fingers interweaving into the long strands of her hair.

Tentatively, he settled his gaze on her, knowing damned well that the look she was giving him now was going to be heartbreaking, even by his standards. Sure enough, her blue eyes glistened with the promise of tears, her lips trembled a bit, her cheeks were flush, and she stared at him with a gaze that pleaded for him to stay.

"Do I look worried?" Sandor queried in a steady voice, both calm and strong as his lips curled into a smile.

"No," Sansa whispered by way of reply as she shook her head. Once more, she began gnawing on her bottom lip. Lowering his head, Sandor occupied her lips for now in a kiss. She could chew them all she wanted later, but for now they were his.

"Then neither should you, little bird," Sandor murmured as he pulled away from the kiss and let his mouth hover over hers.

Nodding her head, Sansa reluctantly unbound her arms from their embrace and took a step back. Looking up at him once more, she offered Sandor a smile. It was feigned happiness, but sweet nonetheless.

"I'll see you later tonight," he replied, smiling back at her as he pushed through the glass storm door.

The men outside, six of them in total including Bronn, were dividing up into two cars. Sandor spotted Eli, beaming like an idiot and obviously gloating in his perceived conquest of Sansa. Feeling himself become furled in his own anger, Sandor clenched his fingers into tight fists before pacing towards his own car.

As Sandor opened the driver's side door, Bronn flashed him a confused look as he seemed to enumerate the men once more.

"There are only seven of us," Bronn hollered out towards Sandor, his brow folding against the now glaring sun. "We could probably just take two cars."

Sandor ignored Bronn and instead settled his eyes on Eli like a predator to his prey.

"Eli, why don't you ride with me today," Sandor shouted out, trying his best to hide his profound anger behind a nonchalant tone.

It seemed to work. Shrugging his shoulders, Eli cantered towards the car with a gleeful smile plastered to his face as he slipped into the passenger seat.

Lifting his eyes above the hood of the car, Sandor caught Bronn's stare and saw as the man shook his head whilst exhaling a small chuckle, understanding clearing away any residual confusion.

It was what any man would do if a guy disrespected him in his own house and with his own girl. Except Sandor Clegane wasn't just any man and Sansa Stark wasn't just any girl. She was his girl.

---

Heavy, she felt heavy. The world was hers to bear; the weight of which threatened to snap her shoulders in some mockery of the profound weakness she felt. Everything is heavy.

The air outside was molten: hot, humid, thick to the point of suffocating. The sun, although partially shaded by clouds, was oppressive in its hazy light and steady heat. Although she had retreated to the back deck, Sansa could hear Mirabelle's laughter coming from the kitchen, assaulting her ears with every whooping round of hilarity that ensued as Mirabelle entertained the men with her charm, the darling of the Moriarti that she was.

Sansa had come out here for quiet and calm; a respite from the sickening presence of doubt, worry, and foreboding that had seeped into her heart. Instead, the entire world pressed against her, coiled around her as it threatened to squeeze the sanity from her mind. The cacophony of noises - Mirabelle's cackling laughter along with the black birds squawking as they picked at worms in the yard - were enough to drive her mad.

By some deformity of the senses, everything was amplified; noises pounded through her ears like a drum, the light seemed blinding, the heavy air burned against her skin, and the taste of bile hit the back of her throat as she fought like hell against the churning sensation to vomit.

Sitting on the steps of the deck that led down to the expanse of the yard, Sansa sealed her eyes shut and sucked in a deep breath of the dense air. It was too much. It was all just too much. More deep breaths and a refusal to open her eyes to the world pounding against her thresholds, Sansa finally found a fleeting shred of peace.

"How are you holding up?" Mirabelle's voice tore away at the thin veil of calm as the woman emerged from inside the house and lowered herself to sit next to Sansa.

"Oh, fine. I'm fine," Sansa lied, startled, as her eyes snapped open and she squinted against the omnipresent light of the sun.

Like her brother, Mirabelle saw through lies. The similarities of how these siblings handled mistruths stopped there, for Mirabelle rarely called someone out on it the way Sandor did. Instead, she smiled her familiar rouged smile; the one that wrinkled the corners of her sympathetic eyes.

"It gets easier. I promise," Mirabelle offered on a hoarse voice accompanied by a reassuring rub on Sansa's back.

Sansa doubted very much things would get easier. If anyone should call another out on a lie, Sansa imagined it should be herself. Life never gets simpler; its linearity doesn't quite work that way. Regardless, she kept her mouth shut and permitted her lips to crease into a polite smile.

"You like the necklace," Mirabelle spoke as she nodded her head towards the jewel hanging delicately from Sansa's neck. It wasn't meant as a question, Sansa knew, and yet she felt compelled to give an answer.

"I do," Sansa replied quietly as she peered down at the purple stone. "Very much so. Did you ever wear it?" she added, shifting her gaze to Mirabelle.

The woman stared off towards the yard as her mind seemed to file through memories, seeking out old and worn recollections of the past. Finally, she exhaled a deep sigh and turned to Sansa; her smile now forlorn and no longer wrinkling the skin around her eyes. It was a polite smile.

"No. Come to think of it, I never did," Mirabelle answered with only the faintest traces of regret coloring her voice. "I think it always held a certain fascination for Sandor more than it did for me." To search Mirabelle's wistfully subdued countenance, Sansa knew it was the truth; a strange truth that held the promise of delight. Sandor Clegane's fascination with a necklace was something she needed to hear more about.

"How so?" Sansa pressed as her ears waited for something sweet, a balm for the sounds that had about driven her to near-mania only moments ago.

Unfolding her hands from her lap, Mirabelle leaned back against the short staircase on which they were seated. Her elbows rested against the flat expanse of a step as she lifted her eyes to the sky, unfazed by the light.

"After my grandmother passed away, my mother wore it often. It was almost an amulet against a broken heart for her. I was still very young at that time, but those were the formative years of Sandor and my mother's relationship. To him, that necklace is her. In that way, it's more meaningful to him and holds more sentiment than it does for me."

Sansa furrowed her brow against this information, although she now understood; the necklace was never Mirabelle's, not truly. Objects, people, ideas only have power if we give it to them, and Mirabelle hadn't given this necklace much power - no power of sentiment and no power of meaning. To Mirabelle, it was just a necklace. It was no amulet against heartbreak or a symbol of her mother. The power was lost on Mirabelle.

"What was your mother's name?" Sansa quietly inquired. She tried to envision Sandor's mother - what she looked like, what her voice sounded like - and always she came up empty handed. Their mother was some unknowable creature; always present, yet formless, like a shadow.

"Mae. She went by Mae."

Mirabelle gave pause then as she smiled at some resurrected memory - a secret one meant to be shared only between mother and daughter, even after death. Sansa thought of her own mother, and she too smiled.

"She was the youngest of four children and the only girl," Mirabelle continued as the heaviness seemed to blessedly begin its retreat. "My grandmother had high hopes that she would be a dancer, so my mother's given name was Isadora, as in Isadora Duncan. My mother was graceful like a dancer, but a petite woman, and was never much into dancing, besides. She hated the name Isadora, so she went by her middle name, Mae."

A dancer. Sansa fell in love with the idea of Sandor's mother being a dancer, although it wasn't the true vision of the woman.

"Mae. As in Mae West?" Sansa mused, delighted to speak of Sandor's mother, who had now captured her fascination.

"As in my great-grandmother, Mae. But yes, also Mae West," Mirabelle giggled softly.

The apparition of Sandor's mother was still something of an enigma, and that alone fueled the curiosity. She wanted more; wanted to ask all the questions tumbling wild about her mind, perhaps in the hope that she might forge a kindred connection to the woman she so desperately and inexplicably wanted to know. Shifting so that she was facing Mirabelle, Sansa indulged her curiosity.

"What was your mother like?"

Beautiful, I bet she was beautiful. A free spirit. Warm, lovely, quick to laugh and easy to love. Once more, Sansa caught herself applying a template to Mirabelle's mother. It was then she noticed the silence. The heavy silence.

"From what I can remember and what I've been told, incredibly generous and kind. Gentle and warm. Soft-spoken and sweet, but very, very sad." Mirabelle sat up then, stretching her long limbs as she stared at the muddy ground in front of them.

"There was something always so incredibly tragic about her. Even I can remember that. My father used to say that life had the tendency of breaking her heart. She couldn't bear the thought of there being so much cruelty and suffering in the world."

Sansa's vision of a dancer - laughing and smiling and twirling - turned to dust in her mind, decaying away with each pirouette. What remained was a weeping woman with a broken soul, irreparably damaged from first breath.

"And Sandor was close to her?" Sansa asked, her voice scarcely above a whisper as she wondered how he fit into all of this.

"Very close," Mirabelle confirmed with an adamant nod of the head. "He wanted to protect her, always. Even when he was just a little boy, he wanted to combat whatever was perpetually breaking her heart, but no matter how hard she tried to be happy, she just couldn't. That was very difficult for Sandor. As a child, he didn't understand and thought that he wasn't doing enough to protect her from the sadness."

Fierce and protective even as a child. Sansa marveled at that and felt her heart succumb to the onslaught of heaviness. It was inescapable. She wanted him here, with her, in this moment. She wanted to be wrapped up in his arms, to feel his voice vibrating against her as he spoke words, strong and reassuring, to her.

"You told me before that she died of a broken heart; that not being able to protect you or Sandor from Gregor tore her to pieces." Sansa leveled her eyes to Mirabelle, who seemed to be stirring with something as indescribable as it was unsettling. Although Sansa didn't quite form her curiosity into a question, Mirabelle had been preparing herself to answer; that was plain to see by the pained look straining the woman's face into strange contours.

"She…she went to sleep and never woke up," Mirabelle struggled as she spoke and occupied her hands by wringing them together softly. "That's the story my father stuck with all along; took it with him to the grave. I overheard him one night arguing with Gregor, and in his anger, my father shouted out that Gregor was the reason my mother committed suicide. You see, she did go to sleep and never woke up, just like my father told us, but she did that to herself. I never learned how she did it, but she took her own life, Sansa."

Mirabelle finished on a whisper as Sansa heard her own name leave the woman's lips as a gentle hiss of "S" sounds. The air seemed to turn cold around them, the warmth of life fleeing. Despite the glaring orb in the sky, the day was dark. So very dark. Sansa said nothing, although her mouth had fallen open, agape with shock and horror.

"I know why my father never told us," Mirabelle continued, her voice quiet and quavering with each breath. "It's hard to reconcile, even as an adult, a mother willingly taking herself from her children. And people must think 'What kind of mother does that? Only the bad kind, the selfish.' But she wasn't a bad mother, and she wasn't selfish. I don't think my father could ever bear the thought of anyone thinking she was a terrible mother for leaving her children behind. I think my father was the only one who had a window into just how much pain she was in. And imagine the tremendous pain a person - a mother - would have to be in, to take her own life."

Like mother, like daughter, Mirabelle Clegane was broken. Sansa saw it now; the thin cracks, mortared over with rehearsed smiles and false words of happiness despite a hard life, were beginning to loosen and break away. And Sansa saw the same woman - weeping and fragile - living behind the façade of strength. Tears, steady and unashamed, streamed down Mirabelle's face as her lips quivered.

"I used to hate her for it," Mirabelle gasped through a sob, a child lost. "All the times Gregor was terrorizing the family, I would think about how she took the easy way out and left my father all alone to deal with the monster they created together. I have forgiven her, but it doesn't change the fact that I never really knew her. Sandor was the closest to her, and he knew instinctively as a child that her death was somehow related to all the sadness he saw in her. He never could protect her from that sadness, no matter how hard he tried, and that bothers him to this day."

Pulling the grieving woman into her arms, Sansa tried her best to soothe away the tears, shush the worries, and provide surrogate comfort the best she could. Not so long ago, Mirabelle did the same for her. Perhaps that was the ebb and flow of their friendship; the weaker one clinging to the stronger as the high tides of sorrow came pounding in.

Disentwining herself from Sansa's embrace, Mirabelle wiped away dissolved mascara from underneath her eyes as she once more mortared the cracks with a giggle and a sigh.

"The necklace is something Sandor has held onto," Mirabelle declared with a steady voice, her countenance fully reassembled. "Ever since the day she died, it has been the only object he has kept track of over the years. I don't think I need to elaborate any further for you to understand how huge it is that he's given it to you. I think you understand that now."

Mirabelle smiled at Sansa, a genuine smile that transcended whatever pain she had momentarily allowed herself to feel.

"I do," Sansa affirmed with an eager nod. "I completely do."

Lifting her hand, Sansa pressed her palm against the necklace and wondered if she was worthy of such a gift. She wasn't quite sure what she had done to deserve something that meant so much to him. It struck Sansa then how much she herself must mean to him, but then maybe that was just it. Perhaps giving Sansa the necklace was Sandor's way of consolidating some of the things in his life that meant something to him; matching them together to make sense of it all.

"Sandor never mentioned any of this to me," Sansa observed out loud.

"And he won't," Mirabelle responded with a shake of her head. "He keeps it pretty well under wraps."

Sansa nodded quietly. She knew as much. Mirabelle's cracks may be visible, but Sandor hid his and hid them well; ensured that they were never compromised by conjurings of past tragedies.

"Do you think…never mind." Shifting in her seat, Sansa stopped herself, her curiosity getting the better of her as she spoke without thinking. Still, the question burned on the tip of her tongue.

"No, go on. What were you going to say?" Mirabelle queried in her own flush of curiosity.

"You say all the cruelty and suffering in the world broke your mother's heart," Sansa began before pausing, trying to wrap her head around how she wanted to phrase her question. "How do you…I mean…what would she think if she knew that Sandor…is…well…" Faltering, her question was a jumbled disarray of pieced together thoughts, hardly a question at all.

"A mob boss," Mirabelle finished for her with a knowing smile. "I know he thinks about that too, wonders if she'd be disappointed in him."

Turning to Mirabelle, resilient and having found her voice, Sansa divulged her thoughts; thoughts she initially assumed would be best to keep to herself, but now, spurred on by Mirabelle's smile, she let the words spill from her lips.

"I ask because I thought about what you said yesterday; about what I would tell people if they asked how I met him, what I would say about what he does for a living. Well, he told me that he would like to open a boxing gym one day; that he'd like to train men how to fight."

Sansa was beaming. After tossing and turning last night, it had finally occurred to her that perhaps it wasn't all so bleak after all. Sandor could pursue something he was passionate about, something that didn't involve making a living out of being a criminal. In the darkness of night, the idea had blossomed to a fantasy in her mind; a waking dream she staved off sleep for. Even by the light of day, it hadn't lost any of its sweetness. It could be perfect, she thought to herself.

Mirabelle's own smile faded from her lips, seemingly washed away by Sansa's confession. Defensively, Mirabelle crossed her arms about her chest.

"Yeah, he's told me that too," the woman huffed as she eyed Sansa warily. "What of it?"

The heaviness returned as Sansa felt she was being watched through critical eyes; misspoken words could be dangerous, it seemed. Flustered, Sansa tried to explain herself the best she could, although she wasn't quite sure there was much she needed to explain. It all seemed rather obvious to her.

"I don't know," she replied meekly, shrinking away at the sudden and unpredictable shift in Mirabelle's mood. "Maybe he could do that. He wouldn't have to put himself in danger anymore, wouldn't have to hurt people. He could make your mother proud. He could live a normal life."

"A normal life," Mirabelle scoffed bitterly as she shook her head. "And what, exactly, is that? White picket fences, a minivan with 2.5 children, PTA meetings, dinner parties?"

Sansa was beginning to see her dreams dashed; dissolved away like sandcastles against a growing tide. Stubbornly, she held onto them, not willing to give up on the little piece of hope they provided to get her through the nights.

"Please don't mock me," Sansa responded calmly as she steeled herself. "You can't tell me that what Sandor does is normal or is what he really wants to be doing with his life. I can't imagine that he enjoys doing what he does."

Mirabelle leveled an icy stare towards Sansa, one quite sufficient at cutting through steel. For many moments of awkward silence, the woman studied Sansa; her eyes moved back and forth across Sansa's face as she betrayed nothing of her thoughts, not until she finally spoke.

"You say you see him for who he is, not what he does. I think you see my brother for who you think he can become, what you want him to become, so that he can fit into this beautiful life you have dreamed up for yourself. You're trying to make him fit that mold when the reality is he just doesn't."

The words were spoken plainly enough, no harsh inflections or seething tones; however, the implications felt like a punch to the gut as Sansa let her mouth fall open.

"That's not fair, Mirabelle," she replied on something akin to a whimper, the silent accusations still stinging.

"No, it's not fair, Sansa," Mirabelle shot back defensively. "It's not fair for him, and it's not fair for you."

Sansa met Mirabelle's eyes with a disbelieving stare. Mistakenly, she had thought that of all people, Mirabelle would understand her plight.

"Am I supposed to be okay with knowing when he leaves he may be hurting someone, or he may get hurt himself? Am I supposed to be okay with never knowing if he's coming back or not?"

Mirabelle was looking back at her as if those were ridiculous questions with obvious answers, and it was then that Sansa knew she was, indeed, expected to be okay with all of it. She would have to learn to cope, figure out ways to survive in all the madness. That was the sort of strength Sansa never wished to possess; the callousness to turn a blind eye to all the pain and darkness the men of the Moriarti infused into the world.

"No one said it was going to be easy, but if you want him, then this is what your life is going to look like. Open your eyes, girl. The world isn't so simple. Haven't you seen that by now? Nothing comes wrapped up in a nice, pretty bow. It's ugly. It's hard. It's messy. You have to fight like hell for what you want; fight to get it and fight harder to keep it."

It was subtle, but Sansa felt the attack; the suggestion that she was still too naïve to understand the situation she had found herself in, as if she were still some floundering idiot.

"I am fighting," Sansa seethed back. "I've fought for my life, and now I'm fighting to maintain something of the person I used to be. I'm supposed to start college soon, pursue my own dreams. You can't blame me for wanting to be with him and wanting to go home eventually. I don't think that that's asking too terribly much."

Grabbing Sansa by the shoulders, Mirabelle roughly turned Sansa to face her. Sansa couldn't bear to look Mirabelle in the eyes, or perhaps she wasn't willing to give the woman that pleasure. Instead, she let her eyes remain downcast, defiantly staring off towards nothingness.

"That's what you don't get," Mirabelle urged as she shook Sansa by the shoulders as gently as her brazenness would allow her. "Home will never be the same for you. This is your home now. And Sandor's the closest thing you have to family right now. And you. You're his family too. That's what all of this is about, Sansa. My mother may be rolling in her grave at the thought of Sandor being a mob boss, but you can bet your ass she's proud of what he's done with the hand he's been dealt. He's survived, Sansa, and so have I. And you too. Thislife took me and my brother in when we had nowhere else to go, no one to turn to. We sure as shit didn't choose it, but what other options do you think we had? The real world didn't fucking care about two orphaned kids; if it did, I wouldn't have been sent to a foster family to get molested and raped by my foster father. This organization is our family, our home."

Having said what she needed to say, Mirabelle slowly released her grip from Sansa's shoulders and took a deep breath to calm herself. When Sansa finally lifted her eyes, she knew that the 'our' wasn't meant to include just Mirabelle and Sandor; it now included her too.

"You make it sound as if I can't have both; Sandor and my own life," Sansa snorted on a feigned laugh, one which spoke to her exasperation, if nothing else.

Mirabelle turned a regretful stare towards Sansa, her eyes now softened with a bit of sympathy.

"A time will come when you'll have to choose," Mirabelle spoke quietly and with some reserve. "It may not be today, and maybe it won't be tomorrow, but no one lasts long with one foot in the door and one foot out."

Just like that, Sansa watched as her dreams - unrealistic and naive as they may have been - slipped through her fingers. I won't choose. I can't choose. He won't make me choose.

Mirabelle lifted herself from her seat and retreated away, saying nothing more as Sansa sat in a silence, heavy and suffocating. She didn't look back as Mirabelle left, but she heard as the woman seemed to stop short of the sliding glass door.

"Life isn't like a kaleidoscope, my dear girl. You don't look through the lens to filter out all the ugliness and transform it into something beautiful. But I think you'll find there's beauty, even in darkness."

Sansa didn't bother with a reply. For now, she found no beauty in this day which was so dark. And so very heavy.

---

All the way up the 101, the kid had been chattering incessantly as he regaled Sandor with stories obviously meant to be impressive: the time a bullet went whizzing a few inches by his head, the incident when he had to save Vinny's life, the rumble he had with a rival street gang. They were dick measuring tales, ones made men exchanged to impress the others. However, the implicit understanding amongst most made men was that they could never engage Sandor in this frivolity of male insecurity. No, Sandor Clegane had his own stories; stories which would put theirs to shame and make them look like fucking pussies in comparison.

That understanding was lost on E.Z. as he sat in the passenger seat- chest puffed out and head held high- while he sought, in yet another way, to out-man the fearsome Hound.

With a knowing half-smile, Sandor listened and pretended to be impressed as he watched with dark amusement. On and on it went; E.Z. stupidly unaware of the hole he was digging himself into and Sandor morbidly aware of what fate lay ahead for this kid.

"Sounds like you've been sent on a lot of assignments," Sandor commented, his voice smooth and calm. "When were you made?"

"Shit, about a year ago, I'd say," E.Z. answered back, his arrogance reaching a fever pitch as he smiled, assured, to himself.

"For someone only made a year ago, you've seen a lot of action." Sandor kept his stare towards the road ahead of them, careful that the fire burning behind his eyes was kept to himself, for now. The kid's cockiness functioned like kerosene to that fire- steadily nursing the flames of his anger until the intensity grew from smoldering to raging.

"Fuck man, I'm a champ under fire! Vinny has seen it, and you'll see it today," E.Z. absurdly answered, his hands gesturing to emphasize each word. "I live for this shit: riding out, not knowing how it's all going to go down, not knowing how many motherfuckers you're going to smoke. Fuck, I love it."

Settling back in his seat, E.Z. relished in his own conceit, soaking it in and letting it sustain itself. With his stare cutting discreetly towards the kid, Sandor watched him and relished in his own right, except it wasn't conceit he was soaking up. It was darker; sinister and calculated. He had a plan for this kid, and the fucker was too self-involved to understand what a mess he was getting himself into just by opening his mouth.

"I saw you talking to the Stark girl," Sandor interjected into the silence, knowing full well this would be the fire starter to an explosion of his rage. He didn't care.

"Fuck, man! That bitch is fine," E.Z. asserted with enthusiasm. "Tits, ass, and those lips. Those are dick sucking lips," the kid groaned, almost primal.

"Yeah. You like that, don't you?" Sandor spurred him on, each word soaked in venom.

"What I'd really like is to bury my dick into her, but I mean, let's be honest. Who wouldn't?"

Casually settled back in his seat, E.Z. swiveled a lascivious smile towards Sandor, clearly thinking this would be some sort of male bonding conversation. They'd both talk about all the things they'd like to do to Sansa Stark, laugh about it, and then carry on.

Fighting like mad to keep up this charade, Sandor just shrugged his shoulders, keeping his stare straight ahead as his fingers wrapped tighter around the steering wheel.

"Wait," E.Z. broke in. "Have you hit it? I mean, you can't tell me you've spent all this time alone with her and you haven't hit it."

Although he dare not shift his eyes lest they give him away, Sandor knew with a certainty the kid was staring at him with some devious smile painted across his tanned face.

"Haven't had that pleasure," Sandor growled through clenched teeth.

"Damn, dude!" E.Z. exclaimed, seemingly mystified by Sandor's response. "If I were you, I would have fucked her. She's all scared and alone and relying on you. Perfect for persuading her to spread her legs."

With his vision blurring to red, Sandor had heard enough. Turning the wheel, he pulled off on some old, dusty road tucked amongst the fold of the landscape. The cars with the rest of the men carried on up the Redwood Highway. From the corner of his eye, Sandor could see E.Z. stir beside him, his back pulling away from his seat as his head swiveled towards the retreating sight of the main road.

"Are we taking a different way?" he queried on a heavy breath, his gaze shifting between Sandor and the back window.

Sandor remained silent, content to let the gravel crunching beneath the tires fill the void between him and E.Z. He knew if he spoke, his words would come out as enraged non-sense. Unfazed by Sandor's lack of response, E.Z. kept the questions coming; each becoming more adamant than the last.

"Boss, the rest of the men kept going. Shouldn't we stick with them?"

Having taken in the sight of thick forestry flanking either side of the lonely road, E.Z. shifted in his seat and turned to face Sandor full on.

"Where are we going?" His voice was fractured now with worry, his chest deflated, and his cocksure smile was wiped clean off of his face.

Pulling to the side of the road, Sandor slowed to a stop and threw the car into park before turning off the engine. He mustered all the composure he could as he undid his seat belt and reached for the pistol tucked in his pants.

"Get out of the car," Sandor demanded with a deep growl as he finally settled a glare onto E.Z. The boy's eyes had widened and seemed to bulge out of his skull. Shifting his stare out the window, E.Z.'s lips coiled in something between bewilderment and fear.

"What? Here? You can't be serious. What's going on, man?" The kid squirmed in his seat, pressing his back against the car door as he instinctively put as much space between himself and Sandor as possible.

Lifting his pistol, Sandor pointed it towards the kid as he tried to steady his hands from shaking. Blinded by rage, he couldn't see straight, but somehow his mind understood what he was doing; it knew exactly the words to say, and working in conjunction with his mouth, knew how to say them so that they did not betray the true chaos of his fury.

"Get the fuck out of the car. I won't tell you again." Sandor's tone came even, and his words were deliberately marked; painstakingly spoken with an emphasis on darkness. Inside, though, was mania; a beast come alive with bloodthirsty desires.

E.Z. complied and did exactly as he was told, while Sandor carefully followed his movements with the pistol. Once they both were out of the car, E.Z., wide-eyed and looking like a child, turned towards Sandor.

"Wh-what are you doing?" he stammered, all of his previous confidence entirely lost and leaving the shell of a boy behind.

"Get your hands up and walk," Sandor demanded as he motioned his head towards the thickness of forest beyond the side of the road.

Turning slowly, E.Z. shakily lifted his hands in the air and began working his way through the trees, each step hesitant and careful.

"Look, boss. I don't know what I did, but please, just tell me what's going on," the kid mewled with a voice that cracked. He sounded like a twelve-year-old- scared and stupid. Sandor laughed to himself at that, finding a strange sort of amusement in how easily this kid folded.

"Shut the fuck up and keep walking," Sandor growled as he pressed the end of his gun against the back of E.Z.'s head. "Another word out of you and a bullet is going into your skull."

As they continued walking down a gradual slope of a hill, Sandor could see the kid shaking; his shoulders and arms quivered, and his steps were becoming clumsy. Sandor scanned the view of the forest in front of them as he gauged their distance from the road. They were deep enough in that Sandor knew they wouldn't be spotted by any chance traveler driving down the gravel road.

"This ditch up ahead, stop in front of it," Sandor commanded. E.Z. sucked in a shaky breath before exhaling on an audible sigh as he did what he was told and stopped in front of the ditch.

"Get on your knees, and keep your hands up where I can see them." Once more, Sandor followed the kid's movements with his pistol as E.Z. stumbled to his knees.

Slowly, Sandor paced around until he was in front of him and finally glimpsed the entirety of the kid's fear. The face looking back at Sandor was one of a scared little boy, hardly the face of a man. His brown eyes were glazed with a watery sheen suggesting the prelude of tears. He had a baby face; his features still rounded and child-like. Sandor doubted the kid even owned a razor, seeing as how it appeared he could barely grow facial hair. His dark hair was styled in some ridiculous fashion, and he was wearing boatloads of cologne, the scent offensive and acrid. He looked like a member of the Italian version of the Backstreet Boys.

Leaning forward, Sandor pulled free the kid's pistol before shoving it in his own back pocket. The kid shivered at Sandor's touch as fear seemed to ripple through him. 'Good,' Sandor thought to himself, 'be fucking scared of me.' Feasting on the boy's fear, Sandor pressed the end of his gun against E.Z.'s forehead, which was coated in a layer of sweat.

"You took vows when initiated into myorganization. Say them. If you fuck up, I'll take something from you."

"But…but I don't have anything for you to take," the kid stammered as he lifted an imploring stare to Sandor with eyes that pleaded for mercy.

Sandor watched him for a moment, studying his face and those eyes; those hopeless eyes, which looked like those of a child. With a free hand, Sandor pulled a buck knife from his pocket and gave a firm flick of his wrist to unburden it from the casing.

"Yeah you do," he taunted with a devious smile forming across his lips. "Now start."

The boy squeezed his eyes shut. His lips distorted into a shape of terror. It was a task Sandor himself didn't even know that he could do. Every made man understood what vows not to break. It was instilled in them from the day they were made- born again by blood and brotherhood. Yet those words were never spoken again after a man was made. They were silent words that never needed saying, but E.Z. tried. The kid started as the blade of the buck knife continually caught the light of the sun infiltrating through the leafy canopy of the trees.

"Si-si-silence. Omertá, above all else. We…we honor it, live by it, di-die by it."

The boy faltered. His eyes darted back and forth in his head, chasing the memories of the words he spoke just a year ago. Sandor pushed the gun harder into the boy's forehead as his fingers tightened around the hilt of his knife.

"Truth. T-t-t-tell the tr-truth. No…no associations with anyone but made men. Except…if…they're a fr-friend of ours. A made man's woman…she…she is s-s-sacred to him. Don't betray the sanctity. Do not disrespect the wo-women."

Like blood in the water, Sandor's anger flared as the words spilled from the boy's mouth. Darkness stirred inside of him, coursing through his veins with a sensation that was both troubling and exhilarating.

"That one," he rasped as he lowered himself to a crouching position in front of the kid. "That vow. Say it again," Sandor growled, his face hovering inches away from E.Z.'s.

Perhaps in the delirium of fear, the boy hadn't yet put it all together. By the way his eyes pleaded with Sandor, E.Z. must have decided this was a cruel joke, or perhaps a hazing of sorts. The kid's words came out a jumbled mess of disjointed thoughts.

"A man's woman…do not…she's sacred…don't disrespect." Two tears trailed down the kid's cheeks and rolled beneath his chin.

"Who made you?" Sandor demanded on a deep groan.

"Bronn did, sir," the kid answered back eagerly and, seemingly, with the fleeting hope that this may be the end of his ordeal.

"Fuck your, sirs!" Sandor bellowed out. "They'll get you nowhere with me, you little shit. Did Bronn tell you what happens when you mess with another made man's woman like you were messing with mine today?"

Realization bloomed across E.Z.'s face, but was immediately replaced with panic. All those cocky words, arrogant retorts, and lustful smiles directed towards Sansa seemed to flood the boy's mind. The horror at that remembrance sent the kid into a shrieking frenzy, the primal fight for his life as he scampered forward on hands and knees to appease the Hound.

"I...I…I had no idea. Please! I'm sorry. I didn't mean what I said in the car. Please, boss, plea-"

Pulling away from the kid and standing up, Sandor pointed the gun in the air and fired, the sound echoing through the trees and rending the kid shocked into silence. E.Z. had fallen to the ground; his head nestled amongst pine needles and old, dried-up leaves. Grabbing him by the front of the shirt, Sandor pulled the kid back up to his knees and shoved the barrel of the gun into the kid's mouth.

"You meant it," he seethed out on a roar- his voice hardly sounding like his own, but rather more like some demon from hell. "I'm not fucking blind or stupid. Say it again, fucker. Say it because you meant it."

As the boy gagged on the pistol, a strange jolt of delight pierced through the mania of Sandor's anger. The barrel, still scorching from having been fired, was burning the kid's lips and tongue. Tears spilled freely from the boy's eyes now. As he wept with a gun shoved in his mouth, Sandor buzzed with a rush of adrenaline- the darkness seeping into his skin and settling in his bones. He donned it like a well-worn piece of armor; one which he hadn't worn in years, but still fit like a glove. Whatever compassion Sandor Clegane possessed was nowhere to be seen, but even in his bloodthirsty state of mind, Sandor knew this went beyond his typical ruthlessness. This was something else entirely.

"SAY IT!" he screamed, his face burning red and his eyes wide with a horrific rage.

"I said…I said…that I wanted to have sex with her." E.Z.'s voice was almost indiscernible as his lips wrapped and unwrapped around the barrel with the shape of each word.

"No. That's not what you said," Sandor raged, his finger settling on the trigger.

"I said I wanted to bury my dick in her." The kid was shaking violently, the force wracking through his shoulders, legs, and torso. E.Z. struggled to stay on his knees; his body was weak with terror and the ground was calling for him.

"And what about her lips? What the fuck was it you said about those?" Sandor demanded as he grabbed E.Z. by the hair and yanked him up, forcing the kid to look at him, although the boy's eyes were squeezed shut.

"Dick sucking," E.Z. choked out as he began to sob now.

"You said those things about my girl," Sandor yelled out, his chest heaving and burning with each wild breath.

Blind with wrath and thoughts that weren't even his own, visions flashed across his mind: another man's hands were on her- touching her, feeling her, lips tasting what was his, and enjoying her body in a way Sandor hadn't yet. She smiled for this man, moaned for him, came for him. 'Mine. She's mine,' he screamed in his own mind. Do it. Pull the trigger. Do it. As Sandor went to squeeze the trigger, E.Z. opened his eyes. With the boy looking up at him, it was Sandor who faltered now. He had killed before, but never like this; not with the person on their knees staring back at him. If you do this, it will haunt you. Those eyes will haunt you. The silent thoughts were spoken in Sansa's voice- sweet and solemn. In the end, it wasn't mercy that spared the kid's life.

---

"This is a fucking joke," Sandor murmured as he leaned over to Bronn, seated adjacent to him at the small table situated in the back corner of the restaurant. The thick panes of glass looked out onto the harbor of Crescent City and the long, sea-battered dock where yuppies moored their vessels to dine at probably the fanciest joint in town. Although it was in the middle of the day, the café was cast into shadows by the dimmed light, which bounced feebly off the dark red walls. Trying to occupy themselves during the mid-afternoon lull in business, waiters and waitresses wandered about in pressed white shirts stuffed into creased black pants. The velveteen timbre of Frank Sinatra's voice flowed like liquid from speakers discreetly placed throughout the restaurant.

"What do you mean?" Bronn responded with a soft smile as he leaned towards Sandor, anticipating being let in on some joke.

"I feel like I'm in a goddamn mobster movie with this shit." Sipping from his Manhattan, Sandor lifted his eyes over the rim of the glass and studied the near-empty room until his eyes settled once more on the front door. Damian was late; not very late, but it still grinded on Sandor's patience.

"You want to tell me what happened with E.Z.?" Bronn intoned hesitantly as he wiped away beads of condensation from his beer glass.

"I put the fear of God into him," Sandor replied quietly, his eyes flickering once more towards the door as it opened. An old man and his wife wandered in, dressed in their Sunday best.

"You did more than that, I'd say." Bronn chuckled before taking a gulp of his amber-colored drink.

I almost murdered him execution-style in the middle of the Redwood forest. Sandor kept that to himself, not entirely certain why he felt compelled to do so. It's not as if he'd be confessing this to a fucking priest. Sandor was pretty damn sure Bronn had almost done many egregious things in his day.

Sandor had been enraged before, many of times, but never like that. It took on a force of its own- unstoppable and damn near uncontrollable. Like a man possessed by his own rage, he would have pulled the trigger, and worse than that, would have felt satisfied doing so. Now that he could finally see straight, Sandor was annoyed to find he was troubled by the entire situation. It wasn't shame he felt. He wasn't ashamed of what he did, or rather, what he almost did. The kid was fine- scared shitless, but fine nonetheless. No, it was something else that was coloring his entire mood in shades of grey.

Perhaps if he had lashed out immediately in anger, he could write it off as being impassioned to rage in the heat of the moment. That wasn't what happened though. He had been cold and had calculated the situation, baited the kid into a self-incriminating conversation, and then taunted E.Z. with the promise of his own blood-and-brain soaked death. Sandor's rage had taken on its own sort of darkness- a darkness he knew existed within him and one he tried to keep in check. Yet when the darkness came, he relished it. It had felt good. In fact, it felt fucking fantastic. Then the realization had come that that same darkness existed in Gregor, and Sandor imagined that perhaps his brother felt the same way when he committed unspeakable acts of evil. The difference though, or so Sandor had to tell himself, was that Gregor would have pulled the trigger.

Drawing him from his own thoughts was the front door swinging open, which he saw from the periphery of his downcast stare. As Damian crossed the threshold past the hostess' podium, Sandor and Bronn lifted themselves from their seats to offer the typical business-style courtesy. It was a stupid formality, but Alberto had warned Sandor early on that it was best not to allow any room for associates to take offense, even if that offense was entirely fabricated in the paranoia of their own mind. Damian slowly traversed the room, swaying side-to-side in an almost laughable strut. How anyone took him seriously as a cop, Sandor had no idea. From his white linen shirt, casually unbuttoned halfway down the front with matching white pants, to his wrist adorned with a Rolex, the man's entire demeanor screamed "wanna-be gangsta".

Still, Sandor offered a curt nod of the head by way of greeting and shook the man's hand as he approached the table. In the dim light, Damian's mocha-colored skin looked two shades darker, and his eyes shone like onyx- deep and unsettling. With a shaved head, the man showcased two diamond studs situated in either ear. A white smile snaked across his lips, which were encased amongst a carefully manicured mustache and goatee. He wasn't a particularly tall man, probably average height, but he was swathed in sinewy layers of muscle.

All three settled in their seats, and after the waitress took Damian's drink order, warily eyed one another from across the table.

"What the hell is going on today?" Sandor finally spoke as he nodded his head towards the front door and the obscured streets beyond. "When we rolled into the town, the main drag was full of people and vendor's booths."

"Some sort of street festival they have every summer," Damian replied, his voice deceptively warm. "Music, carnival games, food. All the shit that the white folk seem to fucking love."

Laughing into his cocktail glass, Damian shook his head.

"Pulling the race card so soon," Bronn shot back, his venom towards this particular person thinly veiled even for someone as laid back as Bronn. "That isn't the reason why you're on 'administrative leave' right now, is it?"

"Naaaw, man," Damian snorted out a laugh as he steadied his serpent-like eyes towards Bronn. "I got sent out on a call for a domestic dispute. Some dude was beating on his bitch. I got into a gun fight with him and put a bullet between his eyes. Apparently, I shouldn't have shot to kill."

Sandor narrowed his eyes at Damian and watched as the man brought his vodka tonic to his lips once more.

"Let me guess," Sandor rasped. "This guy just happened to be a member of either the Norteños or the Brotherhood."

Shrugging his shoulders, Damian flashed a toothy smile- assured and proud.

"One less skin-head wandering around isn't necessarily a bad thing," he mused darkly as he lifted his eyes towards Sandor.

Sandor held his stare, studying the turbulence behind Damian's inky eyes. The mistrust was mutual, Sandor realized then.

"Well, I didn't come here to talk about your beef with the white man. I want everything you've got on Ned Stark," Sandor declared flatly and betrayed nothing, or so he hoped, of his growing misgivings in dealing with Damian.

Rubbing his hands together, Damian sat up in his seat and pressed his forearms against the edge of the table as he lowered his voice. Sandor suppressed a laugh. The old couple, feeding each other calamari three tables behind Damian, wasn't likely to hear a goddamn thing. Still, Sandor steadied his stare on Damian and listened intently.

"Ned Stark has been in touch with the Portland P.D. almost constantly, looking for leads on his daughter. He told them from the beginning he thought the Severelli were involved somehow, that the Royce party incident had to be some sort of retaliation for Nestor spilling his guts about the Moriarti case. Ned's a smart man, I give him that, but he's too fucking trusting and assumes the best in people. It never occurred to him that there are dirty cops within the Portland P.D.; ones whose payroll comes from the Severelli crime family. Shit, I can tell you every motherfucker on the Portland P.D. that gets a nice little bonus of cartel money coming through the Severelli."

Damian chuckled bitterly as he pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit up. Billows of smoke poured from his nostrils and slightly parted lips as he stared across the table.

"So what does that mean?" Sandor countered impatiently. "The investigation into the Royce massacre is fucked too?"

"As far as I know, yes," Damian replied with a shrug of the shoulders as he ashed his cigarette. "The initial lead investigator was pulled off of the case early on with no warning and no explanation. From what I understand, that's been kept quiet within the department. Not many people, Stark included, know about that. The case fell into the hands of a man who, I'm pretty damn sure, is being paid off by the Severelli. The Royce massacre had been in the works for awhile, whether Nestor knew it or not, and I'm thinking he didn't. It would have been an attempt to frame up your organization for the shit that went down at the party. It would have served the dual purpose of the Severelli exerting their control over Royce as well as giving Ned Stark even more fodder for his case."

Damian stopped momentarily, smiling to himself, before he motioned his head towards Sandor. "And your dumbass just had to be there that night so it would have worked, except Ned already knew that Nestor had gotten in deep with the Severelli. That was Nestor's mistake for letting that information slip. It makes more sense that the massacre was retaliatory, and essentially it was, but it didn't go off quite as planned.

From what I understand, it's been a slow and painstaking process to ID the victims. The house is just a pile of ashes right now and the victims just a bunch of fucking burnt bodies. Until the dead are sorted out, the Severelli only know of two people who got away that night: the Stark girl and her friend. And that friend is dead, many thanks to you." Damian pointed the cherry-embered end of his cigarette towards Sandor with a mocking laugh.

"Don't fuck with me, Damian," Sandor warned on a bark louder than he intended. The wrinkled faces of the old couple swiveled towards him with matching mouths agape in shock.

"My point is the crime scene was a mess from the beginning. I mean, how the fuck are you supposed to ID that many bodies when they're burned like that? Regardless of the crime scene being a mess, the case has been botched. The entire investigation is mismanaged, with or without the Severelli doing their damnedest to influence it. Then you have the fucking district attorney up Portland P.D.'s ass about his missing daughter and wife."

Sandor and Bronn's heads snapped up in unison as they both exchanged bewildered stares.

"Woah, woah, woah!" Bronn exclaimed, leaning against the table and towards Damian. "Wait a second. Catelyn Stark is dead."

"Not until her body is ID'd," Damian replied calmly with a knowing smile, one which suggested he was anticipating this reaction. "Until then, Ned Stark is going to keep on thinking she's alive somewhere. It's the same story with everyone else whose family, friends, or co-workers were at that party."

"What about Sansa?" Bronn pushed further, his voice incredulous. "He can't be sure she's not dead either."

"According to my connections in Portland, Ned has received two calls since his daughter went missing. The first one was a missed call the night of the party, shortly after shit started going down. The second call was a few days later. She left a voicemail."

Sandor felt himself bristle at that, his mind racing to figure out exactly when she would have had access to a phone. Suddenly, the waitress appeared at the table with three glossy menus and an overtly effervescent disposition.

"Do you gentlemen need to see some menus?" the waitress interrupted with a smile as she shifted her eyes around the table.

"No, love. I think we'll be fine," Bronn responded quickly with a wry smile. Nodding her head, the waitress retreated away, the hope of an expensive table and the matching tip having been dashed.

Clearing his throat and sitting up in his seat, Sandor settled his stare towards Damian who was already looking back at him with a devious smile. The man was watching Sandor carefully and had been the entire time he was here.

"You don't honestly think I didn't know about the Stark girl, right? You've done a piss-poor job of covering up the fact that she's in your possession." Damian settled back in his seat, satisfied as he puffed on his cigarette and waited for Sandor's response.

Sandor curled his fingers tightly around his cocktail glass as his thoughts turned into a slew of curses. Of course Damian knew. The man had connections to damn-near every crime syndicate up and down the west coast, the Severelli included. There was no point in denying Sansa's place in all of this. The most Sandor could do was extract as much information from Damian as possible.

"What did Sansa say to Ned in the voicemail?" Sandor inquired on a steady voice.

"It sounded like she was in trouble," Damian retorted with contentment. "And then a man's voice came on the phone. Told Ned Stark to pick up the call next time."

Sandor stared down into his whiskey glass as his brow furrowed with contemplation. Sansa hadn't spoken of this, never divulged this particular bit of information. It bothered him, although he knew it shouldn't. It's not as though this information was going to change anything about her situation. Still, if she was keeping this detail from him, what else had she failed to mention?

"Gregor," Sandor declared on a rasp as he finally lifted his head. "The man's voice was my brother."

Bronn stiffened in the seat beside him, the mention of Gregor amplifying the intensity of an already tense conversation. Silence descended upon the men, Gregor's looming presence invoked by the mere mention of his name.

"I don't know, man," Damian finally broke in on a sigh and with a shrug of his shoulders. "But it sure as fuck lit a fire underneath Ned's ass. He wanted to go to the media with it, get the story out there to anyone who may have seen Sansa."

Sandor nodded his head, understanding Ned's desire to do that. What else was the man supposed to do? Sit back and wait for the Portland P.D. to come up with something? No, Ned was taking matters into his own hands, and Sandor had to respect him for it.

"Why didn't he go to the media?" Bronn asked quietly.

"He would have, but Portland P.D. told him to get out of town; to keep looking for her, but to get the fuck out of Dodge."

"And why would they do that?" Bronn pressed, his skepticism of Damian glaring despite his attempts to hide it.

"It's a complicated situation the Severelli are in right now," Damian informed matter-of-factly, unfazed by Bronn's glowering from across the table. "If the FBI gets wind that the Royce massacre could have some mafia ties, then they're going to be all over it. As soon as the FBI takes over, the Severelli's ties to the investigation are cut and they lose control. Not only that, but they'd probably be indicted. The last thing they need is a grieving father and district attorney, no less, going to the fucking media about this shit."

Sandor and Bronn nodded their heads in unison. Damian snorted a laugh, the sound swathed in plumes of thin, grey smoke.

"Pretty little white girl gone missing," he began again with a shake of the head. "Shit man. The media would have a fucking field day with that. Every motherfucker up and down the west coast would be looking for her. Naw, man. The Severelli don't want that. They want Ned Stark off the radar, but they also want to find Sansa. No one is going to look harder for her than her old man and they know that. They'll take advantage of that for as long as they can. Any leads he gets, anything he comes up with, he's on the phone with Portland and all that information is getting funneled back to the Severelli and your brother." Staring from beneath his eyelashes and across the table, Damian nodded his head towards Sandor before beginning again.

"Ned agreed to leave town because he thought it wasn't safe for him. Portland put a tracker on his car and bugged his phone before he left Portland. Every move he makes is being tracked. They think if anyone has a chance of leading them straight to Sansa, it's him."

Damian settled in his seat as he nonchalantly disclosed these details. Sandor watched him; studied each sly smile, every shifty stare, and the way his eyes were alight with a strange sense of amusement. He seemed to soak up Sandor and Bronn's reaction to this information and relish in the delight of knowing just how deeply in the dark Sandor had been about this entire situation.

"And why is Sansa so important in all of this?" Sandor intoned deeply. "If they want Ned Stark dead, why don't they just off him and be done with it?"

"They will eventually," Damian chuckled with a cocksure smile. "The cartel ties with the Severelli have been strained over the past couple of years. A case against the Severelli- one in which the cartel's involvement with the organization would be uncovered- is a huge liability to the cartel. They don't want to be roped up in that shit. They're putting the pressure on the Severelli to get rid of Ned and Sansa."

"But the girl didn't do anything," Bronn interjected heatedly, his vigor seemingly coming out of nowhere. "What does it matter?"

"As it stands right now, she's the only witness to what went down. The cartel is only happy when all of this bullshit is finally swept under the rug and taken care of. If the cartel is happy, the Severelli are happy. And paid too."

Damian's eyes found Sandor once more, his countenance scrutinizing. Sandor met the man's eyes, and he saw what he often saw in Damian. It was devious and conniving. Damian was a wild card, a man whose alliances were always shifting. Perhaps that's how he meant for things to be; that way no one would ever truly know where to place him. He was an enigma of the worst kind; a question mark whose answer was constantly changing.

"That's not all of it though," Sandor growled, agitated and regretting his decision to pull Damian into the mix.

"Smart man," Damian retorted with a look of surprise flashing across his face before disappearing quickly. "You know your brother well. No, that's not all of it, and you already know why."

Blood knows blood.

"He knows he can get to me through Sansa."

Sandor knew as much already. He knew Gregor would read between the lines and ask himself why his brother would put himself and his men in danger, all for an eighteen-year-old girl. Sandor had given up the ghost as soon as he set out to get Sansa back. He had known that all along, and he didn't care. It was a small price to pay for her in the end.

"You've already demonstrated that wherever Sansa is, you won't be too far behind. I think you already know it'd be your brother's greatest pleasure to not only kill you, but to take away someone that obviously means something to you, to make you watch while he does whatever fucked up things he wants with the girl."

Sandor saw it then- Damian's own perverse pleasure flashing wild in his sooty eyes. Once more, he wasn't telling Sandor something he didn't already know, but this was a fear Sandor had tried to hide; tried to bury away and never look at for fear if he did, it would come to life. And now Damian was shoving his face in it, making him look at that fear and accept that it was indeed a rational fear; one which could very well come to fruition, regardless of how he tried to ignore it.

"What do you suggest we do about all of this shit?" Bronn queried as he crossed his arms defensively across his chest.

Damian stared down towards the ashtray as he put out his cigarette. Mirroring Bronn's protective body language, the man folded his own arms against his chest as he spoke.

"I don't know that there's anything you can do. Ned Stark needs to quit talking to Portland. The sooner he cuts his ties with them, the better."

Shady as Damian may be, Sandor had to agree with the man on that tip. "They'll know what's going on if he does that," Sandor replied.

"Possibly," Damian mused casually. "But the man truly needs to fall off the map and quit shouting through the streets for his daughter."

"He's not going to do that," Sandor broke in abruptly with a shake of the head. Although he had never truly met Ned Stark before, he imagined he understood the man's motivations when it came to Sansa, frantic and inadvertently dangerous as they may be.

"Not unless he knows she's alive and being taken care of." Damian's lips pulled into a full smile, his teeth shining a bright white against the darkness of his skin and his eyes, which remained heavily on Sandor.

"What exactly are you getting at?" Bronn demanded with a rumble, clearly having had enough of this meeting. "You want Sandor to talk to him? Have a heart to heart with her old man?"

Rolling his eyes, Bronn ran both of his hands through his hair as he took a deep breath to calm himself. Sandor peeled his stare away from Damian and settled a reassuring gaze onto Bronn.

"He's right," Sandor agreed quietly. "Ned's a liability to himself and to Sansa right now, and the bastard doesn't even know it."

Damian and Sandor stared at one another from across the table; their eyes the only weapons they had against the other as they tossed daggers back and forth with icy glares and heated glowers. Finally, Damian spoke as he settled back in his seat, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair and his fingers steepled in front of him.

"You're already here, and you can bet your ass Ned is going to be wandering about the fucking streets today, handing out flyers and asking about his daughter. He's been doing it everywhere he goes. This might be your chance to educate the man on his missteps."

Averting his eyes from Damian, Sandor pressed his whiskey glass between the palms of his hands. The ice had melted, leaving behind a watered-down version of his cocktail. He knew something like this was bound to happen. Ned Stark was stubborn and steadfast with business, why would he be any different when it came to his family? Only now, the man's determination was working against him, and his blind trust in the Portland P.D. was absurd given all he knew about Royce's involvement with the Severelli. Whatever misgivings Sandor had about facing Ned Stark needed to be set aside for now. The man needed to be privy to what was going on, for his own sake as well as Sansa's.

"Okay," Sandor finally replied, lifting a resolute stare towards Damian. "Where do I find him?"

Damian cracked a smile and once more rubbed his hands together in some gesture of delight. Whatever amusement he was getting out of this situation was lost on Sandor. However, the sentiment was spoken clearly enough; Damian stood to gain something from Sandor's interaction with Ned. What exactly that was, Sandor did not know and probably cared not to know.

"My man Maurice has been keeping an eye on him. He'll let me know when Stark is on the move."

"And until then?" Bronn questioned, the doubts fracturing through his voice. Even though Sandor had kept his stare predominantly on Damian throughout this conversation, he knew Bronn's uneasiness was plain to see. He could feel it. It filled the air with a distinct heaviness.

"We wait," Sandor answered before draining the contents of his drink, savoring the diluted warmth that spread down his chest.

---

They waited for two hours in some antique store parking lot at the end of the main drag in town. The owners had closed up shop hours before, probably to attend this street festival. In the hazy humidity of the late afternoon, music filtered through the streets from blocks away and filled the heaviness of silence that settled amongst the men. E.Z. had situated himself as far away from Sandor as possible. With a thousand-mile-away stare, the kid already looked battle-worn as he leaned his back against Damian's white SUV. Zulu watched him warily, seemingly sizing the kid up with an incriminating glare. Sandor smiled at this, drawing parallels between Zulu's would-be loyalty and his own. The other men were antsy and had resorted to pacing back and forth in turns, kicking up dust and bits of sand as they did.

When the call finally came in, Sandor could have sworn the men stiffened in unison as seven pairs of eyes snapped towards Damian, who casually pulled his iphone out of his pocket. Swiping at the screen, Damian pressed the phone to his ear.

"What's up, man?" Damian muttered into the phone on a smooth voice as he lifted his gaze to Sandor and gave a nod, silently indicating that Maurice was indeed on the other line.

Damian fell into a silence as he crossed an arm about his chest and nodded his head in response to whatever Maurice was telling him.

"Aight, playa. Keep an eye on him and call me if he's on the move again." Without another word, Damian pressed his thumb against the screen and shoved the phone into his pocket.

"He's down the street from us," Damian declared as he motioned his head towards the road expanding north from them. "Just like I said, he's at this damn festival trying to get the word out about Sansa."

Resting his hands on his hips and staring off towards the distant sound of music, Sandor cursed beneath his breath. The thought of maneuvering through a crowd was troubling and posed potential dangers. Then again, he could blend into a crowd; disappear amongst the hordes of people until he found what he was looking for.

Same as always, the men were looking at Sandor. All eyes were on him now, waiting for him to hand out orders. A part of Sandor didn't want to; he wanted to tell them to figure it out for themselves while he dealt with Ned Stark on his own. Many times, he had felt that way, had wanted to retreat back into the brooding isolation that felt natural to his being. In the end, the sight of all those men looking to him for answers had been too much to ignore, so he stepped up to the plate time and time again. One of these days, though, he may just leave them to sort shit out amongst themselves as he slipped away, possibly for good. However, today was not that day.

"Damian, take Zulu and E.Z. and wait at the other end of this festival on the north side," Sandor commanded as he shunned his propensity to work alone and effortlessly slipped into the role that was needed of him now.

Sandor swept his gaze towards the rest of Vinny's men waiting patiently for their command, each chomping at the bit for some action, although Sandor hoped this particular outing wouldn't deliver in that regard. He needed this to go smoothly and with as little excitement as possible. Ned Stark was like a frightened animal right now; any sudden movements, flashing of weapons, or misspoken words and the man was liable to be sent into fight-or-flight mode.

"The rest of you spread out at this festival and keep watch for anyone or anything that looks out of place."

Turning towards the remaining man of the group, Sandor patted him on the back, suddenly feeling incredibly fortunate the man was here with him.

"Bronn, you and I will follow him, try to get him isolated wherever we can; preferably as far away from the crowd as possible."

With a nod of the head, Bronn offered a half smile, seemingly intuiting Sandor's unspoken sentiment. For as goofy as he was, Bronn was a sentimental kind of guy, often caught offering declarations of love and friendship when he had hit the bottle a bit too heavily.

"Alright, let's move," Sandor bellowed before sliding into the driver's seat of his car. The other men dispersed, getting into the appropriate vehicles and heading towards their assigned destinations. Granted it was only a few blocks away, eight men (running the gamut from an Italian Justin Bieber to Tupac's doppelganger and everything in between) walking down the street of this small town was going to look suspicious or, at the very least, massively fucked up.

Sandor parked the car across the street from the swarms of bodies gathering at the street festival. The length of the road running parallel to the beach shore was partitioned off with thin metal barricades in some places and with vendor's booths in others. The air was thick with the sickeningly sweet smell of funnel cake and cotton candy. As they crossed the street, Sandor tugged at the hem of his white T-shirt, making certain that it obscured the pistol tucked into the back of his pants.

They approached the makeshift entrance which consisted of a large, plastic banner hanging from a telephone line. To their left, rides flashed with lights of every imaginable color and emitted the high-pitched chiming sound of carnival music. Clusters of people loitered around the entrance, laughing as they sucked down lemonades and nibbled on popcorn. Children hopped up on sugar and caffeine easily ran about the crowd, swarming around their parents and begging for money to do whatever activity had captured their attention.

"We should probably look like we're having a good time," Bronn mumbled towards Sandor before flashing a cheesy and obviously faked smile.

Sandor groaned to himself. This wasn't his scene, not at all. There were too many goddamn people: teenagers shrieking like idiots, children throwing conniption fits, adults roaring with laughter after having visited the Budweiser tent a few times too many. Sandor's attention was being pulled in a million directions at once. The noise was growing increasingly loud as a band at the opposite end of the festival was sound checking; filling Sandor's ears with the booming sound of a bass drum and the grating voice of some fucking hipster check-checking into the mic.

With his eyes scrutinizing as many faces filing past him as possible, Sandor searched out Ned Stark. He had only seen the guy a few times in his life and always from afar. He knew Ned was a stern looking man, his face a perpetual mask of stone and ice. He wouldn't be hard to spot, or so Sandor hoped. It had been close to a year since the last time Sandor saw him, or rather watched him as he walked to his car in the parking garage of the Portland government building. It wasn't Ned's face that was going to give him away. It was going to be his demeanor, his body language. If the man was down here searching for his missing daughter and passing out flyers, he was going to stick out like a sore thumb against the backdrop of funfair.

With that thought, Sandor swept his eyes towards the food tent situated directly to his left. Staring back at him was Sansa's face printed on a piece of paper hung from a metal pole supporting the tent. Instinctively, Bronn's eyes traced the direction of Sandor's intent stare.

"He's putting up missing person signs at each of these booths," Sandor informed as he stared at Sansa's picture- her smiling face, her bright eyes, the straightened length of her auburn hair. "We just need to follow the signs," Sandor added as he pushed forward through the crowd.

With a renewed sense of determination, Sandor scanned the vendor's booths, eagerly searching out the white signs as he worked through the stagnant bodies of the crowd. Each booth they passed sported the taped-up signs, which were, more or less, ignored by the festival-goers. They were here to have a good time, not to be reminded that pretty girls were missing out in the world. Most averted their eyes, giving the signs nothing more than a cursory glance as they shoved their faces full of food dripping in grease.

Suddenly, Sandor felt Bronn grip him on the upper arm as he motioned his head towards a taco stand.

"Look, no sign there yet."

Sandor swept his eyes from the taco stand to the local artisan's booth directly across the way. It was also devoid of a missing person's sign, despite the booth next to it and across from it having one.

"He's got to be close," Sandor said on a dry voice as he stopped in his spot. His eyes examined the faces as people passed him. The music was playing now, blaring through speakers and making it damn near impossible to concentrate. People whizzed by him as they pushed towards the main stage. Despite his six-foot-eight-inches of height, Sandor was bombarded with people walking into him, shoving him forward as they clumsily traversed through the crowd.

Over the sound of music, Sandor could hear a group of teenage girls erupting into screeching giggles. Arm-in-arm, the girls cleared away, shuffling along with the crowd as it pressed forward. Standing bewildered amongst the crowd was Ned Stark. Like a hawk to its prey, Sandor focused his eyes on the man, forbidding them to move lest he lose Ned in the crowd. He looked a disheveled mess; his salt-and-pepper hair fell in greasy waves to his shoulders, the scraggly mass of facial hair smattered across his chin and down his neck suggested he hadn't shaved in probably two weeks. While Sandor had little insight into what he looked like before, he imagined that Ned hardly looked himself right now. Judging by the dark circles under his eyes and deep lines criss-crossing his face, the man had been getting little sleep, it seemed.

With a deeply furrowed brow, Ned stood in place, staring down at the stack of Sansa's missing person flyers clutched within his hands. He looked dejected, as if it had only just occurred to him that most people in the world cared less that Sansa was missing. People go missing every day. They run away, they leave their lives behind in search of something better, and yet the world keeps spinning. People keep going about their lives like they always do, unfazed that yet another person out in the world has vanished.

Sandor watched Ned and dared not peel his eyes away from the man. There was something strangely fascinating about him.

Sandor wondered then, is this excursion necessity or curiosity? If he searched for the truth within himself, he knew it was the latter. It was the sort of curiosity you indulge with the knowledge that in the end, it won't be as sweet or satisfying as you want it to be. Still, in some sort of hedonistic pursuit of the mind, we indulge anyway, regardless of how sickening the truths uncovered by curiosity may be. For the past two years, Sandor had had a vested interest in Ned Stark. He had studied the man's movements from the shadows, scrutinized the man's decisions and dealings, ensured that he was always a step ahead of him and just out of the man's reach. That was necessity and the motivation was survival.

This current endeavor was leaving the realm of necessity and inching steadily towards curiosity. It was the same sort of curiosity that lured him to the Royce mansion. A day would come, Sandor knew, that he would face Ned Stark. He had come to terms with that long ago. His only stipulation for reaching a resigned sense of peace with that knowledge was that he met Ned Stark on his own terms. Sandor would seek the man out when he was ready, and although he hadn't anticipated this moment coming so soon, Sandor readied himself as much as he could.

As the crowd began to thin, Ned sighed deeply, as evidenced by the exaggerated rise and fall of his chest. Running his fingers through the length of his unwashed hair, Ned turned towards the direction of the moving crowd and began walking- slowly, deliberately, and with his eyes steadfastly forward.

Sandor let a group of people move past him before he began his pursuit, weaving between people to maintain a clear sight. Ned stopped at various booths, taping up signs without asking the vendors for permission. Instead, he slapped up the sign and kept going, determination unwavering despite the man's obviously growing sense of frustration.

With Bronn behind him, Sandor mimicked Ned's stopping and starting motions and tried his damnedest to blend in. Bronn did the same, separating himself slightly from Sandor and pretending to be interested in some old lady's booth displaying an assortment of hand-made purses, scarves, and blouses. On this went until they reached the end of the vendor's booths and finally caught up with the majority of the crowd that had gathered to listen to the live music.

With nowhere left for him to put up his signs and no one else to talk to, Ned skirted around the crowd, working his way along the perimeter of the swarming bodies. He had quickened his pace with long, stomping strides; damn near running as he jaunted as far away from the horde and blaring music as possible. Sandor and Bronn matched his pace while keeping a comfortable distance, but it was getting harder to stay with him. Suddenly, the thought occurred to Sandor that Ned may very well be aware that he was being followed and was trying to lose his followers.

Still they followed, past the stage to the empty street beyond. In the distance, Sandor could see Damian's white SUV parked along the side of the street. Sandor slowed his strides a bit, trying to put some space between him and Ned's retreating form, which maintained the resolute pace. They were no longer provided the luxury of a constantly moving crowd to camouflage their movements. In the openness of the desolate street, Sandor and Bronn had nowhere to hide and nothing to blend in with.

As Ned approached a silver sedan, Damian's headlights flicked on, although the SUV did not move. Sandor watched as Ned flung open the back, passenger-side door and ducked into the car.

"What's he doing?" Bronn questioned as he stood bemused and motionless by Sandor's side.

"Your guess is as good as mine," Sandor replied as he watched Ned slam the car door closed before walking towards them.

With the same deliberate pace as before, Ned Stark was now closing the distance between them, his eyes settled directly on Sandor.

You're fucking crazy, old man. Sandor watched him, mesmerized at his gall and dumbfounded that the man felt compelled to come face-to-face with him. Ned was outnumbered by odds he didn't even know existed, and yet he still kept coming; the infuriated look painted across his face becoming increasingly visible in the dusky light of a retreating sun.

As he approached, the man lifted his arm, which had been tucked behind him, and pointed a gun towards Sandor and Bronn. He could have reached for his own gun, Sandor knew, but it was too late. Ned was already standing in front of them, panting and heaving out his breaths as his eyes flashed wild with something between fear and anger.

"You've been following me," Ned choked out between breaths. "What the hell do you want?" His voice was deep and strong; a voice that commanded respect despite the blinding clarity that the man was quickly unraveling at the seams of sanity.

"I just want to talk," Sandor assured calmly as he slowly lifted his hands in the air and settled a stare to Ned's face, willing the sincerity to seep in.

Sandor noticed the man's eyes were a deep grey, much like his own, and yet there was something tragic about what was staring back at him. A man who has nothing, has nothing left to lose. Sandor knew those words well, understood their meaning better than most. Ned had lost everything- wife, daughter, friends, a case he had built from the ground up, home. For that reason, he was dangerous; just as dangerous to others as he was to himself.

"Guns out, on the ground where I can see them," Ned demanded, snarling through clenched teeth as he wrapped his fingers tighter around his pistol, knuckles flushing with white as he did.

From the periphery of his vision, Sandor could see Bronn turn a stare towards him, seemingly questioning whether or not they should disarm themselves when Ned was clearly coming undone, blind with emotion.

"Now!" Ned bellowed out on a scream as he took another step towards them. His face, normally known for being stoic and impassible, was contorted with rage- a rage that seemed equal in intensity to Sandor's own capability of fury.

"Just do it," Sandor whispered to Bronn as he reached around with one hand to the back of his pants and pulled his pistol free. Bronn did the same, and both tossed their guns away from them, watching powerlessly as their weapons went tumbling to the pavement with a thud.

"You were following me, weren't you?" Ned barked out. Sandor knew the question was directed towards him. Somehow, the man had zeroed in on him rather than Bronn. In fact, Ned's attention was so singularly focused on Sandor that Bronn could probably slip away, hardly noticed.

Sandor replied to the man's question with a nod of the head and watched as Ned Stark's eyes narrowed to icy slits.

"Why?" he demanded as his voice deepened to something like a growl. He was afraid. Ned could gnash his teeth, snarl his words, howl out his demands, but beneath all his defensive gestures, he was still afraid. Sandor knew fear when he saw it; the man was losing control of himself and was well aware of it. Perhaps Ned didn't care, and with that thought alone, Sandor felt his own fear beginning take hold somewhere deep within him.

"It's about your involvement with the Portland P.D. and the case of your missing daughter," Sandor answered as he willed his voice to remain as steady as possible. His throat was dry, and each breath felt like sandpaper grinding against his wind pipe.

"What about it?" Ned shot back, his agitation growing rapidly with each passing moment. Sandor let his eyes subtly flicker behind Ned's shoulder to the sight of Damian, Zulu, and E.Z. heading towards them.

'Go back, you fuckers,' Sandor screamed inside his own head. Ned was about to know how truly outnumbered he was, and that was liable to set him off, his desperation a ticking time bomb ready to explode from the pressure of pent up worry, guilt, frustration, grief, and loss. Suddenly, Sandor stepped forward, his thoughts sent into a frenzy as the other men approached ever nearer. With each of their steps, his only opportunity to get through to Ned Stark was dwindling away.

"You have to listen to me," Sandor pleaded as his eyes searched Ned's face. "They're playing you false, and they have been from the beginning."

Confusion and disbelief pulled at the man's face as he took a step backwards from Sandor and clutched even tighter to the gun in his hand, his only source of true power in this situation.

"You're out of your mind," Ned gasped as he shook his head, letting his eyes fall away and his gun lower slightly. "Who the hell are you?"

"It doesn't matter who I am," Sandor responded with a growing sense of urgency. "I need you to understand that any information you give Portland is being passed along to the Severelli crime family. They want you dead and Sansa too."

Her name flowed off of his lips- casual and a bit too sweetly. Immediately, Ned's head snapped back up as he stared at Sandor.

"Sansa," Ned repeated back to Sandor, his eyes full of fright in that moment and cutting through Sandor like a warm knife through butter. Sandor could do nothing but stare back at Ned and feel as though he had been caught red handed doing something he wasn't supposed to be doing.

As Damian, E.Z., and Zulu came up behind Ned, the man spun around and brandished his gun at each of them in turn.

"Who the fuck are they?" Ned shouted over his shoulder to Sandor with a wave of renewed fear and anger.

"None of us want to hurt you. We just want to talk," Sandor assured, feeling almost as he if were cooing to a petrified child. Turning around once more, Ned pointed the pistol back at Sandor as his lips set into an irate scowl.

"I don't believe you," he seethed venomously. "I don't believe any of the shit you're telling me."

Sandor nodded his head, realizing now that this wasn't going to sink in on the first pass. In fact, Sandor could probably explain everything from A to Z a couple of times, and Ned still wasn't likely to believe him.

"Young blood," Damian spoke to Zulu, although his eyes remained glued to Ned. "Do you know how to look for a tracking device on a car?"

Suddenly at the center of attention, Zulu's eyes went wide before he timidly nodded his head. Spinning on his heel, Zulu jaunted off towards Ned's car. Ned turned, shifted his gaze over his shoulder, and watched carefully as Zulu bent down to feel around the chassis of the silver vehicle. Finally, Zulu's face lit up, glowing with achievement even from afar. The kid hustled back over and handed Sandor a small, black piece of plastic about the size of a match book.

Sandor held it up for Ned to see and watched intently as the man stared somberly at the device.

"Who do you think put that there, and why would they be tracking your every move?" Sandor implored on a deep, rasping voice. Dropping the piece to the ground, Sandor stomped on it with his heel. Pieces of plastic and the inner workings of a small circuit board went scattering from the force of impact.

"Your phone is bugged too," Sandor continued matter-of-factly as Ned stared back with astonishment, rendering him speechless. "Every call you make is being recorded."

After bombarding Ned with heavy hits of staggering truth, it all finally seemed to stick. Lowering his gun finally, Ned's oppressive eyes softened with defeat as his gaze fell to the ground in front of him. For a moment, Sandor thought his body might follow; his knees seemed to quiver with weakness as every stress-filled day and sleepless night seemed to catch up with him all at once.

"Sansa didn't do anything," Ned pleaded on a voice that sounded like a distraught cry for help. "She's just a teenage girl. She had nothing to do with this." His voiced had trailed off to a whisper as his eyes darted back and forth across the ground.

"I know that, but they don't care," Sandor replied, his relief at finally getting through almost insulting in its profound contrast to Ned's visible distress.

Sandor stepped forward, the space between him and Ned no more than a half-foot as Sandor lowered his voice. His words were meant for Ned and Ned alone. In fact, this entire conversation should have never had an audience to begin with.

"You need to leave here as soon as you can," Sandor urged as Ned lifted a pained expression towards him. "Tonight, leave tonight. Get as far away as you can. Don't talk to anyone, don't call anyone. Just fall off the grid, for real this time."

"No. I can't do that," Ned refused with repeated and adamant shaking of his head. "She's out there. She could be hurt."

"She'll be fine as long as you quit dealing with Portland and disappear from their radar."

Sandor's words were offered with as much reassurance as he could give in this moment. Although his voice was gruff and had the propensity of being biting, the undercurrents of Sandor's tone were as calm as he could manage, especially with the man waving a gun around.

Sighing deeply, Sandor let his eyes fall to the ground as Ned remained silent as a crypt in front of him. He was staring at Sandor, his eyes cutting through him with an intensity that was unsettling. Sandor found he could not meet Ned Stark's eyes; not unless he wanted to burn alive beneath the man's stare.

"How do you know all of this?" Ned questioned on a voice eerily calm. "You talk as if you know for sure. The way you say her name…like you know her."

Something drew Sandor's eyes to Ned then. It wasn't a fleeting glance or cursory evaluation. Sandor looked at Ned and Ned looked back. Only then did Sandor fully come to realize that this was Sansa's father; this same man- so full of an honest sort of pride- held her as a child, bounced her on his knee, and undoubtedly soothed away tears at every skinned knee and broken heart. Somehow that knowledge was the force keeping Sandor's stare, and he saw then what he knew with a certainty he would see if he truly looked Ned Stark in the eyes.

Sandor had stolen Ned Stark's most prized possession, the love of the man's life, and it had left Ned's entire existence in absolute ruins. The story of that pain was staring back at Sandor through those eyes; so much agony in those tortuous eyes. Sandor swallowed hard. His hands trembled and his breaths quaked out of his lungs, unsteady and ragged, but still he could not look away.

With an empathy he did not know he possessed, Sandor understood something of Ned's pain. He had, for a moment, lost Sansa himself and feared for her life the way Ned feared for her life now. Only the brutal intensity of this man's anguish eclipsed Sandor's; blotting out the fraction of loss Sandor had felt and dwarfing it with a magnitude that was unfathomable and immeasurable by comparison.

There was something else gleaming fierce in Ned Stark's eyes, and it was gaining ground on the pain, seeking to supersede it.

Ned knew. His weren't the only eyes betraying a story; Sandor had given himself away.

'She's mine. I'm not giving her back to you,' a voice inside him spoke as it had spoken a thousand times before; only now that voice faltered and had grown weak, a whisper where it once was a war-cry. Bitterness flooded his heart, and Sandor hated this man now for reasons that were irrational and driven by what he could only describe as love; although he knew little of that word and less of its true meaning. Guilt had invaded; a guilt whose seed had already been planted by the way Sansa longed for her family, for this man standing in front of him. You're mine and I'm not giving you back. Time and time again, Sandor had poisoned the root of his guilt with those words, and yet it grew resiliently, stronger than ever and flourishing now in this very moment. Coming like a thief in the night, he had stolen Sansa away; she was never his to take, never given to him, never entrusted to him with the peace of mind that he would never do wrong by her. No, he had stolen her from a better man, and perhaps the greater sin was that he was never going to willingly give her back.

Sandor backed away from Ned, his spitefulness seething out of him now. She's mine.

Ned knew. He understood now and seemed to hear Sandor's silent words, loud and clear.

Never in a million years could Sandor have anticipated Ned's speed. Before Sandor could take another step backwards away from Ned, the man was on him; throwing all of his weight into Sandor with a strength fueled by hatred, rage, and suffering.

As Sandor went tumbling to the ground, a fist landed against his face harder than any hit he had ever taken before, including that of his brother. The warm, sticky wetness of blood oozed from Sandor's nose and down his cheek as he struggled to push Ned off of him.

It all happened within mere seconds, but as Bronn and Damian rushed forward to restrain Ned, the man's face filled Sandor's vision; contorted with rage and burning red with eyes- so full of hatred and contempt- like something out of a horror movie.

"You son-of-a-bitch," he spat, fuming and writhing like a wild animal. "You have her. You have my daughter!"

In a daze, Sandor stood up and wiped the blood from his nose. He stared at Ned; watched as the man took a kick to the ribs by Damian and a crack across the head from Bronn. Still, the man would not look away from him. Those eyes, those fucking eyes, stared right back at him.

"I'll find you," Ned coughed out as Damian and Bronn continued their assault.

Sandor couldn't bear to look anymore. He turned away, walking as fast as his legs would carry him back towards Damian's car as blood drained out of his nose and stained the front of his shirt.

"I'm going to find you!" Sandor heard the maniacal scream as he walked away. It was pale in comparison to Ned's eyes.

Those eyes. Those eyes were going to haunt him.

---

Sansa eyed Vinny carefully from across the kitchen table. The seat groaned against the man's weight as he shifted uncomfortably. Wary stares were mutually exchanged as many minutes of intense silence passed like this, neither wanting to be the first to crack. Stone faced, Vinny was a hard character to read, and that alone was making her anxious. Resolved to stand her ground, Sansa calmly pressed her clammy palms against the table as she kept his gaze, willing herself to be as still and stoic as possible.

At last, Vinny was the one to break the uneasy silence as he leaned slightly forward in his seat.

"2G's, Kentucky Avenue, and a 'Get Out of Jail Free' card," Vinny finally proposed, his voice steady and body stiff as he offered what would be his last deal, or so he claimed. He had underestimated her, it would seem, and she had shamelessly used that to her advantage. In an effort to throw him off, Sansa made some rookie moves in the beginning such as buying up Mediterranean and Baltic Avenue and meagerly building on them with two houses each. It seemed to work; he had no monopolies to his name and his stack of cash was dwindling by the minute as he struggled to keep his properties afloat. It was useless. One by one, they were mortgaged off, and Vinny's little top hat was on borrowed time. One more spin around the board and surely he was a goner.

"No," Sansa answered unwavering and with no traces of apology in her voice. Sure, she was often characterized as sweet-spoken and soft-hearted, but Monopoly was a whole different deal. One of the first major, and certainly more memorable, lessons she learned in life was how to dominate on the Monopoly board: buy up everything from St. Charles to New York Avenue, even if you have to barter, get as many railroads as possible, and never hoard cash if it means buying more properties. That strategy had never failed her before, and it wasn't looking as if it would fail her now.

Shaking his head as he muttered in Italian beneath his breath, Vinny tossed down the stack of thin, paper cash and patted his beer belly, something he seemed to do often.

"You're killing me, Red!" Vinny exclaimed in his thick New York accent.

Gazing up through her eyelashes, Sansa smiled at the nickname he had given her. All afternoon, Vinny had been calling her 'Red' as he took it upon himself to entertain her; to get her mind off of what was so obviously vexing her. It had worked, except now it was nearing 8:00pm and Sandor still wasn't back. There were no phone calls, no text messages to say he and the other men were on their way. The silence on Sandor's end was unnerving, and now even his men were growing concerned. Sansa could tell by the way they continually checked their phones and whispered to one another in hushed voices with serious tones. They, too, were running out of things to entertain themselves with.

Shifting her eyes away from Vinny, Sansa spotted Mirabelle lounging across the couch as she ripped through the current issue of some fashion magazine. The woman seemed unfazed as she "ooh-ed" and "aah-ed" over designer outfits displayed on the glossy pages. Sansa decided then that she wouldn't let herself get worried until she saw the first visible signs of worry begin to color Mirabelle's demeanor. It seemed logical in her mind. After all, this wasn't Mirabelle's first rodeo and it certainly wasn't going to be her last, either.

"If I trade you Park Place," Sansa explained matter-of-factly as she turned her attention back towards Vinny, "you'll start building houses on the blue spaces."

"That's the point of the game!" Vinny cried out, his hands gesturing in mock frustration as he animatedly waved them about. With the back of his hand, Vinny wiped away the sweat forming on his brow before taking a long pull from his beer bottle.

Reaching across the table, Sansa sympathetically patted the top of Vinny's other hand, which was resting protectively against what remained of his Monopoly money. He was a frugal Monopoly player, for all the good it did him.

"The point of the game is to win," she spoke softly, her words artificial sugar. "And if you have Park Place and Boardwalk, you might win. I'm very sorry, Vinny, but I can't let that happen."

It was a vindictive move, especially after she had cajoled him into trading a handful of his properties with her. Regardless, Sansa settled back in her seat and crossed her arms about her chest, a smug smile of satisfaction creasing her lips. Shaking his head once more in defeat, Vinny shot a pleading stare, accompanied with a resounding sigh, towards Mirabelle.

"Sorry, Vinny. It sounds like my girl's got you," Mirabelle quipped without looking up, as she dog-eared a page from the magazine.

Finally accepting his inevitable defeat, Vinny pursed his lips and shook his head once more.

"Alright, Red," he conceded with a sigh as he pushed himself from the table and popped his back. "How about we call it your game?"

"I could live with that," Sansa replied with a shrug of the shoulders and a beaming smile. If victory was sweet, the game's distraction had been sweeter, and now it appeared that that sweetness was fading, diluted by a renewed sense of reality.

"Good game, doll." Ever the gracious loser, Vinny laughed heartily as he shook Sansa's hand. "If you'll excuse me, I've got to go make a phone call."

Sansa nodded her head and watched Vinny quietly slip away to the guest bedroom, disappearing inside as he gently shut the door behind him.

Gathering up scraps of the paper money, Sansa slowly began sorting them by their pastel colors, taking her time and giving the task extra care in an effort to further distract her mind lest it worry endlessly. Instead, she focused on all the stories Vinny had shared with her this afternoon.

His wife's name was Louisa, and she loved to garden. For their fifteen-year wedding anniversary in October, Vinny was planning on taking Louisa to Italy for the honeymoon they had never taken. He had a daughter too, Briella was her name, and she was fourteen years old. Vinny talked at length about how beautiful his daughter was- a true vision of Louisa. He joked that he had been mentally preparing himself for the day when the boys would start coming around. For now, they only had the nerve to call up and timidly ask if Briella was home.

Sansa had smiled at that and nodded her head as she remembered her own father doing something very similar. It was hard to imagine that that was only a few years ago. How she hated when her own dad would dash to the house phone to filter whatever calls were coming through for her. She begged and pleaded for him to stop, to let her get her own cell phone so that she could talk to whomever she pleased without him screening her calls for her. With a pang of remorse, Sansa felt terrible for not realizing sooner how good her father was to her; just like Vinny was a good father to Briella.

Vinny raved about his wife- her beauty, her vivaciousness, her intellect- and Sansa listened, enchanted and feeling the tiny sliver of hope begin to shine once more. She had hoped Mirabelle overheard Vinny talking about his family. His family. The thought of a family for these men isn't so outlandish after all. Sansa couldn't quite wrap her mind around how Mirabelle could take a decidedly negative view on made men and families. If the mafia was so seemingly centered around family, then why was the concept of made men having families of their own such a travesty?

Sansa had chocked it up to Mirabelle's unfortunate upbringing; undoubtedly the woman's views were biased by her life's experiences. It was only natural, Sansa supposed. In the end, Mirabelle hadn't overheard the conversation and that was alright by Sansa. She too could have her own views on the matter, her stance also being largely influenced by her upbringing. She and Mirabelle would just have to agree to disagree where this topic was concerned.

As Sansa tucked away the last bits and pieces of the board game into its cardboard container, Mirabelle shuffled into the kitchen and retrieved a water bottle from the fridge.

"You think Vinny is calling Sandor?" Sansa quietly inquired as Mirabelle began to walk past her. With her concern growing and her distractions dwindling, the question bubbled from Sansa's lips before she could stop it. There was no harm in asking, she reminded herself. The worst Mirabelle could tell her was 'No, Vinny is not calling Sandor. Quit worrying so much'.

Appearing surprised by Sansa's question, Mirabelle stopped in front of her and sucked in a breath as her brow furrowed.

"No," Mirabelle replied almost regretfully as she clutched the open magazine to her chest and searched Sansa's face with heavy eyes. "His goomah. If he were calling Sandor or his wife, he wouldn't be taking the call in the other room."

Sansa felt her heart drop to the pit of her stomach, although she wasn't quite sure why. Her reaction to this information was decidedly physiological: her palms were sweaty, her heart raced, her bottom lip quivered. The information hit her like a ton of bricks; the weight not hers to bear, but heavy nonetheless.

"But he had talked so much about Louisa," Sansa managed on something like a whimper.

"They always do," Mirabelle responded as she shook her head; disapproving, yes, but still with the same irritating nonchalance that Sansa had come to recognize as a pattern with Mirabelle. "They talk about their wives to the other women or when it's socially expected for them to talk about their wives. The goomahs are for guy talk, Sansa; when the men are trying to impress one another with all the things they can do with their dicks."

Mirabelle hovered in Sansa's downturned vision for another moment, clearly gauging whether or not to continue this conversation or to let Sansa digest the information she had just divulged. Choosing the latter, Mirabelle retreated back to the couch and resumed her perusing of outfits she could never possibly own.

Sansa felt a sudden jolt of sympathy for Louisa, a woman she had never met; a woman who, much like herself, had probably spent the day worrying about her man and waiting for his call. Yet Vinny's call would be going to another woman first; the one he obviously gave priority to, but would never rave about in public or take on vacations to Italy. That woman would remain a mystery to everyone except the other men, who were made privy to all of her intimate details for their own perverted pleasure. Sansa didn't quite know which woman was getting the shittier end of the deal; the woman abandoned or the woman objectified.

She didn't have time to dwell on it long. At precisely 8:17pm, the front door swung open and slammed against the adjacent wall of the foyer with so much force, the vibrations surged through the wall studs and rattled the various wall hangings. From her vantage point, Sansa could not see who had entered, but it didn't matter. She knew it was Sandor by the way Mirabelle had dropped her magazine and sprung from the couch, her eyes widening to the size of saucers and her mouth falling open. The men who had stayed behind stared silent and knowingly towards the front door, neither speaking a word nor exchanging glances. All eyes in the room solemnly followed Sandor's form as he stomped into the living room.

As he came into her sight, Sansa felt herself mimic the reaction of every other person in the room; eyes wide and all words fleeing her mind as she watched him traverse the room in pounding footsteps. The front of his white shirt was covered in dried blood; whose blood, she did not know, but imagined it had to be his. His nostrils were darkened with a ring of crusty, dried blood, which had also smeared partially across his face in some attempt to wipe away the remnants of a bleeding nose. Across his right cheek a red lesion was beginning to show the promise of a nasty bruise come morning.

His physical appearance was nothing- nothing- compared to what was stirring within the depths of his being. Sandor looked as if he were about to jump out of his skin with rage; as if every fiber of his being was tensing and untensing repeatedly with every surge of fury. His hands were balled into fists so tight that Sansa imagined his finger nails were undoubtedly piercing the skin of his palms. His breaths were coming frantic through his bloodied nose as his jaw clenched tightly closed, no words coming from his mouth- sealed shut against whatever frenzy raged within him. Worst of all, though, were his eyes; Sansa had glimpsed them as he passed through the room and headed towards the back door. He did not look directly at her. In fact, he hardly seemed to notice anyone else was present, so lost in his own wrath he was. Yet she had seen the look in his eyes, and it chilled her to the bone. Maniacal was the only word that came to her mind, and even that didn't quite capture the almost other-worldly fury that radiated out of his being.

Much like the front door had opened, the back sliding glass door slammed shut as Sandor retreated outside into the dying light of the sun. The room had fallen hauntingly still against the oppressive anger Sandor had left in his wake. Sansa scanned the room, and her eyes were met with the sight of each person peering off towards some invisible spot on the floor. No one lifted their gaze, but instead they had succumbed to the silence and now to the stillness. It was as if the world had stopped turning, and with it, time had crept to a halt; they were encapsulated for now in this microcosm of Sandor's hellish rage.

Fearlessly and with her legs moving automatically to carry her towards whatever beast had returned home to her, Sansa hurriedly made her way towards the back door, but was stopped as Mirabelle reached out for her, coiling her fingers firmly around Sansa's upper arm and pulling her backwards with a steady yank.

"No, let him be," Mirabelle commanded dolefully as Sansa regained her balance next to the woman's side. "Things didn't happen the way they were supposed to."

"What does that mean?" Sansa whined as she turned a panicked stare towards Mirabelle and wriggled in the woman's firm grasp. "I should see if he's okay."

Undaunted, Mirabelle yanked once more until Sansa's back was flush against her chest. Lowering her voice as she spoke into Sansa's ear, Mirabelle emphasized her words firmly, each one sounding equally hard as they did portentous.

"I don't know what it means and neither will you. Give him some time. He needs to blow off steam and get it out of his system. When he's done, he'll come to you. They always do."

Footsteps in the foyer pulled Mirabelle's attention away momentarily as she eased up her grasp on Sansa. Looking uncharacteristically solemn, Bronn hurried through the door with the other men not far behind. Although their combined countenances did not speak of rage, the gravity these men possessed matched Sandor in intensity, if nothing else. The entire room seemed to darken as the returning men sunk into chairs or slumped against the wall, all except Bronn who broke the silence with a deep sigh as he searched the faces of all the men. Their eyes lifted as they stared back at him, looking for some sense of direction against the chaos that churned wild beneath the surface of silence.

Bronn looked at a loss. His mouth hung open and his voice caught on the first syllable of a word, but he stopped himself there. Instead, he slowly paced towards Mirabelle's side and offered her a weak smile, which quickly faded away. Mirabelle mimicked his sentiment, and whatever happiness they shared at being reunited was stymied for now as the awful silence continued to hang in the air. Bronn simply stood there with his hands shoved in his pockets and his gaze moving about the room, never staying in one place for too long.

As always, Mirabelle acquiesced; asked no questions, showed no visible emotion of outright distress for her own brother. The woman took her place by Bronn's side; quiet, supportive, and, above all else, unconditionally accepting. And Sansa realized that she was expected to do the same, after Sandor came to her, of course. Shaking her head against that thought, Sansa scoffed bitterly to herself. No more. It stops tonight.

She had had enough; Mirabelle could cope however the hell she wanted to, but Sansa was done with meekly and unquestioningly accepting whatever was thrown her way and without so much as a second thought.

"What happened to him?" Sansa demanded as she fully freed herself from Mirabelle's hold and stepped in front of Bronn, meeting his eyes defiantly. She would will an answer from him, even if she had to silently shame him into doing so.

Bronn stared at her, his eyes clouded with confusion as if to say 'are you really asking me this?' With a slight shake of the head, Bronn opened his mouth to speak, but once more stopped himself short. Sansa knew then that Bronn would not be telling her anything. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, the man was unable to maintain Sansa's insistent stare. Bronn simply let his eyes fall away and remained mute, refusing to answer Sansa's question.

Sansa took a step backwards from Mirabelle and Bronn, suddenly disgusted and reeling from this entire situation, from beginning to end. Are these people insane?, Sansa questioned to herself. This all was beginning to feel like madness, complete and utter madness, and she had somehow gotten herself roped up in it.

She let her eyes scan the room, stopping at each and every one of the men. Feeling her gaze fall upon them, some looked away, let their eyes settle anywhere except her. Then there were others who stared right back at her, and for a fleeting moment, she would think that they were about to say something. None of them did though, and instead Sansa found their eyes to be cold and scrutinizing. They glared at her suspiciously, as if she were an outsider to all of this, the cause to whatever trouble they had gotten themselves into today. They hated her, she realized then. Maybe not all of them, but certainly their feelings towards her ranged from annoyed indifference to out-and-out disdain and bitterness. Even Vinny, who had, at some point, returned from his adulterous phone call, wouldn't look at Sansa, but instead stared down at the floor in front of his feet.

In a room full of people, Sansa felt alone and isolated. One by one, they all seemed to lift their eyes to her, and the story was more-or-less the same; some versions a tad bit tamer than others, but she read it loud and clear nonetheless. She was indeed an outsider to them, and whatever ground Sansa thought she had made in trusting the people in Sandor's life was instantaneously wiped away. They stared at her in silence, unwilling to tell her what happened or offer advice on what she should do next. The room became claustrophobic; suffocating with all those judgmental eyes staring at her as if she had committed some profound offense.

Taking slow steps backwards, Sansa inched towards the back door until she felt her fingers grasp the metal handle. Spinning around, she opened the door and hurried outside, her legs hardly carrying her fast enough as she stumbled onto the deck and ran down the steps to the yard below.

Sansa clutched her chest as she heaved her breaths. Despite the lack of true physical exertion, her breaths came wheezing from her lips as she struggled to fill her lungs. With her head spinning and her mind racing, Sansa pressed the palms of her hands hard against the sides of her head as she squeezed her eyes shut. And then it struck her; she was afraid. Truly afraid. This sanctuary- the one place she had felt safe since leaving home- was decimated, no longer sacred.

Now more than ever, she needed Sandor. Feeling powerless, vulnerable, and weak in this moment, his strength was the only sanctuary she had left to turn to. Even if he was enraged right now, at least she knew something of the beast that dwelled within him and felt confident that she could tame it. As for the others, she didn't know where to place what she had seen lurking behind their frigid stares.

She found him in his boxing gym. He had shut himself away in there, but she had heard the grunts, soft at first from a distance and growing louder as she approached the door. With a trembling hand, Sansa slowly pushed the door opened and peaked her head in through the small amount of space she had made. Having removed his bloody T-shirt, Sandor's bare, tattooed back was facing her as he delivered blow after blow to the heavy punching bag, each hit delivered with a low grunting sound.

Thoroughly engaged in what he was doing, Sandor did not hear as Sansa crept into the room and quietly closed the door behind her. Despite the humid warmth in the gym, Sansa protectively wrapped her arms around her middle as she approached Sandor with tentative steps, careful not to startle him, yet unsure how to alert him of her presence.

He seemed to know already that she was there. As she positioned herself a healthy three feet or so away from him, Sandor shifted his eyes to her, his blank stare flicking up and down her form as he curled and uncurled his right fist. He hadn't bothered to don boxing gloves, but instead haphazardly wrapped his hands with white cotton straps secured into place with surgical tape. Small circles of red had started to stain the wrap of his right hand where his knuckles were bloodied underneath.

Sansa stared at him, waiting for him to say something or acknowledge her presence somehow. Instead, he stood there in silence, panting his breaths as the muscled contours of his upper body glistened with the sheen of sweat. His black hair, slightly damp with sweat, was beginning to stick to the sides of his face and curl into subtle waves against the humidity. His eyes had lost much of the maniacal anger she had seen in them and now was replaced with something impassible and icy.

"You're hurt," Sansa softly spoke as she tentatively stepped forward and took Sandor's bloodied right hand into her own, carefully wrapping her fingers around his to get a better look.

Shaking his head, Sandor snorted a derisive laugh before turning his head to the left and spitting on the ground. Still, he said nothing to her as his eyes narrowed towards the punching bag once more, eager to get back to pummeling whatever imaginary foe he envisioned the bag to be.

Some voice from within, perhaps her mother's voice, told her to walk away and leave him for now until he calmed down. Words- hurtful and hasty- were likely to be exchanged if she did not heed this internal warning. Stubborn in her resolve though, Sansa willed her hand to quit shaking as she reached for his face.

"Sandor…"

Just before the tips of her fingers met the skin of his cheek, Sandor's head snapped towards her as his left hand deftly caught her by the wrist. She looked up at him and found him staring back at her, his eyes beginning to flash with vestiges of his earlier anger.

"Go to bed, Sansa."

His voice was harsh, his tone biting, and his eyes cruel. Even still, Sansa could tell that he had held back against all the venom surging through his veins.

"I'm not tired," she replied softly as her eyes searched his, trying to find the man who had so tenderly reassured her just this morning. She hoped that he could see how much she needed his tenderness now, that he saw it in the way her stare pleaded with him. That silent message, so desperately sent out through her eyes, was lost on him.

"I didn't ask if you were fucking tired, girl." With that, he released her wrist and yanked his hand away from her, leaving Sansa standing next to him bewildered with shock at his brusqueness. He turned away from her now, leaving her reeling at the sharpness of his words, which cut through her so deeply and painfully that unbidden tears quickly filled her eyes.

Not him too. They can all hate me. I don't care, but not him.

Watching from behind as he unwrapped his right hand and inspected his bloody knuckles, Sansa struggled to compose herself. Her mouth dangled open and her widened eyes were now filled to the brim with tears as her legs kept her firmly in place, waiting for something to happen. Nothing happened, though- no apology, no sudden urge on his end to turn to her and offer some sliver of compassion to ease the pain he had so effortlessly caused. Stubborn in his own right, Sandor simply waited for her to leave, which she did. Much as she had entered, Sansa slipped away, quietly and without so much as a second glance from him.

She sought refuge in the only place of the house she knew to do so- Sandor's bedroom. By the time she retreated back inside, the silence had broken in the house as the men waited for their release, the order to take their leave and head back to wherever they had come from. In small clusters, they conversed with one another in casual conversation, laughing here and there as the collective mood seemed to lift slightly. With her eyes downcast and her footsteps quickened, Sansa slipped along the far wall towards the hallway. She didn't want to know if they were looking at her, didn't want to see their eyes dissecting her with a coldness that bordered on malice. Someone had followed her down the hallway, Mirabelle most likely, but Sansa ducked into Sandor's room and shut the door before this individual could reach her.

Safe inside, Sansa could do nothing but wait.

With her mind running wild, she paced the room, rehearsed all the things she was going to say to Sandor until they flowed off her tongue. Her planned declaration started out frantic; a mess of questions and girlish declarations of how worried she had been about him. After releasing the unease she had bottled up all day, Sansa scrapped that inner monologue for something a bit more subdued, words Mirabelle might say to Bronn. That hadn't felt right either. She knew she couldn't pull off the acquiescent nonchalance that seemed so effortless with Mirabelle. As time continued to pass, Sansa felt the annoyance rising within her, and that annoyance quickly evolved into her own anger. Waiting around all day, not knowing whether or not he was okay, was one thing. His walking right past her, without so much as an explanation or even a word, was insult to injury. His treatment of her when she found him in his boxing gym had felt like a punch to the gut.

Sansa was fuming with simultaneous hurt and insult. In the bathroom, she scrubbed her face clean, her nails digging into her skin as she settled for the angry monologue. It was the only one that felt right now as she sat on Sandor's bed and worked a comb roughly through her hair, her scalp bearing the brunt of her irritation.

Four, five, maybe six times she rehearsed the chosen words in her head, so many times she had lost count, and her anger was slowing subsiding, steadily replaced by growing fatigue. Yawning, she rested her back against the plush pillows. She was ready to battle sleep if she needed to; come hell or high water, they were talking about this tonight. There would be no "let's sleep on it, maybe things will be clearer in the morning". No, none of that. Besides, she was likely to forget her monologue in the morning; it would come out in bits and pieces that wouldn't make sense. She would wait up for him, Sansa decided.

In the end, her battle against sleep had been a half-won victory; she had indeed fallen asleep, but it had been light and hardly able to sustain itself against Sandor's heavy footsteps pounding throughout the room. When Sansa opened her eyes, she saw him at the dresser, now donning a clean, black T-shirt. Caught in a groggy daze, she watched as he opened drawers, pulled out all the contents and shoved them into their travel bags. He didn't bother to fold anything or to sort her stuff from his own. Instead, he grabbed fistfuls of whatever was in the drawer and dumped it all together before slamming the drawer shut and moving to the next.

Lying still, Sansa watched him for a few moments as she worked herself up to deliver her rehearsed words. She hadn't anticipated the butterflies in her stomach or the shaking of her hands. Taking a deep breath, Sansa moved quietly from the bed and tip-toed next to Sandor's side as he pulled open the top drawer of the dresser. Much like before, he paid her no mind as he began pulling out the random assortment of clothes from the drawer.

"I want to know what happened," Sansa spoke clearly and loud enough that she knew he heard her. As soon as the words left her mouth, she could see his chest rise as he pulled in a deep breath. His jaw clenched, setting his lips tightly together and ensuring no words would accidentally slip out.

Sure enough, he said nothing in reply, but rather shoved the last bits and pieces of clothing into a duffle bag and let it fall to the floor with a loud thud before setting about double checking all the drawers.

At once, all the eloquently pieced together words- logical and unarguable- fled Sansa's mind and left her at a staggering loss for what to say. Only then did she realize that she would have to do what she should have done from the start: speak from her heart, even if it came out a blubbering mess. What it might lack in loquaciousness, it would make up for in purity.

Stepping ever closer to Sandor, Sansa wedged herself between him and the dresser, forcing him to acknowledge her.

"Don't shut me out," Sansa implored as she pressed her hands against his chest and craned her neck so that she could meet his eyes. "I want to know, Sandor."

Remaining motionless, Sandor had stilled beneath her touch, and finally he returned her stare. The exchange was brief, but it was quite possibly the most he had given her all night.

"I saw your father," he rasped on a dark voice, deepened by fatigue. "That's what happened." With that, Sandor snatched up the duffle bag from the floor and pulled away from Sansa as he tossed the bag against the wall next to the bedroom door.

His words, spoken so callous and indifferent, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to say, siphoned the breath right out of her lungs. Gasping as her body swayed with shock, Sansa brought a trembling hand to her mouth, which could do naught but make tiny, nearly inaudible mewling sounds as she breathed.

Lifting her eyes, Sansa's gaze followed Sandor across the room. As if the flood gates had opened, the flurry of questions poured from her lips faster than she could fully process them; the filter between mouth and mind dissolving away. Her need to know everything that happened today exploded from a mere curiosity to a crucial need.

"What do you mean you saw him? Where is he? Is he okay? What did he say?" Regaining some of her equilibrium, Sansa traversed the room in a few staggering steps and followed Sandor into the bathroom, where he started collecting the various toiletries scattered about the counter top.

"He's fine," Sandor muttered, dumping all the toiletries into one bag with a sweep of his arm before pushing past Sansa. She couldn't help but notice he had picked just one of her questions to answer, perhaps the only one he thought to be truly relevant. Undaunted and feeling delirious at the information, Sansa was quick on his heels as he crossed the bedroom to the night stand on his side of the bed.

"What did you tell him?" Sansa demanded impatiently, undeterred by his apparent unwillingness to be forthcoming with information. It was her father, and she had a right to know.

"Nothing," Sandor growled in response while he investigated the contents of the night stand drawer and plucked out the items that were of interest to him. Throwing those in the bag with the toiletries, Sandor once more pushed past Sansa as he tossed the bag with all the others by the door.

With blood still smeared across his face, Sansa was ready to call his bluff. He couldn't possibly think she was so dense that she couldn't put the pieces together herself.

"You didn't tell him nothing," Sansa shouted out defiantly, feeling her body tense with frustration and impatience as she once more followed him across the room. "That's plain to see."

Spinning around, Sandor leveled a furious glare at her, his eyes wild and his skin a burning red as he finally ran out of ways to avoid her. Their bags were packed and the night was well upon them. The men had left, or so it seemed. The punching bag presumably suffered the majority of his rage. Now it was just her and him, left to battle it out. He had to face her sooner or later, and that time had finally come.

"What does it matter what I told him?" Sandor snapped, his voice a crescendo as the words boomed throughout the room. "Are you worried? Worried that I told him about your pretty little fingers wrapped around my cock? Worried that he knows how much you've enjoyed yourself since coming to me? Is that what you're worried about?"

Sansa stared at him in disbelief, her head slowly shaking as she felt herself recoil from him. Sandor could shout at her; he could scream and fly off the handle like he was now, and she wouldn't back down from him. Yet it was the hatefulness of his words that inspired her fear; a fear she hadn't felt with him since perhaps the night gunfire rang out in the Royce mansion.

"Why are you being like this?" Although she put power behind her voice, her words still came out sounding petrified. She could hardly imagine how meek it must sound to him- how thoroughly crestfallen and pathetic.

He looked away from her, let his eyes hover slightly to the right of her as he bit his bottom lip hard. She hoped it was remorse that forced his stare to gravitate away from her. Remorse and shame. Those would be tiny victories in what she surmised was about to be all-out war between the two of them. Sansa's default was to love, not to fight, and in this regard, she knew he would over-power her, make her submit and bend to his will; nonetheless, she would take her victories where she could.

"We're leaving tomorrow," Sandor grumbled as he shifted his weight from one side to the other. "First thing in the morning. I have half a mind to leave right now."

Leaving. They had only come here a week ago and for good reason. The thought of leaving made her nauseous with a different sort of fear and anxiety.

"Why?" Sansa questioned as she crossed her arms about her chest defensively, Sandor's size somehow feeling imposing as he stepped towards her.

"You want to go home," Sandor began in a belittling tone. "Your father wants you to come home. I want to kill my brother. My brother wants to kill me."

He stared at her now as if that cryptic answer should illuminate everything. Sansa watched as Sandor's lips pulled into a mocking smile before he released his breath on a darkened chuckle, clearly contemptuous.

"Oh, I see what this is. You thought I'd just keep you here forever, a cage for my little bird? Hide you away? What a beautiful fucking notion, but you should know better by now that that's not how this is going to work," Sandor finished as he gestured between himself and Sansa with his index finger.

"How is it going to work then? Tell me," Sansa demanded as she took a step closer to him. She knew she was playing with fire, agitating his already foul temper. A lover she may be, but that hardly meant she needed to be a doormat to his mood swings, a verbal punching bag to his anger.

Sandor stared at her, his eyes moving up and down her form as if blindsided by her courage, or perhaps stupidity, in this moment. He turned away from her, his body now perpendicular to her as he stood at the edge of the bed and stared off towards the French doors leading outside.

"I'll take you home when it's safe," Sandor spat out as if the words left a bitter taste in his mouth. "It's not safe yet."

He had told her before he would take her home, but the conversation had hardly come up since they came here. As their time together progressed their dynamic with one another in unexpected and surprising ways, the topic waned to a silence and instead became the elephant in the room. She would go home, that much was certain, and the question had always been when. Now, the situation was made complicated, and other questions, even more pressing than the first, hung heavy in the back of both their minds. When she went home would they still see one another? If so, how was that supposed to work?

"And then what?" Sansa questioned, unwilling to let the topic of conversation remain taboo for much longer.

That seemed sufficient to stir Sandor's attention, although he did not turn to her. Instead, he turned his head to stare at her from over his shoulder. Sansa's breath caught in her chest and her eyes tentatively met his. For a fleeting moment, she thought he might abandon his anger and call it a truce. That moment, that opportunity, crumbled as his eyes narrowed at her and his mouth contorted into a cruel snarl.

"Then you can get on with your life and I can get on with mine." As soon as the words left his lips, Sandor turned his stare away from her. She knew he would falter if he saw the pained expression cast about her face.

"You're a liar," Sansa murmured beneath her breath as she shook her head. She hadn't thought he heard, but quickly learned how very mistaken she was. Quicker than she could ever have imagined, Sandor snatched her up; both of his hands gripped her upper arms painfully as he yanked her towards him.

"Call me anything you want, but don't ever call me a fucking liar," he seethed as he squeezed her arms hard, undaunted as she yelped out and writhed in his grasp. "I've never lied to you, girl. Ever." Sandor shook her hard as he emphasized his last word before releasing his grasp.

Sansa's heart raced and her legs felt weak, globs of jello trying to support her weight. With her knees buckling, Sansa sunk to the floor, defeated as she knew she would be.

"So it's the truth then?" Sansa finally managed as she lifted her eyes to Sandor standing over her. "You'd just forget about me and move on with your life like nothing ever happened? You say you can smell a lie a mile away. Well, I can too."

Her last words left her lips in a whimper as the tears came streaming down her face. Finally, his own defeat came, and Sansa saw the remorse thawing the iciness behind his eyes. She watched on bated breath to see him return to her, the man who had left her this morning. Through blind faith, she knew that man - so protective and good to her - was the ghost in the machine. The Hound was nothing more than a ruse; she saw through it plainly enough. Perhaps he knew this, and in that knowledge he couldn't manage to look at her, and instead, set about pacing in front of her. With each step, his breaths grew heavier, almost akin to a pant, and the bulk of his form rippled against the tautness of tensed muscles.

"What the fuck do you want?" Sandor raged as he continued to pace in front of her. "You want to bring me home and introduce me to your dad? You want me and him to just ignore the fact that his career is hinged upon whether or not I rot in a prison cell for the rest of my life?"

Setting a sideways glance towards her, Sandor shook his head in frustration before running both of his hands over his face and through the long locks of his hair.

"No. Fuck no," he started again as he pulled his hands away from his head and pointed at Sansa. "I don't belong in his world and he doesn't belong in mine. And you, Sansa. You can't just hop from one to the next, cherry pick which 'life' you prefer, when you prefer it."

With her mouth now perpetually agape, Sansa watched as he turned to ice before her once more; any hopes that he might relent were dashed as she stared at him in shock and bewilderment. He stilled in front of her, stopping the methodical rhythm of his pacing steps as he stared down at her. He wanted an answer to something, it would seem; impatiently, his eyes searched her face and grew harder with each passing second of silence on her end.

"Why are you talking like this?" Sansa mewled, her voice quaking and cracking beneath his oppressive stare.

"Like what?" he grunted out in return as he settled his hands on his hips.

"Like I have to choose," Sansa responded softly as the realization finally struck her. Its heaviness drew her eyes to her hands placed in her lap. Silently, she prayed to whatever entities existed in the celestial expanse above, for all the good it did. He won't make me choose. He wouldn't do that.

Sansa had told herself those very words earlier today, but whereas earlier she had been sure of their truth, now she was unconvinced. As she felt his stare searing through her, Sansa knew it was her turn to face him now. Lifting her eyes, she met his gaze and found what she knew would be there. For all she knew, it may have been there all along and only now was she forced to notice.

"Oh no," Sansa gasped as she rose to her feet despite her shaky limbs. "No, please. Please tell me you're not asking me to choose between you and my own father."

At first, he said nothing, but looked away from her. With each second of silence, Sansa felt the tears beginning to well in her eyes once more, until finally, they spilled down her cheeks in steady streams accompanied by soft whimpering sounds.

"Sooner or later you knew this was going to happen," he rasped hoarsely and let his eyes flicker down to hers. Sansa could tell he knew this was wrong; the man had a conscience, after all. Yet he chose those words all the same, and by the way his exterior seemed to harden into stone, he would be sticking by them.

"No, I most certainly did not think this was going to happen," Sansa wept as her trembling hands balled into fists. Despair and desperation urged her forward as Sansa flung herself against him. Her hands pawed at his chest, her nails softly digging into him as she buried her face against him and shook her head.

"He's the only family I have left. You can't ask me to do this. You can't. You can't do this to me. Please." Countless more times, Sansa repeated those words; each time they became more and more a weakened plea. One of his arms snaked around the small of her back as his fingers clutched against her waist. With his other hand, Sandor lifted her chin so that she would meet his gaze.

"You knew who I was and what I do," he spoke on a lowered voice, although the words still sounded harsh to her ears. "You didn't have to let me touch you, kiss you, want you. But do you honestly expect me to leave this all behind and just follow you back home like some lost fucking puppy?"

"You can't make me choose," Sansa cried out as she struggled against him, writhing in his grasp petulantly. "I won'tchoose."

Relenting, Sandor released his hold on her, and Sansa stumbled backwards away from him.

"Yes, you will," he asserted heartlessly. "I didn't make it that way. It's just how things are," Sandor added as an afterthought of sorts, a buffer to the blow of his words.

As if all the blood rushed from her head at once, Sansa felt herself becoming dizzy and swayed a bit as she took steps backwards from him until the edge of the bed met the back of her legs.

"What if I want to go home?" Sansa inquired breathlessly as she reached out to steady herself against the bed. "What if I chose him, my family?"

Whatever calm that may have descended upon Sandor retreated instantly as her question met his ears. His gaze snapped up to meet her eyes, and Sansa saw that something changed in him, something uncontrollable. Suddenly, Sandor seemed overwhelmed and overpowered by his own sense of desperation. This man - so in control of his own life and used to calling the shots - had just lost control of her. She saw him come undone at this and only then realized the root of his rage with her was obsession.

"Then maybe I wouldn't take you home after all," Sandor fumed through clenched teeth as he snatched her up once more, this time spinning her around so that her back was pressed against his chest. With one of his enormous hands nearly engulfing her entire upper arm in an iron tight grip, Sansa couldn't move as the fronts of her legs were pressed against the bed. His other arm coiled around her abdomen, further securing her in place. She felt his head rest against hers as his lips brushed against her cheek.

"And then you can call me a fucking liar, but I'm not really a liar, am I? I told you I'd come after you if you ever walked away from me, or did you forget? I told you I would come after you because I want to. And I'll always want to because you're what I want. I'm not letting you go."

He had told her that before in much the same position they were in now: tempers flaring, emotions high, blood boiling as she was squeezed into his embrace. But this was different; it was frenzied, it was dark, it was so terribly wrong and convoluted. It was madness.

She wanted to struggle against him, and yet her body was frozen in place as it hummed against the contact; his skin searing as it pressed against hers, and yet her mind was screaming out that this was a travesty against the connection they had forged.

"I don't even have a choice," Sansa bawled as she doubled over within his arms. "You've already decided for me. You can't do this. This isn't you. You're not like this."

Wriggling free from his grasp as her body was wracked with sobs, Sansa crawled onto the bed, scrambling to flee from him. If she could make it to the other side, she could bolt through the French doors and into the darkness beyond. She wanted nothing to do with the Hound. That wasn't the man she wanted. Before she had made it half-way across the bed, Sandor's long arms reached her as his hands easily encircled her ankles and he pulled her back towards him, forcing her to her back as he did.

Sansa struggled feebly, but he was quicker than her and stronger too. His hands pinned her wrists to the bed as he lowered himself to straddle her. His face hovered above hers, his hair dangled down against her cheeks. Although he did not press his full weight on top of her, his presence was overbearing and oppressive.

"I can do this, already have. I never once claimed to be a good man. Maybe you made that up in your head, saw things that weren't really there. You called me a monster once, do you remember that? You may have had it right all along. Maybe I'm just a bad man. Did you ever think about that?"

Frozen with fear and powerless against him, Sansa squeezed her eyes shut as she trembled beneath him. With all her might, she wished the Hound away, but knew instinctively he would still be there if she opened her eyes again.

"Go away. Just go," she whispered through breathy cries, her lips quivering uncontrollably.

After a few moments, she felt him release his hold on her wrists and his weight lift from off of her. She did not open her eyes, not until she heard the bedroom door slam behind him. Pulling her knees close to her chest, Sansa cradled herself on the bed, pulling her limbs into a fetal position as she released silent sobs at the nightmare made real. To her horror, the monster within the man she thought she could love had revealed himself.

But this wasn't the sort of love she had envisioned for herself. This wasn't fairy tale love with shining knights and declarations of a pure sort of devotion. This was the dark side of love, the sort that no one ever spoke of. It was the type of love that sought to possess, consume, obsess, and own.

And this was the truth behind closed doors. These men had wives and they had mistresses. And those women were meant to endure; meant to remind themselves, and one another that this wasn't easy. It was never supposed to be easy. Any women who had mistakenly thought that their life could be blissful was branded a fool and reminded that the men never promised them such happiness. They told them from the beginning that it would be a hard life.

And still these women stayed by their man's side anyway. Even when their men would scream and shout their day's frustrations, leave them hanging time and time again, these women were trained to dry their eyes, fix their make-up, and soldier on. If she were to take a page from Mirabelle's book, Sansa knew what it would read: smile pretty and don't make a fuss. Turn a blind eye to the other woman because there will almost always be another woman, no matter which side you fall on, wife or mistress. Lie, cheat, and steal for the sake of your man and your family. And no matter what you do, don't ever think for a moment that your life is truly your own.

The day had been dark and now the night was even darker. And all around, Sansa could find no beauty in this darkness.

---

Damian stared down at his phone vibrating on the kitchen table. The number that appeared on the screen, although not saved as a contact, was familiar to him. He let it ring as he licked the rolling paper in his hands and pressed the edge tightly into place, securing the prized filler packed inside. On the fourth ring, Damian snatched up the phone and took the call.

"Well, I'll be goddamned," he answered, glazing over the normal formalities of speaking with this particular individual. "Am I speaking with the dead resurrected?"

The man on the other end wasn't amused if his silence was anything to go by.

"I knew it was coming, so I bailed," the man finally answered, his voice firm and low. "He's fucking predictable, one of his weaknesses." The man wasn't in a situation where he could talk long, that much was obvious by the hushed tones of his voice.

"Yeah, that and tight pussy," Damian mumbled with a laugh as he settled the joint between his lips. He couldn't blame the man, of course. Pussy was compelling and had crumbled men more powerful than Sandor Clegane, even.

"I need to know when he's leaving," the man pressed further with a sudden sense of urgency.

And there it was; the reason for the phone call. Delighted, Damian flicked his lighter against the end of the joint and pulled in a hit. The ball was in his court now. He had the upper hand in this situation, and it had only taken a grand total of thirty seconds to get it.

"And why the fuck would I give you that information?" Damian shot back on an exhale, beaming as he smiled into the speaker of his phone.

"Because I'd be paying you," the man retorted, the agitation flaring as his voice strained with obvious frustration.

"So is he," Damian responded flatly, unimpressed and growing agitated himself. This was going to become a numbers game, and that was a game he always won.

"It's no secret you align yourself with whoever pays you the most," the man fumed venomously as he struggled to keep his voice low.

"I do have a fondness for the green," Damian confided with a sweeping smile. "This I won't deny, but Sandor Clegane is a boss. You're just a capo on a power trip. Don't you feel I should be compensated for this discrepancy in the power hierarchy?"

Damian could hear rustling through the phone, likely the sound of the man shifting in his seat. It was music to his ears. Feel uncomfortable, you fuck, and take your sweet time. As long as I get paid.

"5G's. That's it."

When the man's voice finally broke the silence, Damian nodded to himself. It was more than he expected and probably much more than the man should pay for information. It meant he was desperate, and that was something Damian was going to exploit to his advantage.

"7G's," he countered defiantly, entirely doubting that his bluff was going to get called.

"Fine," the man grumbled. "You'll get your payout for the information after it's done."

Damian chuckled to himself. The man had just been robbed blind, not realizing this phone call was about three times more expensive than it needed to be.

"Sunday," Damian finally offered after taking another hit of the joint. "That clown of an underboss let it slip today. Things didn't go down quite like they were supposed to with Ned Stark, so I would bet on those plans changing though. I wouldn't be surprised if he was on the move tomorrow."

The man seemed pleased with that information as he let it digest with a dose of silence before speaking again.

"I need it to look like it's coming from the outside." The man's voice, infused with a renewed sense of urgency, was now fractured with a bit of pleading.

"I thought you mafia men didn't give a fuck if it looked like a mafia job or not. You're scared of him. You're scared of what might happen if this doesn't go off the way you have planned." Damian saw through this bullshit. He knew what this was about before the man broke in once more.

"I need you to pull your connections." The man was beginning to raise his voice a bit, the prospect of doing the hit himself quickly becoming the only option.

"The Kings," Damian laughed mockingly into the phone. "I see what this is. You want it to look like some thugs from the ghetto rolled up and offed your boss and that pretty little white bitch. And what about the blow back, when your men are out looking for blood?"

"I'll take care of that," the man growled into the phone, his patience wearing thin. "There won't be any blow back."

Damian saw where this was going and contemplated his options. The pay out for the hit would need to be enormous for it to be worth it. This fucker would have to pay for his own boss' hit with Moriarti money. That shit wasn't going to stay under wraps for long. This was too much, even by his fucked up standards. He only had one true choice.

"No, man. You take care of the hit yourself," Damian answered with finality. "I can't get involved in that shit."

"You suddenly have morals now?" the man spat back; somehow he must have come into this conversation convinced he'd get his own damn hit taken care of for him. Damian shook his head. This fucker was a pathetic excuse of a mafia man, even Damian knew that.

"No, but unlike your bitch-ass, I understand who I shouldn't go around fucking with. And your boss is someone that shouldn't be fucked with. You, of all people, should know that."

The man said nothing to this, but rather laughed quietly on the other end. He is out of his goddamn mind.

"So you're really going to do it, then?" Damian questioned, not understanding at all how this was ever going to be successfully pulled off. Sure, Sandor Clegane was a thorn in his side and he wouldn't exactly be shedding any tears if the man was dead, but a hit like this wasn't something that gets thrown together last minute.

"Sandor Clegane will be dead by this time tomorrow," the man spoke into the phone, his voice steady and assured. "And that little cunt he's with too. You don't honestly think I'm the only one orchestrating all of this, do you? Here's something for you to ponder: how many people want Clegane dead, or at least all to themselves to do what they want with? Think about that, you greedy fuck."

With that, the man hung up, and Damian set his phone down on the table. If what the man said was true and there really was more than just one person behind this hit, then he had no doubts that Sandor Clegane would be dead by tomorrow. And Sansa Stark too.

---

Mafia dictionary

Che peccato: What a pity, what a shame

Associate: A person that works with the Mafia, but isn't a made man. Damian would be an associate.

Mannagge: Going to war with a rival family

Cugine: A young guy who wants to be a made man. Although E.Z. is a made man, Sandor uses this as an insult.

Taste: A percentage of money paid to a made man or associate for a particular task.

G's: 1 G=$1000

Song List (I forgot last chapter...sorry!)

Ch. 9

"This is What Makes Us Girls" Lana Del Rey

"Hard to Concentrate" Red Hot Chili Peppers

Ch. 10

"House of the Rising Sun" The Animals

"Sooner or Later" Trifonic

"Love Is Blindness" Jack White

"Closer" Kings of Leon

---

A/N: As always, thank you kindly for all the love and support. Once again, I want to thank my betas as well :) Mendedheart did lots of research on punctuation and whatnot, sweetheart that she is. She is the Queen of Punctuation Knowledge. A round of applause for her grace!

For those that did not catch this on the last update (I added it as an afterthought), I'm on tumblr, although I'm still trying to figure out how to use the site.

supernovadragoncat is my name on there.

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