Author's Notes: Thank you soooo much to all of you for leaving comments and reading, and liking this! I am facing serious problems of this story growing too big (this was supposed to be a holiday dribble, after all), so I have to do some curbing of the storyline. I may have to leave out much of the politics and other events – but like in modern times; even if it is not mentioned, it is there…

Summary: Sansa turns her head back towards the commander who seems to shrink smaller at her ever word. Her words are soft as velvet. "Which one of these is your choice, good ser, if I may ask?"

Sandor

Sandor lies on the ground completely winded, with no air in his lungs, and when he tries to inhale he feels sharp pain in his side. Buggering hells! His only hope is that Sansa managed to escape, accepting that steel will soon pierce his own heart. Yet the men only dismount and approach him cautiously, holding onto their weapons. He is soon disappointed as one of the men, who rode after Sansa, comes back with her horse on tow, she writhing in his arms in front of him.

"I told you so. 'Tis the Hound, that ugly face tells it for true," declares the one bleeding from the gash Sandor's sword made.

"Aye, with his woman. Trying to escape Baratheon troops hoping to disappear in the North, methinks," the one appearing to be their leader scowls. Sandor is lying flat on his back, trying to assess his condition. The arrow is still buried in his shoulder and hurts like hell. He finds out he can breathe, if he takes short and shallow breaths. Ribs broken, mayhap. Sansa is kicking and scratching the man who caught her, but he only laughs and squeezes her tighter.

"Well, we better take these two to the main camp and ask the commander what to do with them. Mayhap he will give us the girl as a reward for catching the Hound. Gather around, men, and tie him up."

The leader, a squat man with greying beard and temples, points to his troops and they come closer. Sandor lies still, assessing his next movements in his head. Once they lean down to grab me, I'll pull one of them to me as a shield, grab my dagger from my boot and…

His musings are interrupted as the archer curses. "Somebody is coming!"

Indeed, they can hear a thunder of hooves and soon see a disciplined group of riders approaching, banners streaming in sunlight. They are too far for Sandor see their sigil, but whoever it is, the timing couldn't have been better.

Their assailants reach for their mounts, all ideas of tying Sandor forgotten, and speed away – with Sansa. Sandor gets slowly onto his feet, cursing loudly as he does, and when the approaching riders reach him he yells to them to go after the girl. Whether they hear him or not, the riders divide into two, the larger group following the escapees, the smaller staying behind. Sandor soon finds out that only his captors have changed, his own position remaining the same; being held in check at sword-point. Yet he doesn't cast a thought to his own situation but only follows the disappearing riders with his gaze, his whole being willing them to reach Sansa and save her. If anything should happen to her… The thought is painful and his heart skips a beat. Let her be unharmed, let her be saved, he finds himself intoning, paying no attention to the men around him.

In the few minutes that pass before they see the others again it flashes through his mind how important the girl has become to him. Aye, she is not for him – but he would gladly lay down his own life to make sure that she is safe and sound and returned to her family.

To his immense relief the other group soon returns. The ensuing scuffle was clearly one-sided, all four men captured and bleeding, one of them already seemingly dead, flung carelessly on a back of a horse. Sansa has changed seating, sitting now in front of one of the newcomers. She sees Sandor and her agonised expression changes to relieved, although tears are still streaming down her face. Were any of them for me? he can't help thinking.

Only now he has time to process the banners and sees them to be the direwolf of House Stark, another banner underneath them depicting a black battle-axe on silver. His relief is only momentary as the commander of the new troops only glances at him briefly with no more interest than if he were an irritating insect and gives an order to his men.

"Hang them all. Keep the girl, we can interrogate her about the whereabouts of the main band and take her to Winterfell later, if she cooperates."

The soldiers – as that what they clearly are, experienced, disciplined soldiers - hurry to carry out the order with no delay. As some of them approach Sandor, he suddenly hears a voice. Everyone hears it, so loudly it floats above all the other noises; horses whinnying, men laughing, jesting and cursing.

"LEAVE HIM BE, AT ONCE!"

Everyone looks around to see where it came from, and Sandor finds himself staring at Sansa along with all the others. She has been lowered to the ground by her captor and stands proudly, pointing a hand towards the commander. She may look drab and common in her rough-spun dress, but something in her demeanour makes the men stop. The commander is the first one to recover from his astonishment.

"And who may you be, girl, to presume to give us commands?" He is not angry - yet - but his eyes gleam with a barely concealed warning.

"Do not address me as a girl, I beseech. Instead address me as I is my due; I am Lady Sansa Stark of House Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn of House Tully, sister of the King in The North, Robb Stark." Sansa has seemingly grown taller – maybe it is only her posture – and she looks downright regal. She squares her shoulders and stares brazenly straight at the commander before continuing.

"These men seized us only a moment before your arrival and we know nothing about them or their other companions. This man here is in my service and has nothing to do with the outlaws. You may have heard of him – to some he is known as the Hound, but for those who matter his name is Sandor Clegane. He is true to me and House Stark, and he has injured himself trying to protect me. His wounds need to be attended to at once!"

The commander looks more uncertain now, but clearly doesn't want to be taken for a ride by some shameless outlaw's camp-follower.

"You may say so, but how do I know it is true? You don't exactly look like a lady." His eyes sweep up and down Sansa's form, undoubtedly registering her dishevelled appearance, simple clothing and her hands which are roughened by manual labour.

"You have my word on it – young lord Cerwyn, is it? I recognise your sigil well, having seen it flow proudly with the direwolf of my house many a times. Your house is one of the closest bannermen to the Starks, Castle Cerwyn being one of the nearest castles to Winterfell. Lord Medger Cerwyn rode to many wars with my father and I believe, with my brother as well." Sansa doesn't falter for a second as she addresses the young man in front of her. "You, my lord, are perhaps Lord Medger's eldest son Ser Cley?"

Clearly taken aback the commander stares at Sansa. She must see in his face that he is still doubting, as she approaches him and speaks softer.

"I see that you hesitate still, and I commend you for that. I am glad to be able to report to my brother that he has men who are not only brave, but also cautious and careful, in his service. Yet the way I see it is that you have but a few options. You can proceed with your original plan, hang this good man here and take me to Winterfell as your prisoner. In that case you can rest assured that my displeasure at your actions will be made known to my family once they see me back amongst their midst. Or you can take my word for the truth it is and escort me and my trusted man back to my family, receiving eternal gratitude of my house. Or you can decide that you have had enough of the ramblings of a madwoman and hang me and my man and forget this ever happened."

The whole company, some twenty men or more, listens intently to Sansa's words. She turns and sweeps them all with her gaze, and even though Sandor has seen it falling on him hundreds of times, he shivers under its new frostiness. He has never seen or heard her thus, with tone of voice and demeanour of someone who is used to giving orders. He didn't even know her to be capable of it! He wonders if she had addressed him in that manner before, would he have heeded her and treated her differently? He'd like to think he wouldn't have, but something about her makes him question what happened to the starry-eyed timid young girl whom he first saw in Winterfell.

"Should you decide to do that, I'll let you know this: Only a few days ago we departed the company of a good man, a merchant, who swore he will visit Winterfell soon. Should he arrive and enquire after my wellbeing, and not find me there, my brother will organise an enquiry. All the troops who have been patrolling these lands will be questioned and some of your men may still remember the young woman with Tully hair and eyes and her tall companion." Sandor knows that to be a lie, as the merchant left still blissfully unaware of the importance of his travel companions. Yet he admires her audacity and quick thinking.

Sansa turns her head back towards the commander who seems to shrink smaller at her ever word. Her words are soft as velvet. "Which one of these is your choice, good ser, if I may ask?"