A/N: This one's short but sweet. I can't promise the next update will be longer, but I'm certainly going to try. I have to admit I'm rather fond of this itty-bitty chapter. I hope you'll like it, too.

Comments are love and encouragement for the muse. :)

These Scars We Wear - 11

Sandor folds to the ground, lowering them both, and ends with her draped across his lap. Her head hangs limp and he draws an arm up her back to cradle her neck. Resting two fingers of his free hand in the notch just below her jaw, he feels her pulse beating fast and strong and lets out a ragged breath.

"What's this now, little bird?" he wonders aloud. "Too much to take in all at once?" He remembers how she had fallen to her knees, sobbing, when Joffrey had called for her father's head, and fainting shortly after Ilyn Payne removed it. "Aye, too much," he decides.

Sandor glances around, mouth pulled tight, and calls for Elder Brother. The monk peeks around the stable door and hurries in. "What's happened?" he exclaims.

Sandor looks up at him and begins to laugh. He does not know why, but it bubbles up out of him, beyond his control. He manages to suppress it after a few giddy seconds and says, "She's bloody fainted, old man." He gestures to the side with a sharp tilt of his head. "There, with my things. A skin of water."

Elder Brother digs through the pile and comes up with one, pulling out the cork and then looking around. "I've no cloth,' he mutters.

"In my hand," Sandor tells him, holding it out. The man pours the water into his cupped palm and Sandor flips it over and then shakes away the excess. He draws his moistened hand across her brow and down the line of her jaw, first one side and then the other. He holds it out for more and repeats the process.

"Which cottage will she be staying in?" he asks without looking up. He is transfixed by the sight of his large hand, scarred and calloused and dusted with dark hair, caressing her pale skin in slow strokes. Butterfly wings, he absently reflects.

"The one nearest the septry proper."

"Is it ready?"

"I'll check." Elder Brother corks the skin and sets it down beside him, squeezes his shoulder and leaves as quickly as he came.

Sandor notices the arm not tucked against him hanging limp, her hand brushing the dirt floor. He bends and grabs it, beginning to set it on her chest, and stops. Pursing his mouth, he blows away the dirt from her hand and, without thinking, brings it up and sets her knuckles against his lips for a moment. He pushes a lock of sodden hair away from her brow with a fingertip and notices the color beginning to creep back into her face. "That's right, girl, time to wake, come on."

She turns her face toward him, her lips parting, and he can see the very tip of her tongue between them, pink and wet. She moans low in her throat and a profound and visceral need surges through him as his gut pulls tight. "No," he chides himself, "none of that," and starts patting her cheek. Her chest expands as she takes in a deep breath, and her eyelids begin to flutter. "There you are." Tap, tap, tap goes his hand against her face. "Wake now, little bird, wake up. Sansa."

It is the sound of her name that finally rouses her completely, and for a moment she simply lays in his arms, blinking up at him. Her eyes are wide and dazed. And so very, very blue. Then she jerks and pushes against him, trying to sit up and move away at the same time. She ends up dumping herself off his lap and onto her arse, holding herself up on her elbows.

They spend a long time warily eyeing each other. Sandor stays very still, feeling as though he's facing a small, frightened, potentially dangerous animal.

There's the wolf, he thinks.

"No, I haven't got prettier since last you saw me, girl. Do I still frighten you so much?"

Deep red spots of color flood her cheeks and her eyes dart here and there before coming back to rest on him. "I am sorry. It isn't that. I just … I never… What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same," he tells her as she sits up and swipes at the dust and fragments of hay clinging to her cloak. Then she tucks her legs under her and folds her hands in her lap.

"Running away, are you?"

Her face becomes a perfect mask, but he is not fooled. He has seen that same mask many a time in King's Landing and knows the quickness of the mind behind it.

"Don't lie to me," he warns, "I'll know."

Her back stiffens. "Beg pardon if I seem rude, but I don't believe it is any of your business."

Sandor hoots. "You've got me there. Keep your secrets if you want. You'll be chirping soon enough, I'd bet." He levers himself off the ground and offers his hand to her. "Up, then. I'll walk you to your quarters."

She glances at the hand and then at him. He gives her a docile face and she relents, allowing him to pull her to her feet. None too stable, she bumps against him. He steadies her with a hand on her arm.

"Still wobbly?"

"A bit," she admits. "If you could give me just a moment."

"Bugger that, girl. Do you think I've got all day?"

She squeaks as he wraps an arm around her back and grabs her under the knees, lifting her in his arms. "What are you doing?" She pushes against his chest as he starts for the door.

"I'm carrying you. Unless you'd rather I drop you. Your choice."

"I am perfectly capable of walking, ser!"

Hiding a grin, mouth twitching, he allows her the ser. "Might be, but I'm still carrying you." He can only wonder if she is aware that she has slung an arm around his neck.

"But why?"

"Because I can. Because I want to. Hold tight now, girl, I might slip."

By the time they reach the cottage, Sansa has turned and tucked against him, both arms around his neck, her forehead pressed against his throat. Her weight is a small thing, barely more than a feather, and Sandor feels as if he is walking on air.

….