Author's Notes: Point of interest, that no one will likely care about, I had a completely different chapter for these two, much shorter, and I more or less deleted it, with some lines thrown into this one. In any event, it's about time these two got together in this universe. Hope you enjoy!

SANDOR AND SANSA

He was nicknamed the Hound, a loyal, but painfully candid; second only to the commander of the Oakenshield Castle, just east of Castle Black. His real name was Sandor, but Hound suited him fine. A snarling old warrior with a loyalty to the fight, he had earned a reputation as one of the best, if not fiercest, wildling. His scarred visage lent to the reputation.

He hated his commander, Joffrey, but Sandor had somehow been picked to be his steward and bodyguard. It was ridiculous, Joffrey barely old enough to command, and Sandor not even a crow, just a Wildling who refused to vow anything, except his brother's death. He had a feeling Lord Snow was playing a game, which he hoped somehow Sandor would off Joffrey.

Sandor was more patient then people gave him credit for (though still not a lot). It was scary to see him when he let loose, to see him fight with no hesitation or reserve. That, coupled with his blunt tongue, gave people the false impression that he was more of a brute then a man. His rage was great, but rarely was it released, unless his brother, "Gregor", was mentioned, or was around. Which, unfortunately, happened to be a lot of the time, since both were serving at Oakenshield.

Sansa, at the Hearth, was really the only one who knew of his kindness. Others came to trust him, to learn of his positive qualities, to come to call him "friend", but Sansa was the one who solely relished in his smiles and gentleness. She was nicknamed "Lady" at the Hearth, but he always called her "Little Bird". Her feather light kisses and touches were heart rendering, and her moans and gasps were like sweet songs to his ears, besides the songs she sang.

Sandor had noticed Sansa the first day she arrived at the Hearth, escorted by Theon. Her party had arrived in the middle of the day, and it was warm enough for her to go without a cloak. He saw her shinning red hair, slim but curvy build, and smooth and innocent face, which was ducked down in shyness and fear. He did not let her see him yet; wanting to know what personality went with the beauty, wishing to spare himself her reaction upon seeing his scarred face. The more he watched over the next few moons, the more he thought of his own sister, who turned into a wounded soul and had perished under their brother's brutal hands.

He had only ever gone to the Hearth whenever "Accidental Commander" Joffrey went, and he would drink and pay for a fuck like any other hot-blooded man. But when Sansa started to entertain the customers with her singing, reading, or cyvasse skills, he was unable to resist talking to her, unable to resist going to the Hearth more often then before. He mostly wished to hear her sing, which his sister loved to do (though without the benefit of a harp or training). Sansa, at first, looked at him with trepidation, but she looked that way at everybody; Sandor knew that she was a broken, shy little bird, and did not take it personally.

Sandor did take it personally when she started to smile brightly at his approach. Her courage was returning, and he was glad to see it. She was no whore, but at the Hearth she was blossoming in a way that he knew she never could at the castle from whence she came, and where she honestly belonged. He saw her become friendly with a number of customer's, and he was jealous of her attention, but he knew it was for her good.

Then she decided to lay with men.

Bloody hells, but he had wanted to be the first, though she had chosen the Maester, Tyrion. He admits to jealousy, but Tyrion was a safe and honorable man to lie with, even the Hound had to admit that. Sandor, far from looking safe, did have a few trysts with the ladies that ended up with him paying extra for their care afterwards. Sansa probably asked around, and had decided, rightfully so, that Sandor was not a good choice for a first customer. He, however, looked to her the following day, and asked for her health. She smiled at his caring words, and said she was more then fine. She said her past was slowly fading, and she was glad to move forward.

He worried that she would eventually regret lying with men, and he'd never get the chance. Then he worried that Joffrey ruined whatever progress she had made when he violated her trust. But the next time he went to the Hearth, she came to him and gave him a song, giving him small smiles the whole time. He had always asked for a kiss from her, and that time, she willingly gave him a chaste one.

He wouldn't see her for a while, Joffrey deciding to take a break from the Hearth, and demanding his Hound stay with him. Something about being threatened by an "old soldier". Sandor didn't mind so much, there was enough ale in Oakenshield's kitchens, and plenty of men to spar with, to keep him occupied.

The next time his saw her was not in the Hearth, but in the outskirts of Mole's Town. Riding his horse back to Oakenshield from the town's kennel master, he spied her red hair first, the only bright spot amongst the dreary browns of the trees, and dull whites of the old snow.

She was by a Weirwood: a rare one that was not part of a castle, or town, but still in the wild. Thirty or so paces from the worn road, he could see her kneeling in front of the sappy face, grey wool dress still dry upon a layer of blood red leaves. Her grey dress and red hair almost blending with the weirwood, he wonders that he could distinguish her; maybe it had been the leaves that drew his eyes.

Dismounting, he walks to within ten paces of her, and stops. Something compels him to unsheathe his sword and take a knee, sword point to the ground. Later, he'll say it was the Old Gods, at the time, he'd say it was his wish to honor Sansa. Perhaps it was a little of both.

Sandor looks towards Sansa for a while, taking in her stiff, but regal, posture, and red hair gently swaying in the breeze, her tiny feet poking out from under the dress. Feeling a bit intrusive on her quiet revere, he lowers his gaze, lowers his head to the pommel of his sword, and closes his eyes, content to listen to the noises of the forest.

Sansa herself had just arrived not long before, also drawn towards the red of the leaves. Her unfortunate husband had kept to the Seven, but her family, before she married, had kept to the Old Gods. It did her spirit good to see the Weirwoods again, to see something of her childhood. She almost felt as if her father, mother, and siblings were among the leaves, in the sap eyes, looking to her and giving comfort.

There were Weirwoods beyond the Wall, she was told, but she had been too nervous to enter a warrior's place, let alone go beyond it towards the night terrors. One of her first trips to Mole's Town had made going beyond the Wall unnecessary, after spying a wild Weirwood not too far from either the Hearth, or from Mole Town.

Saying the last of her prayers, Sansa gets to her feet. Turning to go home, she sees Sandor on one knee a few paces from her, looking up as she crunches the leaves under her, a look of serenity upon his face.

He stays kneeled as she walks up to him, tentatively smiling at him. He returns one, one that brightens his smooth face, and scrunches up his scars in an interesting contrast. She is used to him by now, scars physical and mental, and she stops just short of touching his raised knee.

"I did not know you kept the Old Gods, Sandor."

"I don't. I saw you, and I came to keep you company."

Sansa blushes, "I thank you." He nods. "You have always been so kind to me. Even more then Maester Tyrion, and that is saying something!"

Sandor smirks. "I couldn't give a fuck about him, or the other wh… companions. It's you. Damn, Little Bird, you make a man feel wanted. Needed." He wants to say more. He almost does, but leaves Sansa to figure out the rest. He knows she cares for him, and not his money, when she chooses to spend time with him. He knows she knows that he cares for her as well. He just can't say it. Not yet, if ever.

Sansa steps closer, her one leg just touching his raised knee, and places her gloved hands on his shoulders. "I never thanked you for your compassion after... after Joffrey..." She can no more say the rest then he could tolerate it, so he gently shushes her, smiling to show that he understands.

Blushing again, Sansa leans forward to kiss him. Closing his eyes in bliss, he allows her to control the pace, and how much she wants. He groans when she begs entrance to his mouth, readily granting it to her.

As their tongues battle, he lowers his sword between them, better for his own gloved hands to grasp her hips underneath her cloak.

He is glad he decided to forgo armor that day, choosing only a cloak to cover his jerkin and breeches. Glad, because that would be too much fumbling for what he knows will come next, as soon as she steps away from his grasp and starts untying her cloak, and taking off her gloves.

Standing himself, he also unties his black cloak, and lays it on top of the snow and red leaf ground. Sansa gingerly stepped over his sword (still on the ground), before lowing her own grey cloak atop his.

Not really warm enough to really take anything else off, Sansa next lowers herself on top of the cloaks, and looks to Sandor. Or rather, looks at his un-gloved hands, which are untying his breeches. Flushed, with an open mouth, she bunches up her skirts, reaching to take off her small clothes.

When he kneels between her legs, she reaches for his face, a hand upon each, and unique cheek. Hovering over her, he welcomes her kisses as she welcomes his warm finger by her slit.

Skillfully rubbing her bundle of nerves and thrusting a few fingers into her, he is surprised at how quickly she becomes wet. Most whores he has known have become desensitized to sex, and need extra coaxing; her getting wet for him gets him hard for her. Harder then when her hands reach for him, shyly feeling the length of him.

Knowing him to be hard, she caresses his torso underneath his tunic. He shivers, her cold hands creating new sensations for him.

Breaking the kiss, she arches towards him, head thrown back in bliss, and he knows she's almost close to breaking. A trail of ice fire marks her hands moving to his back, anchoring her to him as she clenches on his fingers, hollow gasps breaking from her lips.

After a last, breathless gasp, she falls back on the cloaks. He removes his hand from her, replacing them with his girth, lengthwise at her entrance. He hovers over her, hands braced about her head. He spends a few moments looking at the woman beneath him.

Her red hair is all over the place; some in her mouth, over her face, but he likes how it shines against his black cloak, which was larger then her own cloak. It's the only black clothing he'll wear to mark his station at the Wall. He has never liked it, until it was contrasted with Sansa's hair.

Her eyes are closed, so he rakes his eyes lower, taking in the form of her heaving breasts and waist underneath her dress. Lowering the gaze further, he's further aroused seeing her legs, gartered and silk stockings still on, relaxed and wantonly open to him, skirts bunched up to her hips.

He promises himself that he'll go to her at the Hearth, so he can readily map her naked body. This, however, is needed to show her he can be as kind to her in coupling, as he is when they talk.

Flexing his hips, his cock rubs against her slit, getting slick with her juices. Glancing back towards her face, he reaches for her chin; moving it to meet her eyes, open once again.

He wants nothing more then to sink into her right as her lusty blues look again at him, but he wants her ready. He kisses her, hand lowering to caress her neck, then her breasts. Though covered with a cotton dress, he can feel their firmness and that they're pebbled. Groaning, he again slides up and down her slit.

Her cold hands start her own exploration of him, discovering the hard plains of his abs and chest. She scratches at him in lust, in tandem with a barely heard moan.

Knowing her to be ready, he grabs her waist and turns them over, causing a gasp to escape her lips. With her now straddling him, confusion on her face, he smirks, at the same time begging her. "Take control." He rasps at her, his own control barely there. "Take your time, do what you want."

She shyly looks down, and he fears that she'll go too slow, or worse, get off. But when she looks up, there's such a look of adoration, he wishes he could be her knight for true.

Delicate, cold hands still underneath his tunic, she caresses him a moment more, before bring her hands to her skirt, lifting it so she could see their groins. Grabbing his member, she strokes it once; to tease him he is sure, before slowly lowering herself onto him.

It's his turn to throw his head back in bliss, a guttural groan releasing from his lips. Hands on her hips, he helps to raise her off, and then bring her down. Another groan escapes him, though all Sansa has done is open her mouth in ecstasy. One more thrust up into her wet warmth, he forces her to stay still.

Looking at her, a frown on her face, he almost laughs. "Girl, it's OK for you to enjoy this. Say my name."

"Sandor… I don't see…"

Cutting her off, he tells her to say his name again, raising her off him.

"Sandor?"

"One more time, Little Bird." Preparing to thrust into her, as he brings her down.

"SandOH!" Pleased at the sound, he whispers, "Good little bird, I like hearing you sing."

"Oh gods!" she mumbles, before another thrusts brings forth a moan from her. The more they meet each other, the louder her moaning gets, the sweeter it is to Sandor's ears. Sometimes, she says his name, and he'll thrust harder for it.

He's about to cum, and he grabs her hands to his chest, allowing her to thrust against him at her own speed. A few more times, with a mix of "Sandor!" and "Oh, gods!" and he spills into her.

Her own climax comes with a loud scream.

Collapsing down on him, she starts sobbing against his chest.

Surprised at such a reaction, he sits up, hand under her chin to look at her; "I wasn't that bad, was I Little Bird?"

She laughs, wiping away tears, "No. I have not been so free to enjoy… coupling, ever." She looks at him with a teary smile. "Thank you, so much. I… I really appreciate it, Sandor."

She loved him, he knew, she wanted to say, "I love you", but could not. Neither could he. "Anything for you, Little Bird."

Sandor realizes that neither one would ever take vows again, would never commit to duty, or love, or a person; but, in a small way, they had promised each other better things, better treatment. After they fix their clothing again, he hands her a wild winter rose, and she plucks red leaves out of his hair.

After gently lifting her up to his horse, he looks up to her and asks, "What would Val say about you giving yourself to me for free?"

With as straight a face as Sansa can muster, she replied, "I could not give a flying fuck as to what she would think." Then she gasps, a hand fluttering to hide her smile.

Sandor has a moment of shock, before he barks loud laughter towards the sky. Climbing up behind her, he gives her a ride home, both feeling that the Weirwood was smiling, and not frowning, at their departure.

Post Script: I'll be traveling for the holidays. There will most likely be no chapter posted next weekend. Happy Thanksgiving! I'll be REALLY Thankful if someone, anyone, posts a review!