The course they took was meandering, through the Riverlands, always moving at night, sticking to isolated copses and wilder landscapes. In the day time they sheltered and hid themselves from view. Sansa found riding for long hours extremely painful, and sleeping in hedges was cold and uncomfortable but she didn't complain; she knew this was the safest way to head North. The Hound was adept at finding his way through what Sansa thought was indistinguishable fields and woodlands. He would gruffly explain some landmark, as if she was going to remember it for next time. Next time? She thought bitterly, if we survive this I am never leaving Winterfell and I am never riding a horse again.

Sansa had focused on the thought of her home, she felt like it was the only place she could heal the damage she had created. Somehow, if they made it back there things would be alright again. She would be reconciled with her mother and she could work hard to help the family in whatever way she could. She could help to look after Riccon, or run the household for her mother. Sansa enjoyed the thought of being useful. She was sure Arya would head to Winterfell and that they would meet there.

Sansa considered how Arya had ranted about the Hound to her but that was in the past now. Sansa would explain how they had misjudged him. He was her husband and nothing could change that. They would be pleased with Sandor, he had saved her. Not for a moment did Sansa consider that people may harbour grudges or hatred toward the Hound, which no amount of maiden rescuing would alter. As Sandor led her mare through the darkness and she dozed with her eyes shut, Sansa would dream about the future they might have together, of children and long dark, winter nights filled with lovemaking and sleeping in warm furs.

In the day time, they were both so exhausted they would wrap in their cloaks and fall into deep, uncomfortable sleep. Disjointed dreams and insistent nightmares twisted them both into nervous creatures, although the Hound did not shriek or gasp like Sansa. Jumping at broken sticks and the sound of the wind arching through the trees; they were both worn out and sometimes snapped at one another in fear and apprehension, but they were quick to touch a hand to a cheek, or smile to bolster the other's spirits. The Hound was always leading the way, keeping her safe, moving them away from the Lannisters.

Sansa had imagined that after their lovemaking on that frozen night they would continue their marital relations, but the Hound had explained that he wanted to wait until they were safe. He said she didn't deserve to be tupped like a ewe in a bush and he wanted to have her in a bed next time. Sansa disagreed, now she had experienced the Hound's attentions it was all she could think about, it was the first time she had felt cared for since her father had been murdered, the first time she had felt happiness since she found out about Joffrey's true character.

She didn't think anyone had ever loved her the way Sandor loved her, not even her family were that interested in her really, but Sandor wanted to keep her safe and worship her body, he was interested in her every thought but wasn't afraid to tell her when she was a fool. In some ways he reminded her of Arya, with his bravery and straight-talking manner.

Sansa blushed when she thought about her infatuation with Ser Loras. He looked like a silly flower now, next to the immovable strength of the Hound. Smooth skin, gilded armour and curls styled into ringlets were as false as the silly Knight stories she used to simper over; now Sansa wanted to stare at the Hound's strong forearms and trace the scars there, hear his short, fierce opinions on things that cut through the artifice she had been used to.

So she wanted to make love, to show him how much she admired him but she could sense Sandor's deep anxiety about lingering in the South so she submitted to his desire to cover as many miles as possible each night and spend the day time trying to recoup their energy.

When they couldn't fall asleep after their meagre meal, Sansa would chatter softly to him about stories she had read or songs she knew. He liked her singing to him, when she stopped he would say, sing another girl. He would stroke her back with his rough fingers and she would drift into a cat like state of sensual half-sleep. Sometimes he would tell her things about battles that had been fought nearby or which Lord's land they were creeping through. It all sounded terrifying. Each family conquering and destroying their enemies, those who had recently been their allies until they betrayed each other; it just increased her longing for the cool, crisp Stark lands.

They kissed a lot until she felt like she was an expert at kissing. Soft kisses, hard kisses, kisses that made her swoon. She would nuzzle close to him once they were wrapped in their cloaks and she would kiss him until he groaned and he would thoroughly kiss her back. Sansa loved to feel his manhood pressing against her and she would stroke him through his breeches, until he sighed at her, 'Not here, little bird.' Sansa would pout and huff; he would hush her and tell her to sleep.

'We are in so much danger, how can your mind be thinking about that?' His voice was a low growl, but she had grown to understand his manner might be gruff but his feelings for her were tender.

'I don't know why my mind thinks thus, but it does.' Sansa stroked his stomach and started to move lower, pressing against his hardness. 'You are thinking about it too.'

'That I am, little bird, how can I not think of being inside you, with you wriggling around next to me? But I know better than to start fucking you in this rotten hedge. I wouldn't hear a whole regiment of soldiers, even if they were stood behind me with a blade at my neck. I would only be listening to your little moans.'

Sansa leaned away from his mouth; even though she wanted to press her lips against his again, instead she said, 'Tell me about your family then.'

'Well that's enough to make me soft,' he growled, but he smiled his crooked smile at her as he said it and he lay down next to her, under the shelter of the prickly hawthrone trees. 'What could I tell you that would be fit for your delicate ears? It is all terrible and evil, just like me.'

'Sandor!'

'I am evil, the things I have done. Have you so easily forgotten that I was Joffrey's dog?'

'You are my dog now,' she teased.

'Then you are my sweet little bitch.' That reminded Sandor vividly of the first time they had fucked and he felt a blinding rush of lust which made him shiver. He pulled her to her feet, 'We are not sleeping, little bird, we are chattering. The sun is past its best so let's ride on.'