A/N: GRRM and HBO own the sandbox. I make little castles and watch the tide take them away.

I'm not even sure what to call this short chapter. Is this fluff? Is Sandor OOC? Yes, but also no. There's angst and feelings and I don't even know. I've got this outline, and this scene was not included but it demanded to be written anyways. I don't know what I'm doing anymore. And my last Author's Note about S8E5, while I appreciated the comments about it, is just further notice to me, that I should not finish editing and post chapters if I've been drinking. I had a very well-layered response planned out, and instead posted a rambly, overly-emotional diatribe. It was justified, and I loved the responses (please don't get me wrong), but not the rational breakdown of faults I had imagined posting. Yeah, anyway. Love you all. Please tell me what you think of my story. Comment on that, please. We've got roughly a year in the life. We all know what will wind up happening, but this is also happening.

Sandor

Seven hells! I've been here a month, and she waits until I've been moved out to offer me ale?

But the strangeness didn't stop there. They'd sat at the table, and were talking about Ray, and he watched her face as it stilled and the mask slipped as her mind wandered off into places unknown. The candle on the table flickered and he saw her cheeks turn pink, making her almost pretty for a moment as a hint of a younger version of herself showed through, before the blush faded and was replaced by shame and then worry. Of course, he had to remark on it, and quick as anything she was hiding again, turning the conversation back on him to talk about Sansa and being Joffrey's shield.

I probably should have seen it before, he thought. I grew up with Gregor and I watched the creation of another monster. Same thing. Gregor had size and strength and no limits. Joffrey had power in his position and no limits. I stood there and did nothing. At least the Imp tried. Probably would've turned out even worse than my brother, if he hadn't died at his wedding.

Suddenly, he was sick of it all. The lies and fakery in King's Landing, the lies he'd grown up with. The lies by omission from the woman sitting across from him, who had kissed him the night before as if she actually wanted him and then refused to look at him that morning. He had goaded Arya into understanding about Meryn Trant and the need to protect herself, and that piddling sword wasn't going to do it and she needed to be more careful, the overconfident brat, before she got herself killed. He'd pushed Sansa to see the truth about hateful things. It didn't keep her completely safe, but it was better than the alternative. But she'd been living in a constant state of peril. He didn't understand why the woods witch would have all of those defenses up and more, here in this little village where as far as he could tell, nothing threatened her. This village where she existed, but wasn't actually living. She acted like she was under siege. So, he decided to push her.

He felt oddly divided when she finally got angry enough to actually speak. One one level, he was watching her, watching the calm mask fall as she spoke and listening as her voice grew more and more strident until she was actually yelling at him. Finally. Rage. He knew she couldn't have been that placid, that unshakable. And then, quicker than he he could even see it, the wall had gone back up. Portcullis slammed shut. She was standing there, a fortress with all defenses raised, ready for assault. She might as well have had tiny archers in her hair and tiny men on her shoulders with rocks and barrels of oil.

She thinks I'm going to hit her, he thought, and she wants it over and done with.

On another level, her words were sinking in. Grew up poor, bottom of Flea Bottom poor, bowls of brown and too many mouths to feed and when she thought she could get out, she took it. And then she couldn't go back, because she'd be a drain, a burden. And he.. that Graeme, gods, what did he do? What did he do, to make this? And it was echoing in his head, her words, and he flashed on his father talking about the bedding that had never caught on fire, his sister's pale face, never knowing when Gregor would appear or what he would do next, hiding because he couldn't do anything else, there wasn't anywhere that was safe. Years of it. Years.

She thinks I'm going to hit her.

It was five ungainly steps across the floor to get to her. The crutch bit under his arm, and he couldn't move the way he wanted to, but he reached her anyway. His right hand came up and caught her left arm just below her shoulder, and he pulled her against him. Her body was stiff, and she was trembling all over with the effort of it. He could feel her jittering against him as he pressed her more closely against his chest. He bent his head and the scarred ruin of his cheek ghosted across her hair as he whispered, "I do know."

He still had one hand on her left arm, and he drew his other arm around her back and held her as she was molded against him. Her head was pressed into the hollow at his shoulder. It felt right, her pressed there. He tightened his arms, and felt when she stopped fighting against it. He wasn't sure how long he held her like that. Long enough that some of the rigidity had faded from her stance, at least, and she had stopped trembling. Long enough that he could press his face against the top of her head, and her hair smelled of rosemary and something else herbal, and a different smell that was just her, that he remembered from the night before and the ghost of a scent that clung to the pillow he slept on, the bed he'd slept in. Long enough to realize that her hand was clenched into his tunic, pressing into his side and the other was laid along his chest under her chin. Long enough that he felt her take a deep breath and let it out in a shuddering exhale, and heard her sniff.

He relaxed his arms and planted one kiss into her hair, somewhere near her temple.

She pulled back slightly, and tipped her face up to look at him. Her eyes were wet and one tear had escaped to run down past her nose to her lips and she whisked it away, one quick motion with that pouting bottom lip and it nearly undid him. He threaded his fingers through her hair at the nape of her neck, keeping her jaw in the palm of his hand and brushed his thumb against the wetness just below her eye, but she stepped backwards and shook her head, as another shuddering sigh escaped her.

"Nah, don't trouble," she said. "As they say, I've journeyed long... 'Twas cold there, warm here, so natural I thaws a little and t'runs out t'eyes.' " *

He huffed, recognizing the words but only somewhat registering her meaning. He wanted to grab her again, but she had turned away to wipe her face. When she turned back, her eyes were dry, but the mask was still gone and she was looking at him with a silent question that he didn't understand. There were a thousand things he wanted to say to her, but he didn't know the question she was asking with her face and he didn't know what to say. He settled on the most basic.

"I should go back to Ray," he said. "I was only supposed to give you a plate."

He wasn't prepared for the giggle that escaped her as they stood there between the table and hearth.

"Did you think I cared that much about plates?"

"No. But I didn't like that I'd broken one of yours." He took a step back and then settled the crutch under his arm and went back to the table to retrieve the other. She was still standing between the table and the hearth, and any mirth from her earlier giggles had been wiped away by an expression of confusion mixed with a little pain. He wondered at it, but it was getting late; he really did need to leave. But it felt strange. Any other night, he'd have gone out to the privy, and then undressed for bed while she went out herself. And then she'd blow out the candles and get ready for bed in the dark, with him pretending not to watch. The familiarity of the routine had been destroyed.

He paused at the door, then turned back to look at her again. She still hadn't moved.

"Um," and he cleared his throat and tried again. "Well. Good night," he said, and gave her a small bow and then opened the door and hobbled through it. He heard her faint reply before the door shut with a tchk.

Ray was still up, sitting in the main room when he came in.

"Long time to replace a plate," he said.

Sandor stood there a moment, not knowing exactly what to say. His leg was aching and he wanted to lay down and take away the pressure of holding it flexed.

"She offered me ale. We talked a bit."

"Did she?" Ray's eyebrows had climbed into his forehead.

"Aye." He hauled himself across the room to the door where his new bed was.

"Clegane."

He stopped and turned back, eyeing the man warily.

"She's a good woman, but she's been through the wars, and I don't just mean the kingdom's."

Something in his chest clenched. He had an idea of what she'd gone through, and it was worse than anything the little bird had experienced. And while he'd once thought to protect that girl, time had softened the interactions, and yes, he'd wanted to have her for his, but she was a child and he knew it was just the urge to protect something innocent. He couldn't protect his sister. He had tried to protect her. But Wynn... that was something else. Similar, yes, but different. 'They're all afraid of me. No one would hurt you, or I'd kill them,' he thought, and knew that while he had truly meant it when it he'd said it to her, it was nothing to the intensity of feeling he'd experienced when the woods witch had been in his arms. She would not be hurt anymore. Full stop. He'd die first.

"I know," was all he said.

*This line is a direct quote from The Revenants by Sheri S. Tepper. Here, in my story, I was going for a shared understanding of basically a meme. I don't know if I achieved it, but still. Like if she had said, "Grandmother, what big eyes you have," and he understood the reference at least. I always loved that line, and wanted to throw it in here. It's a "Darmok and Jalad at Tanagra," moment, if any of you are trekkies.

It's an epic fantasy story, and if you can, I encourage you to read it. I don't even know exactly how to explain how influential this story has been to my understanding of how to build a story, or character development, or anything else, and I don't do it justice, anyways. But if you have the opportunity to read it, please do. It deserves more praise than it has.