A/N: Mentions of the "night before", but not descriptive enough to be explicit or mature. I kept them vague, but hopefully they still get the point across: they're having a real nice honeymoon. Enjoy!

Chapter 13

A sunbeam escaping through the blinds woke Sansa. It fell directly across her eyes, and she winced and shifted, but no matter which way she rolled, the sunbeam followed her. In resignation, she sighed and slowly opened her eyes, blinking against the brightness.

Instead of her bedroom, she saw crisp white walls with a flowery, framed picture. A brown desk was situated in the corner provided with all the necessary needs for letter-writing. A small dresser was pushed against the walls, with a mirror hanging over it.

Sansa frowned, closing her eyes then opening them again, trying to focus on her surroundings. Where was she…oh! Memory flooded back to her. She was on her honeymoon!

Opening her eyes wider, she turned to look next to her. The bed was empty save for her, but the washroom door was closed and she thought she heard the sounds of water running.

Taking a deep breath, Sansa stretched her arms, yawning, and began to sit up when the white coverlet fell and she realized she was naked.

With a gasp, she jerked the covers back up to her chin, freezing in place. Why was she not wearing a nightgown? She must have forgotten…she must have fallen asleep after…

Her face flooded with heat, as the other memories returned as well. Slowly she sank back into the thick pillows, clutching the covers to her as she remembered.

Sandor had been everywhere. In the darkness of the bedroom, her entire senses had been filled with him until she had felt she couldn't breathe, and she didn't care. Sensations such as she had never even imagined had propelled her into a sweet oblivion. She had wanted to drown in him and fly, higher and higher. Nothing else in the world mattered except his touch and his deep, grating voice whispering things in her ear that should have scandalized her.

Oh, she loved him. She did. She loved him, she loved him.

Sansa smiled and bit her bottom lip, trying to stifle a giggle. She felt so happy, ready to burst, and also something else that was indescribable to her, yet it filled her veins and Sansa knew she wanted more of it. Sighing dreamily, she glanced at the rest of the bed, noting for the first time how mussed the covers were.

The washroom door opened and Sandor walked out, bare-chested but clad in a pair of trousers, with a towel thrown over his shoulder. He saw she was awake and stopped. Little droplets of water clung to his well-chiseled abdomen and Sansa blushed furiously as she met his gaze.

Without a word, he slowly walked around the bed, trailing his fingers over the covers. His eyes were their usual stormy color, but it was plain to see the hunger in them as they trailed over her face, her messy hair, her collarbone, her shoulders. His mouth held a shadow of a grin as he finally reached her side and sat down.

Her heart thundering in her chest, Sansa cleared her throat and offered, "Good morning…Sandor." The hunger in his eyes softened, and he gently traced his fingers over the hand resting in her lap. "Good morning, little bird. Sleep well?"

"I…I suppose so. Yes. And you?"

"Better than I have in a long time."

They regarded each other quietly as Sansa struggled with a sudden bought of shyness. Stop being ridiculous, she chided herself. You are a married woman. He is your husband. But she couldn't help it. She felt a little giddy and uncertain. No one had ever told her what the morning after was supposed to be like.

Sandor moved a little closer, placing his arm over her so that his palm rested down on the mattress. Sansa wanted to throw herself at him, but she opted for placing a hand on his shoulder instead, while he searched her face intently. "Did I hurt you?" he asked abruptly. Sansa's brow furrowed in confusion for a moment before she realized what he meant. "Oh...no, Sandor." She smiled tenderly, wanting to alleviate his concerns. "Last night was…was wonderful." He exhaled roughly, and finally allowed his mouth to curl into a smirk. The ice was broken, and they simultaneously relaxed.

He leaned forward then and claimed her mouth eagerly, and she responded in kind, almost dropping the covers she still held to herself. Sandor slipped his tongue in her mouth and she moaned a little, arching towards him and a chuckle rumbled deep in his chest. He broke the kiss and rested his forehead against hers. "We'll be docking in Boston soon," he rasped softly, giving her lips another lazy nip. "I sent for breakfast before you woke." He turned his head to the side so he could kiss on her neck.

Sansa sighed happily and closed her eyes. "I suppose I must get dressed then," she whispered back. "Unfortunately," he replied, making her giggle. He gave a parting kiss on her mouth then stood, walking over to their suitcases that were placed neatly against the other wall. "Which has your dressing robe in it?" "The small green bag, on top."

He rifled through it and brought her the blue robe, refusing to avert his eyes as she put it on, and chuckling when her face grew red. "Nothing I haven't already seen, little bird," he growled as he gathered her in his arms again. Sansa pushed aside her need for modesty and pressed herself against him, relishing the feel of his skin under her cheek. "I love you," she murmured. He squeezed her a little tighter and nuzzled her hair. "I love you too, little bird."

They dressed and ate a breakfast of tea, fruit and eggs on the little deck outside their room, watching as the harbor grew closer. Their bags were repacked and picked up by an orderly, and soon they were making their way down the ramp once more.

Sansa and Sandor spent two days in Boston before taking the steamer to Paris, staying in a nice little hotel. The ocean trip felt incredibly long but they kept themselves occupied, and it was often that they stayed abed almost the entire day, lounging in the thick white covers and pillows with the windows open. Sansa had no idea if other newlyweds did this sort of thing, but she needed hardly any persuasion from Sandor. A few of the other passengers would give them strange looks if they didn't resurface for day or two at a time, but Sandor would only return their nosiness with a mocking glare, and Sansa simply ignored them. She was too happy to care.

Paris was beautiful. Sandor told her she was going to get a neck cramp from twisting her head around to look at everything. "I want to see it all," she told him. "I want to remember it in my mind after we go home." Sandor had booked them a large room at a lovely hotel, and Sansa squealed with joy when he picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder as soon as they were alone, heading for the giant bed.

They visited numerous cafes and monuments and theaters, and Sansa also began her shopping. Most of her clothes at home had begun to be too small, and she was excited and a little overwhelmed to be bombarded with ribbons and lace and fabrics of every shade and pattern. The French seamstresses cooed over her bright hair and white skin while they took measurements and dressed her, even asking about her honeymoon and her husband. "Vous êtes dans l'amor, oui?" Sansa had, thankfully, paid attention to her French lessons and was able to chatter easily with them. She was surprised by how well Sandor spoke it, though he often didn't say more than was necessary. He usually went to the gentleman's club in the hotel to hear the news while she shopped.

Part of the sitting room was filled with boxes and packages and Sansa ended up unwrapping everything to show her husband. She wasn't a frivolous girl any longer; the war had taught her to save and go without, so she made sure to get what she really needed. There were plenty of fine dresses for the coming winter months back home, and some nice formal gowns. "What about me? Did you get me anything?" Sandor teased one evening. Sansa pulled out a silky nightgown and laid it in his lap, batting her eyes coquettishly, while he howled in laughter. "See here, little bird. As much as you'll look stunning in this, you'll only be wearing it about ten seconds before I rip it off of you."

Sansa gasped, fueling his mirth, and she pulled the nightgown away from him, pretending arrogance as she pranced away from him to drop it back in its wrappings. "Very well then, husband, I'll just return it." Sandor feigned seriousness, pointing his cigar at her for emphasis. "Don't you dare even think of doing such a thing, Mrs. Clegane."

Sansa laughed then and skipped over to sit in his lap, covering his face with kisses. He was doing all of this for her, she knew. He wasn't the type of man to enjoy the wonders of Paris on his own; he preferred more rugged, simple approaches, like when they had slept in the barn. She wanted to make him as happy as he made her.

She asked him one night, as they lay on their bed, tucked into his arms. "Sandor," she whispered. "Are you happy?" His hand had been leisurely trailing up and down her back, but now it stopped and rested in her hair. He didn't answer for a few minutes, and Sansa wondered if she should have asked.

"I don't know much about happiness, little bird," his deep voice filled the dark room. "Don't know much about love either. Never expected to." There was a pause, and Sansa found herself holding her breath. "You remember that story I told you in Gettysburg, about how I got these scars?" How could she forget? "Yes," she answered, moving her fingertips gently across his stomach and through the hair on his chest.

"That wasn't the only thing my brother did to make my life, my family's life, a living hell."

She swallowed and waited for him to continue, fixing her eyes on a spot on the wall. His hand resumed stroking her hair.

"Gregor kept growing increasingly violent. After he burned my face, my father became afraid of him. Couldn't control him, as time went on. I had to learn how to fight back, keep him off me and our sister." Sansa was surprised. She didn't know he had a sister.

"A couple of years after he burned me, he came home drunk. He had been out with some of the Lannister men. He was only twelve, but already huge, and most men steered clear of him. My sister…she was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and I wasn't there to help her." His other fist clenched, and Sansa watched it with a growing horror.

"He pushed her down the stairs. Broke her neck. Everyone pretended it was an accident, like my face. But I knew."

"Killed my father off a few years later. Hunting accident. Rifle went off and shot him in the back of the head. And…well you know the rest, little bird."

Something wet slid down her cheek and Sansa realized she was crying. "The world is made and built by killers, little bird. My brother's a killer. I'm a killer. The Lannisters are killers. This country, most of them, are killers. Don't forget that."

A hard lump had settled in her throat. As much as she wanted to disbelieve him, to refuse what he said, she knew it was true. She had seen enough death and sickness in that hospital to know that.

"There's still good people in the world," she whispered as more tears slipped out of her eyes. Sandor suddenly shifted and rolled them over onto her back, hovering above her. "Aye," he said, wiping at her face. "Like you, little bird. And you make me happy, undeserving as I am."

With a little cry, Sansa pushed up and threw her arms around him. "Oh, Sandor, my love." She felt her heart breaking at the thought of him growing up constantly terrorized by his brother and living with a face that branded him as a monster to most. To have known nothing but hate and brutality for most of his life, forcing him to become hard and bitter. The pain of it curled around her chest and she hurt for him. My poor husband. This new knowledge only strengthened her resolve to bring happiness and love into his life.

"Shhh, don't waste your tears on me, little bird," Sandor said huskily, rubbing her back. Sansa pulled back to look at his face, still clinging to him. "It's not wasting tears, Sandor. I only wish that I could do something." He snorted and placed a kiss on her forehead. "What are you talking about? You've done everything, Sansa." He eased her back down against the pillows and propped himself up on his forearms, trailing her cheek with his finger. "Such a pretty little thing, innocent and kind. I'm a selfish dog for taking you. And I don't care." Sansa leaned into his touch. "You only took what was given to you. Do not berate yourself, Sandor. I love you so." His jaw clenched and he claimed her mouth, kissing her hard.

Sansa pressed herself to him, giving him herself, and later when he had buried his face in her chest, just under her chin, and she touched his cheek, she found a wetness there that was not her own.

Arya adjusted her belt and wiped her nose with the back of her sleeve. It was unladylike. Good thing she was pretending to be a boy. It didn't matter then.

She and Gendry were walking to a town. They were to sit and listen and look. The war raged on, and would for a while more, Jaqen said. Which meant that slaves would still be trying to escape. Some of them were even joining the Confederate army, fighting to keep themselves in chains, Jaqen said.

Arya really was hoping to hear of news from the North. It had been a long time since she had written home, and she had not heard much of Winterfell except a brief mention of the Confederates passing nearby on the way to Gettysburg.

"Am I dirty enough?" she asked Gendry as they reached the town's outskirts. He gave her an odd look. "You're dirtier than I am. Why?" "It's easier to be a boy when you're dirty. I look less a girl." Arya had cut her long brown hair in favor of a shaggy mop that reached her chin. It was a good thing she wasn't prissy or concerned about such things like Sansa was. Pants were also much more comfortable and practical.

"You're dirty enough to look like a beggar," Gendry told her with that stupid laugh of his. "Come on." They strolled into town, moving in between carts and horses. The South had taken a big hit from the war, and prices on food and other goods had skyrocketed. A man was standing on a crate hollering about the army and President Lincoln.

Gendry led her into a General Store, where a group of men, too old or wounded to fight, were chewing tobacco and sitting around a little pot-bellied stove. They shuffled in and stood by, glancing around and keeping their ears perked.

"What about you, Kent? What news from the Lannister lands?" one old man croaked out. An ugly, blond haired man with a red nose spat into the fire. "Not much to tell. Still got most of the slaves. Some run off, but we find them quick with the hounds. Joffrey's wife, Margaery, she expecting a baby any time now."

Arya arched an eyebrow. Sansa had wanted to marry Joffrey once. She wondered if her sister knew that Margaery was pregnant.

Another man suddenly chuckled as he lit his cigar. "Speakin' of hounds." He hiccupped and took a swig from a little flask. "The old Lannister Hound, the younger Clegane, he gone got himself hitched." "No, truth?" "Yessirrr. And guess who he fixed himself up with?"

"Who?"

"Why, I'll tell you. The pretty Stark girl, Miss Sansa."

Arya froze and Gendry's eyes snapped to her from where he was pretending to look at some farm tools.

Sansa, sweet, ladylike, Sansa, who loved handsome gentlemen and tea parties and silks, had married the Hound? It couldn't be true. It had to be a rumor. The man by the stove was drunk. Sansa would never marry him. Not ever. That was like marrying a real Lannister.

"No kidding?" the old man guffawed. "As true as I'm sittin' here," the other man answered with another swig from his flask. "Course, you've all heard about the rest of the Starks?"

"Sure," said the blond man. "Mr. Tywin told me himself that Robb Stark was dead in battle, the bastard boy was good as dead. They got Ned Stark locked up in Kentucky, 'round abouts. Mrs. Catelyn died of the fever, heard tell."

A cold dagger sliced into Arya's chest and she wheeled around, stubbing her toe on a barrel and almost knocking it over as she stumbled out of the store. Gendry came after her, saying something, but she didn't hear him.

She staggered around the back and gripped the rough wooden wall, gasping for breath as the world spun under her feet. Her stomach roiled and she felt sick. Gendry grabbed her shoulder and she jerked away. "Leave me alone," she groaned, sinking to the ground.

A/N: I kind of love this chapter. It's okay, Sandor, you can still be a tough guy and cry ;) The Arya sections will get longer, not to worry.

Also, gentlemen clubs weren't…what they are now (usually). They were places where men could go to smoke and drink and read the news or play cards. Some had dining rooms. You usually had to have a membership, but some were open if you were of a certain status or had the money. No women were allowed, either. Sounds like little boys with their treehouses, huh? ;)