A/N: *cough* Seriously, these chapters are getting way too long. R&R please!

Chapter Fourteen
Sansa

They stayed off the roads and crossed the Red Fork and the River Road that day, following cattle-tracks and country trails. It was impossible to avoid leaving an obvious track in the inch-thick snow. She hoped the fresh snowfall would soon hide them. Every time they stopped, Sandor examined the sword Brienne had given him and muttered obscenities to himself, but Sansa knew he was pleased with it.

As usual, conversation was reserved until the campfire that night, but she didn't mind: the cold wind had made her lips dry and her throat sore, and she didn't feel particularly talkative. She tried to keep Sandor out of her mind and the feeling of his body against hers, and instead spent the day's riding puzzling out the possible outcomes to her marriage.

"Sandor," she asked that evening. "The story you told me about that girl Tyrion gave to the guards. What happened to the septon?"

He looked thrown. "Did I mention a septon?"

"No, but I heard similar stories from Littlefinger and Tyrion, and they both said he was married to the girl. So what happened to the septon who wed them?"

The corner of his mouth twitched, but his words were muffled by a mouthful of salt beef. "Lord Tywin had his throat cut."

"Was the marriage annulled?" Sandor gave her a long, slow look, but didn't answer. "I mean to say... did you ever hear of a Council of the Faith being called, or a raven from the High Septon?"

"If there was, I wouldn't have heard about it. Dogs don't hear those kinds of secrets. And I went to King's Landing to serve Queen Whore not long after."

"Oh. Just wondering."

"You think the Imp might still be married to her." He laughed. "Very good, little bird. Is that what the Kingslayer meant about you not being a Lannister much longer?"

Sansa shifted uncomfortably. She hadn't told the Hound much about her marriage to Tyrion; when it came up on the first night, it had only ended in a quarrel. The topic seemed to irritate him.

"If he can prove Tyrion and I didn't poison Joffrey, we can come out of hiding, and he thinks we should seek an annulment."

"Good theory. I wouldn't put it past Lord Tywin to have swept the whole damn thing under the carpet, but I can't help you with that one. You'd have a job proving there was ever a wedding all these years later, with the girl gone and the septon dead. They say this High Sparrow isn't as tractable as the fat fools that went before him. It'd be different if you had your maidenhead."

Sandor coloured angrily and fell quiet; Sansa flushed. After an awkward silence, she coughed delicately. "And, if I did...?"

"Seven hells, girl, they wouldn't just take your word for it. Didn't you hear about Margaery Tyrell? You'd be examined and locked up for a perjurer."

He jabbed at a piece of meat with his dagger, with rather more force than was necessary. "Sandor." Sansa was regretting bringing up the matter at all, but she couldn't dance around it any further without actually lying. "Sandor." He looked up resentfully. "I do have my maidenhead, or I should anyway. My marriage wasn't... consummated."

The big man by the fireside blinked. A long time went by before he said anything. "How?"

"What do you mean?"

"The Imp is the randiest little creature I've had the misfortune to meet." He paused, choosing his words with care. "He married you, and you're telling me he left you a maiden. How? How did you manage that? Don't tell me he didn't touch you at all, not even on your wedding night."

"He threatened to geld Joffrey when he suggested a bedding." Sansa saw Sandor suppress a smirk despite himself. "And later, after the feast... I could see he wanted to-"

"I'll bet," he muttered.

"-but he said he'd wait, and he'd go to brothels until I was willing."

"How noble of him," snorted Sandor. He seemed to deflate before her eyes. "So he never-"

"He never," said Sansa sharply. He lapsed sheepishly into silence for a while.

"Well it won't do you a damn bit of good, whatever Jaime Goldenhand told you. The Tyrells aren't fool enough to poison a king and leave the receipts lying around. And even if they are, the Faith might declare the marriage valid, maidenhead or no. And even if they do grant your annulment by some miracle, you think the Lannisters will let you go? Bolton and his bastard are all that stand between you and Winterfell, and the war isn't over up there. They'll keep you on a short leash, until they're sure no-one's like to set you up as Queen in the bloody North. So no chance. No good. Even if Ser Stump delivers all you hope he can, you'd just be swapping your missing Imp for Lancel or someone. And why you'd want a man who's had his cock in Cersei Lannister is beyond me."

"All right," Sansa challenged, "So what would you do?"

"What would I do?" He laughed. "Well, my lady, the worst that can happen is he never comes back, you stay married, and some fine lord takes you for his mistress."

"And what if Tyrion does come back?"

He laughed again. "Since this is me, like you said..." He drew his sword partly, letting the firelight gleam on the steel. He met her eyes and she saw a glimmer of cruelty there; he chuckled darkly. "There's more than one way to end a marriage, little bird." He sheathed the sword and patted the pommel. "Any more questions?"

"Just one," she said, after a pause. She took a deep breath. "Where are we going, Sandor?"

He looked puzzled. "My family's lands, like I told the Kingslayer."

"But we were going there already, weren't we? Before we ever met Ser Jaime. Is that where you think your brother's gone?"

"If I wanted to find my brother," he growled, "what do you think I'm doing here with you?"

"You only swore to protect me, not to stop looking for Gregor." He said nothing. As betrayed as she felt, she realised confrontation would get her nowhere with Sandor Clegane. "How sure are you he's there, Sandor?" she asked, more softly this time. She hoped his reasoning would be flimsy, the chance of finding Gregor slim.

He hesitated. "He won't take orders from Queen Whore or anyone else if it's his skin on the line - they'd be spotted in a second at Casterly Rock or some Lannister stronghold. That's no hiding place. Whereas our keep is up in the hills, isolated. And if he's not there... we can hide. Lannister will send us swords, too. That's something."

Sansa felt another rush of fear and anger. How could he possibly be so selfish? She'd trusted him to look after her. She had nowhere else to go, she couldn't catch up to Jaime and Brienne now. She didn't remember getting to her feet.

"What about what Ser Jaime said last night? What will happen to me if Gregor kills you?"

Maddeningly, he laughed and rose too, slowly advancing on her. His lip curled at the mention of Jaime, and the cruel glint was back in his eye. "I won't let him kill me, my lady. I won't let him hurt you."

Sansa was about to respond angrily, but when she opened her mouth, she found he'd covered it with his. His hands went to the back of her head and the small of her back, crushing her against him in a fierce, possessive kiss. She was still angry with him, but could do nothing to resist; after the first moment or two of helpless surprise, she kissed him back eagerly, her frustration set aside for now.

His mouth pressed against hers with such force she wondered fleetingly if her dry lips might split, but then he softened as he felt her respond to him. The queer asymmetry was strange to her, smooth unyielding scar on one side contrasting with insistent lips on the other.

When his hand slipped down to the nape of her neck, Sansa remembered to shut her eyes and do something with her hands, resting one of them under the burned corner of his jaw. The scarred skin was warm and alive under her palm. Sandor's mouth opened and she instinctively mirrored him. She'd always wondered why the songs only ever contained chaste kisses; now she vaguely supposed it was to exclude kisses like this. She clung to him as his tongue moved gently against hers. She could hear the beat of blood in her ears, feel the prickle of desire waking in her belly.

She let her eyes flutter open briefly. The fire only lit the unburnt side of his face, and most of that was cast into shadow by the hair that fell forward as he stooped down to kiss her. She threw her arms around his neck and rose on tiptoe, pressing against him. His hand moved to her backside, cupping a buttock with strong fingers and kneading it. Sansa gasped against him as a thrill ran through her. She wished she knew what to do to get the same reaction from him. He ran his other hand around the border of a breast as if weighing it in his hand, and squeezed gently. She gasped again and Sandor gently broke the kiss, sliding his hands to her back and waist. They were both a bit breathless.

Her arms still encircling his neck, Sansa rested back from her tiptoes, drawing Sandor down with her. His eyes were locked on hers. I'm going to give him my maidenhood tonight, she realised calmly as she renewed the kiss. Strong arms wrapped around her once again. Her hand curled to caress the nape of his neck and she squeezed the huge muscle of his upper arm timidly. Her tongue clove to his; the world seemed to consist entirely of what she could feel with her mouth and hands. Desire flooded her. She squirmed against him as the kiss intensified.

Her septa had taught her that men and women should only lay together when they loved one another and were married. She didn't know if she loved Sandor, and she was married to someone else, but she knew she wanted this. It ought to bother her that taking him to bed would make her an adulteress, just as she ought to treasure her maidenhood. But she'd had enough of preserving herself and claim for some future husband who would not be of her choosing anyway. I would come to that man Tyrion's widow, most like, she thought, and maybe I don't even have my maidenhead any more, even unbedded. She'd ridden horses all her life; she'd heard that could break it.

But it was all empty reasoning; none of it really mattered. Here and now, she wanted him, and had no intention of refusing anything he asked of her tonight.

Sandor broke the kiss again, murmuring, "Sansa," in her ear.

It startled her to realise she couldn't remember him calling her by name before. She pressed a soft kiss to his neck and sighed his name in return. He let go of her. She felt dizzy; she knew what needed to happen next, but wasn't sure how to get there. She laced her fingers through his and drew back to look him in the eye again, then tugged his hand gently as she moved back towards the bedrolls. He swallowed, and was breathing hard as he followed.

She had to take off her cloak and boots before sliding under the blankets. "Are you sure about this?" asked Sandor desperately, but his boots were off and he was fumbling with the laces of his breeches as he said it. She smiled and reached up to kiss him in answer. He pulled away, making a little noise in his throat. It gave her an unfamiliar feeling of power, seeing such a powerful man reduced to such helplessness. Under the covers, wriggled out of her smallclothes, rather astonished at her own brazenness.

His skin was cold when he climbed in next to her. Her heart pounded at his touch. A maiden's nerves, she thought to herself. She'd heard the first time could hurt and only hoped he would be gentle with her. As for herself, Sansa thought she knew what to do, but she feared that she'd somehow misunderstood what happened in a marriage bed, and that she wouldn't be able to please him at all.

Sandor reached over and kissed her again, stroking her hair. She looped her hand under his arm and clasped his shoulder, pulling him over towards her. She had to find the hem of his shirt before she could run her hands across his bare back like she wanted. She knew Sandor Clegane was a big man, taller and broader than almost any she'd ever met, but it came as a surprise every time she realised just how little of his daytime bulk was armour. Everywhere she touched she felt hard muscle and slender stripes of scar.

His lips were at her neck then and his rough hands explored her thighs, her belly, her breasts, moving quickly over her skin. She withdrew a hand from his shirt to run her fingers through his hair. He lifted his head, breathing heavily and cradling her head with one hand.

"You're sure?" he said again. She felt the words rumbling in his chest. Sansa supposed that meant he was ready and she nodded, though she hadn't realised he would want her with so little preamble. He grinned and buried his face in her hair.

His solid weight sank against her and he slipped a hand between her thighs, making Sansa cry out softly as a broad thumb slid between slick folds; it seemed impossible that such a little movement should make her react so strongly. She shuffled her legs further apart to make room for him to stroke her. She moaned again, clutched him tighter and felt her hips tilt into his hand. She was bereft and annoyed when he took his fingers away.

A moment later she felt him at her entrance and tried to keep herself relaxed. Excited and nervous as she was, she knew it was like to hurt more if she was afraid to receive him. His tip pushed against her and Sansa was shocked by just how much it hurt, failing to suppress a gasp at the raw jolt of pain. Sandor's ruined mouth found hers and he kissed her gently, nibbling at her lips as he tried to guide himself in again. The angle was slightly different this time and he pushed in easily; while it wasn't exactly comfortable, it didn't hurt remotely as much this time.

The feeling was not quite what Sansa had expected, nor as intense as when he had touched her a moment ago, but when she got used to the sensation of him sliding in and out, she began to find it pleasing. She concentrated on his rhythm and tried to respond to his thrusts, hips rocking to meet his. His breath was hot on her neck and her nose was filled with the warm scent of his skin.

His hand found her folds again and he caressed her with minute movements. Sansa's moan was high-pitched, almost a whimper. "Sandor," she breathed urgently. His huge body began to move faster and he grunted gently. She didn't think she could bear it if he stopped. His every tiny stroke and every thrust ratcheted up the pressure; her every fevered breath carried a little whine with it. Finally the roaring in her head broke, and she was wracked with waves of pleasure, each of which drew another cry and convulsion from her.

Sandor paused only long enough to push her legs a little further apart and adjust his position. He moved harder and faster now, and Sansa knew it would have been in agony if he'd started this way. Deeper grunts tumbled from his throat. Her responses were clumsier now, but he seemed to have lost all control and finally he shuddered to a halt with a long, low groan.

He rolled off her and lay catching his breath, tearing half the blankets from Sansa in the process. She wriggled closer to him and he pulled her close, giving her a soft, sleepy look. "Sansa," he smiled. "I knew I'd make you sing for me." She smiled back and he hugged her quickly to kiss her forehead, then settled restfully onto his back. She lay next to him, turned into his warmth, with a bare leg thrown across his and her hand on his chest. Happy.