Dany had told her about the festival during supper. She had explained it as the Festival of Love, a day dedicated to the one you hold dearest, whether it is your Sun and Stars or your sister, mother, father or grandfather. Sansa marvelled at the Braavosi culture and wished this tradition would reach Westeros, and yet sadness clutched at her in the realisation that she would never be able to dedicate this day to her brothers or sisters. Arya, she thought. Arya would've hated this day, squeamish at any sign of affection. We should've been closer, we were sisters! Sansa picked at her food, unable to eat, yet she knew there was one more person as deserving of this day as anyone else. She snuck a peek at the man guzzling wine as though it would go out of fashion. Sansa sighed, wondering how she would ever get him to go with her to watch the procession.

Braavos was even more beautiful by night, Sansa realised, the dark sky twinkling with a million stars even as the lanterns lining the streets cast a golden glow in each direction. The revellers were merry, yelling loudly and kissing liberally, making Sansa blush and laugh at the same time. The people are so free, she thought, watching two women kiss each other on the mouth. Sansa's eyes widened at the display, the women oblivious of the crowds and the crowds oblivious to them. They laughed through their kiss, stroking each others hair and shoulders and- Oh Gods! Sansa turned away and walked on feeling like an intruder yet smiling at the love that was so obvious between them. She looked for Sandor and found his broad back easily enough as he was a head taller than the tallest man there. She grabbed his hand when she reached him, not wanting to be left alone in the crowd that pulsed as though with a collective heartbeat. There were singers, though Sansa didn't recognise a single tune, but the song was a merry one and men twirled the women 'round and 'round, laughing till they were out of breath. Sansa tried not to be envious, knowing Sandor was not one to dance, yet she would've liked to be lifted up as the Braavosi men lifted their women. She sighed and allowed Sandor to lead her on. At least he came with me, she thought. That should be enough. And it was.

They walked by big animals in cages, and Sandor explained all of their names and where they were found the most. Sansa was surprised at how much she knew, and was even more surprised at the sense of pride his knowledge fanned in her.

"That one is called a tiger." He pointed at the cat-like creature with the striped fur. Sansa gasped.

"It's beautiful!"

"Aye, little bird, beautiful. Don't try and pet it unless you feel you have one hand too many, though," he chuckled, and Sansa drew back the hand that had voluntarily reached out. She shot him a look and he chuckled at her in response, turning to a similar creature but with a plain golden pelt and a thick bushy mane.

"A lion!" Sansa instantly hated the animal, though she could not deny its beauty. Sandor stopped chuckling.

"Fierce beast, that one. No wonder they-" he stopped himself, and Sansa thought he didn't want to ruin their evening with talk of the Lannisters.

"Come on, there's something going on by the river."

Sansa allowed him to lead her to a bridge, shouldering people aside so they could have a choice spot. He pulled Sansa in front of him and placed his hands on her waist. The river looked majestic. It had a thousand candles floating in them, the light reflecting off the water throwing an ethereal illumination around the riverbank. Sansa looked to her right and saw a woman staring openly at Sandor, her face twisted in disgust. Sansa raised her head a little and noticed Sandor's jaw clenched tight. He must feel her eyes on him, she thought. Lifting her foot, she brought her heel down on the woman's toes, who yelped and turned to Sansa, pain, surprise and anger written in equal measure on her face. Sansa just glared at her, and leaned back into Sandor, never taking her eyes off the offending woman. It's rude to stare, Sansa thought as the woman got the right idea and moved away, a blush reddening the top of her ears. She sank further into Sandors chest and felt him give her waist a little squeeze. You're my man, she thought. It is my duty to protect you.

Sansa didn't know how long they stood on that bridge. They watched a thousand candles float by and a hundred more gondola's, all carrying wealthy men and beautiful women. Sandor explained who the women were.

"Courtesans," he said. Sansa let out an unladylike 'huh?' and he chuckled. "They're nothing more than the rich man's prostitute. They're exceptionally beautiful and like royalty in Braavos," he explained. Sansa watched the women in their elaborate hairstyles and wonderfully painted faces. She admired the diamonds dangling from their ears and the sapphires hanging off their necks. They truly are beautiful, she admitted, yet the way they held their noses in the air at the commonfolk irked her. You are no better than Betsy, she thought when she saw a particularly beautiful woman who seemed bored to tears, despite the applause that erupted at her arrival. At least Betsy was kind. Sansa remembered her friend with a hint of sadness and shifted her gaze from the prostitute, watching the crowd that had formed at the riverbank. She could feel Sandor growing restless, but she was unwilling to leave. Not yet. Her eyes fell on a boy's face in the crowd. Sansa judged him to be a little younger than her, though he was short and skinny. Sansa wondered why he wasn't watching the procession and had his face tilted up towards the bridge instead, boldly watching... Sandor? She watched the expression of hate on the boy's face and the hairs on her arms stood on end when he started in their direction, his hand falling to his hip.

"Sandor," she said, pushing back a little.

"What is it?"

"Can we go, now?" Sansa asked, turning to face him. He looked down at her and smirked.

"I thought you would never ask," he laughed, grabbing her hand and turning, dragging her along behind him as he pushed to make a path. Sansa was a little disappointed that he hadn't been enjoying himself as much as she had, but tried not to think too much into it. He's a warrior, she thought. I should be glad he came with me at all. Sansa noticed he was taking her back home and pulled on his arm till he turned around.

"Can we stop somewhere for a drink? Only I don't want to go home yet," she explained when he looked at her curiously. His face split into a grin and she was relieved the night would last a little longer, at least. All of the places were packed, so Sandor led them down side streets and alleyways, turning corners after corners until they reached a small, reasonably clean inn. Sandor held the door open for Sansa as she entered, and she blushed at his chivalry. He led her to a table far in the corner, washed in shadows and Sansa's stomach fluttered at the intimacy of the little alcove. She sat down and he sat opposite her, staring intently as she fumbled with her hands.

"Wine. Your best." She heard him say to the innkeeper, a small dark man, face deeply lined with age. Sansa looked up at the old man and gave him a small smile when he winked at her. Blushing, she turned back to Sandor who was watching her, his lips a thin white line.

"What's wrong?" Sansa asked, not knowing what could've changed his mood so quick.

"He's a little old, don't you think?" Sandor grumbled, and Sansa laughed. The laughter just wouldn't stop though she was aware of the thunderous look Sandor wore on his face. Let him be jealous, she thought, though she wished it wasn't of a man who had seen his hundredth nameday ten years ago. The old man returned with their wine and two cups and Sansa laughed even harder at the sight of Sandor's source of jealousy. He is even older than John! Sandor mumbled something about it not being that funny, but his objections only fuelled Sansa's hysterics. Sandor pushed a cup of wine at her and she drowned her laughter in the tart liquid. Sansa spluttered and tears sprang in her eyes at the strong taste, briefly wondering whether he knew the wine was strong when he chuckled at her, his earlier jealousy already forgotten.

"Be careful there, little bird," he said, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at her chin. Sansa's eyes flitted over his face as he gently wiped the red liquid from around her mouth. She studied his stormy grey eyes as they focused on her lips. She memorised the scars on his face, the angry red that used to scare her in a different lifetime. Sansa raised her hand and traced the map on the right side of his face, feeling the rugged skin underneath her fingertips. Sandor froze and caught her eyes, a wild kind of fear present in the deep pools of grey. His eyes are nice, she thought. They reminded her of Winterfell, of home, and she felt safe when he was looking at her. She smiled and leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his cheek. She saw the corner of his mouth twitch and kissed him there, too. She leaned back to look at him, the fear in his eyes replaced by something else altogether. Sansa recognised the lust and knew he saw it reflected in her eyes, but instead of kissing her like she thought he would, he grunted and turned away from her, picking up his drink and downing it in one long gulp. Sansa sighed in exasperation and sipped on her own wine, revelling in the way it burned into her stomach.

"We should get a room here, Sandor." Sansa said, shocked as soon as the words flew out of her mouth. Sandor paused with his cup mid-way in the air and turned to look at her, eyes wide.

"Why would we do that?" He asked deliberately, his focus back on the drink he was swallowing down. Sansa reached out and took the cup from his hands, not wanting to compete for his attentions with wine. Damn him!

"Well, because, I mean, we're here, aren't we? And the manse is so far away. We could go back in the morning." She mumbled, knowing it was a poor excuse as the words fell from her mouth. He'll never fall for it, she thought. Sansa lowered her eyes, angry that he made her feel like the little bird she used to be. She didn't mind him calling her one, but her acting like it was different. She thought she had changed but Sandor had the uncanny ability to bring out her foolish side, the side that had died the day she left King's Landing. Or was it the day he had left? Sansa looked down at her hands in her lap, pulling at imaginary loose threads in her skirt. Damn him thrice to hell!

"Aye, if you're too tired to walk, little bird." He conceded, and Sansa jerked her head back up.

"I am not too tired, ser," she snapped, using the title to irk him. It worked because he turned a bright red, his jaws tightening dangerously.

"If you're not tired we can make it back, m'lady," he said through clenched teeth. Sansa bristled at the mocking way in which he said 'm'lady'.

"No. You should know why I want to stay here tonight, or are you that stupid, dog?" Sansa was getting angry, and though she would never dream of calling him 'dog' or 'hound' even, he was pushing all of her buttons. Sansa must've been pushing his too, because he brought his face menacingly close to hers. When he was but a hairsbreadth away from her, he whispered in a voice filled anger and promise, making Sansa lean back in her seat and resist a shiver.

"Why, is the bitch in heat, again?"

Sansa stared at him, wide-eyed, before she pulled back her hand and slapped him across the face, the crack of her hand against his face seeming to echo around the inn. The place was deathly quiet, and all Sansa could hear were his heartbeat and her own frantic breathing. Their eyes held and Sansa saw the anger give way to surprise, surprise give way to laughter and laughter give way to lust. He grabbed Sansa by the waist and pulled her onto his lap, pinching her chin between his forefinger and thumb before bringing his mouth down to claim hers. Sansa brought her own hands up to finger through his hair, pulling lightly as she ran her tongue across his lip from the plump side to the burn. Sandor growled and opened his mouth, sweeping his tongue into hers. Sansa could feel the bulge of his manhood against her bottom and ground down against him, feeling the rumble in his chest as he resisted a moan. Suddenly he broke their kiss off and just stared at her, breathing heavy as Sansa panted, her own breasts heaving. There was a pull between them, a current as tangible as the world itself, and she knew he could sense it because his eyes hooded over and he groaned.

"I trust you, Sandor," Sansa said. She didn't know what was stopping him from taking her so she figured it was some self-inflicted moral-code he thrust upon himself, though she didn't understand why. Sandor seemed to be fighting an internal battle and Sansa leaned forward to press her lips against his. "I trust you. I need you. I love you," she said against his lips, kissing him with each declaration. Something seemed to snap inside him because he abruptly stood up, Sansa falling backwards in a heap of skirts and shame as he stood up and left. Sansa couldn't deny she was sorely disappointed and even more so, she was angry. Perhaps he's just not attracted to you, a voice in her head laughed. Sandor returned within seconds and Sansa stood up, smoothing down her dress with as dignity as she could muster.

"You know- if you don't find me... attractive you could ju-"

"I got us a room."

"What?" Sansa's mouth dropped.

"What in the buggering hells are you talking about?" Sandor's mouth imitated her own.

"I mean, I thought you didn't want me?" Sansa looked down at her feet, the faint feeling of anger returning. Why can't I ever think straight with him? Sandor just laughed at her and Sansa's blush deepened. Why is he always so mean?

"You think I don't want you? I've wanted you from the first day I saw you, girl." Sandor growled, moving to stand inches from Sansa, who looked up and saw the love in his eyes. Love and lust, she thought with satisfaction.

"Then what are you waiting for, Ser?" Sansa said, smiling, and for once Sandor didn't mind the title. He chuckled darkly as he grabbed the top of her arm, dragging her across the common room to a staircase leading to the room he had rented. Sansa stumbled behind him up the rickety flight of stairs, her legs weak with excitement. Her stomach fluttered at the prospect of being with Sandor, and though his sheer size daunted her, she felt nothing but safe with him.