Author's Notes: Once again I am blown away by your very nice comments! The holiday is truly and well gone (what holiday, she says and blinks her eyes in vague remembrance) and many things are taking up my time – but I swear I will follow this through!

Summary: "Did it look like I wanted to make you fall for me? Is that how they tell those bloody sers and noble young men to charm a lady: curse at her, make her cook your meals and clean your clothes, insult her at every opportunity and oh yes, talk vulgarly in front of her and if you have a chance to get close, fuck yourself in her presence and grope her as she were a cheap whore waiting for a customer. Aye, I can see that every noble lady would love to get the attention of anyone attending those lessons in charm!"

Sandor

Nothing in his life is as it was before. The days in her company have changed their content, the two of them stealing moments whenever they can to explore the new world whose only inhabitants they are; the explorers in alien shores. Every kiss is an exhaustive excursion to enticing new territories, every touch an electrifying adventure into new, thrilling regions and every look a startling discovery of never-before-seen sights of beauty and splendour.

He still spars with the other men as usual and rides with them when needed - or by himself - once Stranger has recovered from the strain in his leg. Sansa sews with the ladies and attends her letters and books with Lady Catelyn, Arya or the Maester of the Keep, and continues her visits and meetings with smallfolk and his brother's retainers as before. Yet they both know that what they really are living for are those stolen moments in her chambers or in the forest, hiding amongst the trees along novel routes they take when traveling outside the castle. Once they embrace each other daringly in an empty storeroom near the kitchens, when the temptation becomes too much after Sansa runs her hand down his thigh while walking along the corridor, and to his muttered threats of how she should keep her hands where they belong while they are in public, she only grins and sways her hips and asks him challengingly "Or what?".

He knows it is madness, knows it can't continue. He tells her so, and she silences him with her kisses and he soon forgets what he was saying.

The nights belong to them too, at least in their minds, as they can't spend them together – that would be too risky. Besides, he isn't sure whether she would be ready for that in any case, despite her bravado and daring. Their touches are still rather innocent, their other discoveries and feels making them content. Moreover, she is still a maid and Sandor is mindful of that. Yet nothing prevents them thinking about each other; he following the same pattern he has so thoroughly followed for such a long time already, imagining her when pleasuring himself. The big difference is that now instead of only imagining her soft body and its contours, he has actually touched her with his own hands and can bring those caresses back to his mind so vividly that it is almost as if she was there with him, on his pallet. Almost.

And the kisses – he can't explain to himself how such a simple act that always seemed to him so meaningless can be so sweet and intoxicating when it is with her. Sometimes he feels as if he is trying to catch-up with all the kisses he has missed in his life; with her, here and now.

He senses how his reservedness melts away when he is with her, responding to her earnestness and trust. Hence the disturbance, when it comes, is so unexpected.

They sit in Sansa's solar, she resting on his lap, when after the first furtive kisses she draws herself away and looks disconcerted. Her face bears an expression he has learned to mean that she wants to ask something, but for one or another reason hesitates.

"Out with it, girl," he says good-heartedly, toying with a strand of her hair. She looks at him, bites her lip and asks the strangest question.

"Why did you fall for me? Why are you here, kissing me and holding me?"

He startles. What kind of a question is this? He thinks it to be blatantly obvious that he longs after her, wants her, loves her – although the exact words have not been spoken.

"What do you mean? Do you want me to list all your good qualities as reasons why I have followed you across the realm? Aye, I can do that. Although to be frank I don't know where to start." He still thinks this is some kind of coquettishness on her part, young woman wanting to hear flattering words about her charms. Hells, he has no objections to fulfil that wish!

Yet she stays his arm he is about to curl around her neck. "No, tell me why you are really here?" Her eyes are sharp and scrutinise him intently.

"Why do you ask? Where does this question come from?" He shifts, frowning as he looks at her. She stands up and sits opposite him, never dropping her eyes away from him.

"You heard the prophecy long, long time ago. You knew what to expect; a redheaded girl with whom you would fall in love with, marry, get a lordship and four children, isn't that it?" He stares at her, still not quite following what she is trying to say. Her eyes narrow.

"When you met me, did you try to make the prophecy to work? Is that why you rescued me, why you took me away from King's Landing? You knew I was the daughter of one of the oldest Houses in the Seven Kingdoms. Did you see the logic in it; making me fall in love with you and getting all you were expecting to get by that?"

He curses, not realising at first that instead of doing it quietly in his mind, he actually swears out loud.

"Bloody oath, girl! What is this madness? Didn't I tell you how long I dismissed the whole fucking prophecy as nonsense? A crazy drivel spewed out by an old lunatic whose head was probably as full of bird-shit as her tent! Didn't I?" His tone softens slightly when he sees her still staring at him, tenseness visible all over her body.

"I didn't want to have anything to do with you, at first. I thought you were just an ignorant, empty-headed highborn's spawn. Why did I save you? Fuck if I know myself. I just couldn't let them have you…" his voice fades away when he remembers how hard and how long he tried to resist her and everything she represented. His weakness, that's what she was. He feels frustration taking over him.

"Did it look like I wanted to make you fall for me? Is that how they tell those bloody sers and noble young men to charm a lady: curse at her, make her cook your meals and clean your clothes, insult her at every opportunity and oh yes, talk vulgarly in front of her and if you have a chance to get close, fuck yourself in her presence and grope her as she were a cheap whore waiting for a customer. Aye, I can see that every noble lady would love to get the attention of anyone attending those lessons in charm!"

Is that what she thinks? That I too am after only her position and her inheritance? That I planned the whole damn thing? What a mockery, after all he went through trying to ignore her and the bloody prophecy.

When he glances at her, still fuming indignantly, something in her demeanour catches his eye. He has seen that same thing before: it is fear in her eyes. That, and anxiety and uncertainty. Suddenly it all becomes clear to him and for a moment he doesn't know whether he should weep or curse or laugh. Instead, he sighs and stretches his hand to her, slowly and carefully, holding her eyes in his.

"Sansa, why do you really ask this from me? Don't tell me that you for a moment think that I planned this whole thing. That I want you only to fulfil some damned divination?"

Her posture relaxes a bit and she takes the prodded hand and squeezes it weakly. He pulls her to him and she follows, albeit slowly. He places her back on his lap and lifts her chin with his forefinger. She raises her eyes and in them he sees his whole life; his soul, his heart, his wishes and desires, all reflected back to him from the depths of her big blue eyes. And the emotions so deep that had he not already lost himself to her, they would have frightened him.

"Little bird, hear me, and hear me well. I don't give a rat's arse about your name, or your house, or your noble blood. Were you the lowest street-urchin in the Fishmonger's Square or the cheapest whore in Flea Bottom, I would feel the same for you." She meets his gaze and slowly he sees some of her self-assurance returning.

Quietly she whispers to him, "And what is that?"

He has avoided this moment, it being so far removed from the way he has lived his life and from his previous experiences. He has thought it to be a difficult, if not impossible thing to say and do; to admit his vulnerability and weakness – like giving an unsheathed dagger into someone's hands and pressing it against his own stomach. Yet at this moment nothing comes easier to him than those few words.

"I love you, Sansa. More than life itself. And don't you ever believe any different."

There, in front of his eyes, she changes. The sharp-eyed woman is gone, so is the unsure and anxious girl. Her lips curve into a smile and she whispers, "I love you too, Sandor. And don't you ever believe differently."

She embraces him fully now, squeezing him long and hard, he returning her grip with a measured force so not to crush her. He closes his eyes and wonders how something he had thought to leave him hollow and exposed instead fills with him strength he didn't knew he had missed, until now.