A/N: Thank you all for your reviews! I loved them :-) This chapter is more fluff and emotion than anything else, but it will finally answer some of the questions (and fears) a few of you have about Sansa. Enjoy!

SANSA

The inn was not crowded, thank the Gods. With her head still on Sandor's shoulder, she was brought up to a large bedchamber. It was clean and tidy, with a fire cracking away in the hearth. A large tub had been brought up and placed near the fire, but it lay empty. As Sandor a placed her gently on the lumpy bed she noticed that her body was still shaking. It took some time to realize it was not from cold but rather the pain in her belly and head that made her tremble.

Everything seemed to be happening around her in slow motion; her eyes sweeping around her as if trying to penetrate a dense fog. Even her mind moved slowly. It seemed to take too long to form thoughts, for those thoughts to become words, and for her body to feel anything. She was too numb too feel frightened, too tired to be confused. She just wanted to sleep.

"Little bird?" His familiar rasp brought her a sense of comfort, but it took far too long for her to actually feel it. Her mind knew before her body could respond. Her eyes lifted to his. Her mouth seemed to be the last part of her to respond.

"Yes?" Her voice sounded flat to her ears. She wanted to frown, but was not sure if she could make her face contort the way she wanted.

She heard a sharp intake of breath and felt a large, warm hand rough with callouses move across her icy cheek. Her eyes fluttered closed as she leaned into the heat, the safety her body instantly recognized there, even if her mind was slow to catch up.

"You came for me," she breathed in a soft whisper. Another hand joined the first, cupping her other cheek and lifting her chin slightly. She opened her eyes and saw his flash like silver lightning.

"I would walk through the Seven Hells for you. Fight the Stranger himself if it meant returning you to my side. I would die for you," he said with such vehemence she found no room for doubt in his words. A consuming sense of calm began fighting its way to the surface when a sudden loud knocking on their door sent it retreating back into the depths.

Muttering a curse, she felt him pull his hand away and heard heavy footfalls stomping away from her. Eyes barely opened as she heard hinges groan and voices carrying through the silence.

"I've brought a maester," a low, soft voice murmured. Sansa felt her heart jump. She knew that voice. She fought to make her mind and mouth work as one. Turning her head slightly, she managed a whisper.

"Father?"

She lifted her eyes to see Sandor step aside from the entryway and allow her father passage. He was kneeling in front of her before her mind could catch up with his quick movements.

"Sansa," he breathed with a sigh of relief. He reached out and tucked a lock of her hair away from her face. "You're alright. You're going to be alright."

Am I? Will I? Her mind seemed to taunt her. In truth, she did not know. She did not know much of anything right now. The fog was too thick. She could not think clearly.

"Maester, come inspect her, please," Eddard called over his shoulder.

A man approached from her periphery. His black hair caught her eye first. Then his face. It was young. Too young for a maester. His eyes gleaned malevolently. They seemed to mock her. She felt her heart slamming against her ribs. All at once the fog seemed to lift, her body flying into action as fear shot through her veins and propelled her into the furthest corner of the room.

"STAY AWAY!" she screamed, her voice cracking with the strain.

"Sansa," her father tried calmly, raising his hands towards her, but her eyes were on him. He still advanced. He still stared at her with his cold, blue eyes. An evil smile pulled at his lips.

Sansa slowly withdrew a hand from within her pile of cloaks. It shook wildly, but clutched a dagger which she pointed at the men staring at her in open mouthed shock. Sandor had not even felt her remove it from his belt as they rode to the inn. She had hidden it in the folds of the cloaks in case . . . in case . . .

"No one touches me but Sandor," she rasped lowly.

"Little bird," Sandor tried as he stepped forward. The other two men had frozen. Her wide blue eyes locked on his steel grey as she searched for reassurance, pleading with him to understand.

"You said . . . you said . . ." she began to gasp around sobs that seemed to have taken over her lungs. She did not remember when she started crying. ". . . no one would touch me . . . or . . . or . . ."

She could not continue. Her breaths were too short. Not enough air was getting into her lungs. She felt them burning as her heart beat wildly in her chest. Her head spun and her mind whirled out of control. Closing her eyes, she raised her hands to grasp it, trying to steady herself once more.

She heard them gasp loudly. Heard curses uttered. Heard a slam of a fist on wooden walls. Whispered words.

"Mother, have mercy."

When she opened her eyes again she saw their eyes wide with horror. She saw her father's tears. She saw her husband's fury. Lastly, she saw the maester make the sign of the seven in the air before him. He looked different than before. His hair was still black, but thinning with obvious age. She noted he was older now, though knew it was not possible that he aged in the moments before. His eyes were green, not blue. Quaking with confusion and fear, she stepped back, bumping against the wall. It was then she noticed that she now stood naked, her cloaks pooled on the floor around her feet. Her eyes sought out the only pair she knew would bring hers comfort. His throat pulsed as he swallowed thickly, but returned her gaze while cautiously stepping forward.

"No one will hurt you, little bird," he assured her. She felt her lower lip start to tremble.

"But . . . they already did," she squeaked as tears blurred her vision. She heard his breath hitch and saw his movement halt.

"Sansa," her father called to her softly. She tore her eyes away from Sandor's anguished stare and met her fathers' calm gaze. "The maester only wants to know if you were injured and need treatment."

Sansa shook her head. "I am not . . . I was not . . ."

"You are bleeding, child," the maester spoke in a soothing voice. Her eyes darted to his and saw him indicate to her lower body. Slowly, cautiously, she lowered her chin and let her eyes do a cursory sweep over herself before lifting them back up to be sure no one had advanced on her. The men were perfectly still, giving her time to process what she had seen. There was blood on her thighs, a great deal of it, though she did not understand why.

"I . . . I . . . I," she stammered, unable to come up with an explanation. Swallowing hard, she wracked her brain for something, anything that would give reason for her bleeding.

"Did anyone touch your woman's place?" the maester asked gently. He was trying to be kind, she could tell, but she flinched all the same.

Violently shaking her head, she spat out, "No!" She would have remembered that.

"Are you with child?" he questioned. Again, she shook her head.

"I cannot . . . I," her breathing became tight again. She raised her free hand to her chest, trying to rub the tightness away.

"She does not bleed," Sandor snapped impatiently. The maester cocked his head to the side while his eyes roamed over her thoughtfully.

"Have you had pain in your back or belly, my lady?" he inquired, stronger this time.

She nodded sharply. "Y-Yes."

"For how long?" His eyes narrowed on hers.

"Days," she wheezed through frantic breaths. Her teeth began to chatter again.

Much to her surprise, the maester suddenly smiled at her. He clasped his hands in front of him and nodded his head once. "I do believe you have gotten your first moonblood, my lady."

Everything seemed to screech to a blinding halt around her. Her ears rang around his words and she found she had to play them over in her mind repeatedly before they made any sense to her. She lifted her gaze to his, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Truly?"

"I believe so, yes. All of the symptoms fit, and since you claim that you were not defiled in any way this is the only explanation." He seemed satisfied with himself for giving her this news, though she could not rightly understand why.

"Are you in any pain, my lady?" The maester asked kindly. "I have many remedies that would assist you in getting a restful night's sleep."

Sansa did not want them. Anything he would offer could dull her wits, slow her reflexes. She could not leave herself so open to attack. Not while the Bastard still drew breath. She shook her head as she crouched down and retrieved a cloak, wrapping it around her nakedness.

"Where is he?" she asked tensely. She did not need to be more specific; they knew of whom she spoke.

"Out in the stables being guarded by your brothers, your uncle, and half a dozen other men," her father informed her tightly. Something about his tone caught her attention.

"You think he will escape." It was not a question. Her father snorted derisively. It was not a sound he made often, so it surprised her.

"Not a bloody chance. Even if wasn't incapacitated with his injuries, the wolves would be on him before he made it out of the village."

"Injuries?" Sansa asked confusedly. She could not remember him being hurt. She strained her mind in search of the memory.

Her father's eyes narrowed with concern. "Aye. Do you not remember? Nymeria bit his arm before your husband nearly beat him to death with his own fists."

Her eyes flitted up to Sandor's as the images slowly began to emerge from within the recesses of her mind. Growling wolves. Torch light. Men on horseback. Naked and freezing with a blade to her throat. Collapsing in the snow. Howls of rage. Screams of fear. And blood. So much blood. Then warmth, safety, comfort.

She nodded slightly but would not relent her watching. He matched her gaze unperturbedly, his breathing slow and steady. She was the first one to break away.

"What of Arya?" She was almost afraid to ask. She noted the way her father's face darkened.

"She will heal eventually. She had many cuts that required stitching, but most were not too deep. Only a few bruises besides," his voice seemed to give out. Blessedly, Sandor spoke up before her mind could run away with her fear.

"She was not raped. Violated, but not raped," he told her, eyes heavy with meaning. Sansa felt her stomach drop. She did not want Arya to have her nightmares.

"What happened to the man?" Her eyes floated towards the door as she wondered if he was one of those being held captive.

"Dead," her husband growled.

She arched an eyebrow at him. "How?"

"I ripped his throat out," he replied evenly. She nodded after a spell, satisfied with his answer.

"You should get some rest, Sansa," her father suggested gently. She shook her head, knowing sleep would not come easy to her this night, or for many nights yet to come. It was that way before, too.

"I am not tired," she said quietly. It was a lie. She was exhausted and knew it showed plainly on her face.

"Perhaps a soothing bath? You could wash away the blood," the maester said kindly.

She did not look at him, but nodded all the same. A bath would feel nice. She could feel her mind starting to cloud over again. She did not even try to fight it. Instead she allowed the men to speak and move around her without so much as an upwards glance. She did manage to hum and nod when her father bid her goodnight. She did not think she was capable of much else.

When a knock once again sounded at the door Sansa looked up and found that she had somehow ended up perched on the edge of the bed. Not knowing how she had gotten there, she glances slowly around. Sandor moved aside as a few young women brought in pails of steaming water, sloshing them into the empty tub by the fire. Soft fabrics and nightclothes were left behind as Sandor assured them that he was capable of helping his wife bathe. One woman seemed less convinced than the rest, but the glower that Sandor leveled at her sent her scampering from the room in fear.

He knelt down in front of her, moving with exaggerated slowness and caution. Lifting her eyes to his face she saw his expression blank, almost impassive. Before she could think of what that meant he began speaking in low, quiet tones.

"Let's get you cleaned up. Can I lift you into the tub?" His voice was hesitant, his tone unsure. Feeling her brows pinch together slightly she nodded at him.

Cradling her so carefully you would think she was made of glass, he rose up with her tucked in his arms before turning and setting her very slowly into the hot water. Sansa sucked in a deep breath and sighed in relief as her battered body began to soak up the heat surrounding her. Leaning forward to rest her head on bent knees, she closed her eyes as Sandor delicately worked over her skin with a soft rag. With each gentle pass she felt her body slip further and further into relaxation.

It barely captured her attention when she felt his hands shake against her frame as he slowly brushed soap over her back and arms. She noticed it again as his large palm settled on her shoulder. It was only when she felt herself suck in a jagged breath of much needed air did she realize it was her that trembled, not him. She had begun sobbing before even realizing that the tears had formed.

Her emotions slammed into her with the force of typhoon. Panic, anguish, pain, fear, and relief all battered against her and fought for space at the forefront of her mind. She tried to pull herself into a tighter ball in an effort to contain it, to keep her feelings from overwhelming her, but they pulled at her like an ocean's tide. She hardly noticed that she was being lifted from the tub, wrapped in softness and warmth, and lain down. She gripped onto something solid, something firm, and tried to anchor herself there. If she could just hold on she could keep from drowning. Strength wrapped around her, pulling her into a tight embrace where whispered words floated by heavy with sorrow and grief.

"Forgive me. Please, forgive me."

She did not know how long she battled the swells of emotion that continued to roll through her. She heard howling winds, but never felt the bite of cold. She felt wetness on her cheeks, but never choked on the waters. After a time she could feel her breathing come easier, her heart slow its cadence, and her mind come back into focus. With her body too worn out to shake, she knew it was not her that trembled this time. The arms still wrapped around her tightened as she lifted her swollen eyelids and gazed upon her anchor.

While her tears had stopped, his continued to flow silently down his taunt face. Beneath her hands, still clenched tightly in his tunic, she felt the thrumming of his heart. It was his eyes though, that captured her attention. She had never seen so much remorse in his steely gaze before. He was positively weak with it, and it shook her to her core. Slowly, she released one fist before placing her open palm over his scars. They twitched madly beneath her skin, and she felt the wetness of his tears there.

"I do," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I do forgive you."

He closed his eyes, tears dripping from his lashes. He pulled in several deep breaths while she continued to stroke his face. She finally saw how heavy a burden he had placed on himself, how responsible he felt for all she had endured. It was not fair to him. Not fair at all. She leaned into him, pressing her lips to his briefly before finally giving him the one thing she had withheld for fear he would not accept it.

"I love you, Sandor."

She felt him gasp quietly against her before his arms clutched her to him so tightly that she could scarcely draw breath. Something between a whimper and moan came from the back of his throat as he nuzzled into her neck, burying his face in her hair.

"Sansa," he breathed, his voice shaking.

She stroked his face, feeling the scars twitch and jump beneath her touch while his massive frame quaked around her body. She closed her eyes and allowed the feeling to fill her up completely. It chased away everything else until there was nothing left but security and warmth that she had only ever found in his arms. She whispered the words against his skin repeatedly while she pressed delicate kisses to his brow, his cheek, his hair. She knew that loving him was only half the battle. Convincing him of her love was the rest. She would do it, she knew she would. Eventually he would be as confident in her devotion as she was herself. Maybe then he could allow himself to love her back.

A/N: Are we feeling better now? I know I am ;-) The next chapter should be ready in a week. I've been having heaps of trouble with it though. Had to scrap it four times already. Can't quite figure out which POV it should be in!