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Long after Sansa fell asleep, Sandor gently caresses her back, wondering at how small she is in his arms. Her slow, even breaths rise and fall against his chest in a soothing rhythm and yet sleep is elusive to the exhausted man. The moonlight illuminates her face and he can see her dark red eyelashes fluttering occasionally against her porcelain cheeks. Watching her sweet face lost in tranquil dreams, Sandor is amazed that a beast like him is capable of imparting such a deep sense of comfort and reassurance in this delicate, beautiful little bird tucked securely beneath him.
A familiar darkness settles over Sandor and with it a much different scene from their past emerges. During their conversation in the Red Keep, he drunkenly forced her to look upon his scars in the torchlight. Frightened, Sansa cried and twisted away from him; though in hindsight he could not say if it was the sight of his disfigurement or his harsh, sullen manner that upset her more.
Against all odds the very same women he once terrified now has wrapped herself around him as she slumbers in his arms. They have come a long way from the heated exchange serpentine steps; it feels like a lifetime ago and looking back to that night he hardly recognizes the man was then.
Though he prides himself on being a hard man, Sandor revels in the contentment she brings him. Throughout his life Sandor has longed for the warm reassurance of human touch and aside from his sister, there have been precious few who ever offered. Sansa's questions about shield mates initially amused him, later giving way to gloomier, more unpleasant memories for the man.
After Gregor killed his parents and sister, Sandor left home on his twelfth name day to squire for Ser Amory Lorch. Horrified by the slaughter and violence surrounding him, Sandor discovered he was both unwilling and unable to wallow in the bloodshed as Gregor did. Eventually, as the sack of King's Landing progressed, a blessed numbness overcame him during battle but that did little to assuage the raw grief of losing his family, the unrelenting hunger and cold and uncertainty of survival that plagued him.
When Sandor let down his guard and showed signs of his struggle, Ser Amory Lorch and Gregor mocked him for it. One day Jaime Lannister handed him a flagon, telling him this was how his father taught him to come to grips with difficulty. No one dared mock the son of Tywin for showing an act of kindness to a scarred squire and thus Sandor learned to choke down his fear with wine. He and Jaime whiled away many an hour sharing a wineskin over the years that followed and it was the most consolation he hoped to experience at that time.
The relief the wine brought was temporary and quickly followed by the usual miseries of overindulgence. As soon as the army reached a semblance of a town, Sandor was always among the first to hurry to the nearest wine sink or brothel in search of a woman, eager to explore a new means of solace. Though Jaime warned him it was folly, he ignored the lion and gladly handed over his hard-earned coin for a chance at relief to whoever was willing to ignore his scars.
All the men laughed and made bawdy jokes about his appetites when he returned. Little did they know the increasingly fierce Hound was not merely eager for the sexual experience (though he certainly enjoyed that as well) but even more, he longed to be touched kindly, not only during battle or brawling with men eager to challenge him because of his size.
Though he would have stubbornly refuted it at the time, as a grown man Sandor cannot deny what he really craved most was the intimacy of touch, to feel the warmth of the skin of another against his own, of hands running along his back and through his hair. There was no love with these nameless women to be sure, but there was comfort and consolation. In those brief moments Sandor felt like a man, not merely a brutal weapon of the Lannisters. The experience with women was new and satisfying to him and yet all too short-lived, leading the young man to seek it out when the opportunity presented itself.
Before long he would find himself in the heat of battle once more, longing for the solace only human contact provided. Ashamed by his weakness, Sandor alternated between burying his feelings in his anger and drowning them with copious amounts of wine.
From time to time he would often curiously observe how shield mates would massage the other's sore muscles after battle, bathe and care for wounds or sleep huddled together for warmth. Eventually to his great surprise he learned some men took it even further, and Sandor would have sworn and cursed the man who suggested he take on such a mate for himself. But the frightened young man within the scarred warrior longed for the tenderness such companionship provided and in circumspect the memory of his desperation and need for someone, anyone, to ease his despair troubles Sandor deeply.
Over time comfort became elusive to him, and Sandor learned soon enough that the soldiers were no more willing to gaze upon his scarred appearance than the women he met, adding to his wretchedness. No one offered to be his shield mate or would even look him in the face, let alone touch him willingly. Anger soon replaced his fear and shame fueled his fury. Hardening his heart against the world, he learned to forge his shame, terror, and emptiness into a singular black rage, into the Hound.
So successful was his transformation that he all but forgot the man Sandor Clegane, until the day the little bird shyly looked him in the face and smiled at him. He remembers how her soft skin called to him, and unable to resist the urge, he gently stroked her cheek as he looked down at her.
The little bird then did what no one had ever done before; her smile broadened at the feeling of his touch, and gazing up at him with unspoken gratitude, she gently touched his hand that cradled her face. Sandor knew then and there his life would never be the same and he had been right; from that day forward Sandor finally found in Sansa all the comfort, love and affection he longed for his entire life.
As Joffrey's sworn shield, Sandor overheard the joking among the court, alerting him to the unconventional relationship between Loras Tyrell and the king's youngest brother. Though he could not say he understood or shared their somewhat unusual appetites, after his own experiences neither would Sandor fault Rely or Loras for seeking such comfort among the backstabbing minions of the court.
If they found more than that in each other, Sandor felt it was no one's business but theirs alone. He made it a point to stay out of the jesting and bullying of the two men. Much to his surprise, so did the always sharp-tongued Jaime Lannister; upon hearing the vulgar remarks of the others the two men often exchanged knowing glances, each feeling their own loneliness gave them a unique perspective on the men.
Certainly if the so-called respectable highborn class would see fit to overlook Gregor's raping and murdering women, children, and even Tywin's own weaker soldiers, they could ignore the private goings on of two grown men, Sandor figured while at the same time knowing all too well from his own experience how unacceptable any perceived difference would be in court. Such thoughts filled his mind as he spoke to Sansa, and the man was deeply moved that his little bird tried to understand; and in her innocent comments Sandor discovered yet another area in which his beloved wife revealed her seemingly endless amount of compassion.
Drawing Sansa close to his chest, Sandor thinks how grateful he is for all the affection and love his wife shows him. Whether it is her gentle embraces, passionate kisses, holding his hand or brushing the hair from his eyes, she has fulfilled his heart's desire, to love and be loved in return. She is his only need and he hungers for her attentions like a starving man longs for food. Now that he has experienced her love, he will never be able to live without it, without her and Sandor falls asleep thanking the gods for his beloved wife and praying he will never be parted from her.
A hooting barn owl lands in the rafters of the stables, rousing Sansa from sleep. So vivid, so beautiful was her dream that for a fleeting moment she is not sure where she is. Annoyed by the interruption, Sansa cuddles into Sandor, hoping to quickly return to her dreams.
Sandor was leading her by the hand along the banks of a wide crystalline river, the late afternoon sunlight sparkling amidst the icy waves. Snow-capped peaks shimmered in the distance and the air carried the familiar crisp smell of the north. The sun warmed her face, the feeling in sharp contrast to the chilly air surrounding them and Sansa shivered in response.
Sandor noticed and removed his cloak, wrapping it securely around her. His normally keen gray eyes softened as he grinned at her, resting his large hand against her stomach. When she glanced down to rest her hand over his, Sansa laughed in delight, discovering she was heavy with child. "Enough walking for today, wife," Sandor rasped softly, his scarred mouth twitching into a smile as he steered her back toward a grand two-story log home towering among a picturesque stand of evergreen trees.
The scene changed and Sansa found herself lying in a huge downy feather bed with a massive weirwood frame covered in luxuriant furs. Servants soon brought in hot stones to place at her feet while Sandor stoked the great stone fireplace nearby.
"Come to me, my love," she smiled, beckoning to her husband. Sighing contentedly, Sandor laid down beside her and reached over her body. Sansa followed his hand to a chubby infant nestled between them: a beautiful baby girl with porcelain skin, a head full of Tully red curls and keen gray eyes. "You have given me a most beautiful daughter, wife," Sandor rasps into her ear, the baby cooing at the sound of her father's voice.
"Is this our home?" Sansa asked, dazed by the entire scene. Barking out his familiar laugh, Sandor nuzzled into her hair. "You must have lost more blood than the maester thought if you don't recognize our bedroom. Go to sleep, lass."
Tears welled in her eyes as she smiled up at him. "None of that," Sandor growled softly. "What shall we name the babe?"
"Sarah, after your beloved sister," Sansa answered without hesitation. Sandor swallowed hard before smiling, "Aye, a fine name indeed."
She felt so contented, so very peaceful in that place and then the blamed owl began calling and interrupted her perfect dream. Was Father trying to share something of their future or was it that Sandor's detailed account of his own that entered her dreams? Burrowing down closer to Sandor, she nuzzles into his neck, hoping sleep will soon return.
At her movement, Sandor grumbles slightly in sleep and pulls her closer, his hand gripping her hip possessively. The scratchiness of his beard against her cheek, the feel of his muscular chest against her and the warm masculine scent of him both comforts and arouses her. Unable to resist waking him, Sansa begins placing delicate kisses on the tender skin of his neck below his beard.
"Little bird," he rasps low, his voice thick with slumber. "What do you think you're doing?"
"I am loving you, husband," she murmurs against his skin, brushing the hair away from his neck for better access to his skin.
His rasping laugh rumbles in his chest. "Here? In the blacksmith's loft? Not very highborn of you, lass."
"Husband, you speak truly but it does not matter; I want you here, now," she whispers, brazenly unlacing his breeches.
"And why is that?" he mutters, reaching into her breeches and caressing her hips and bottom.
"I dreamed of you," she says simply, wriggling out of her pants and tunic, then loosening his before taking him in hand.
"Little bird," he sighs as Sansa begins firmly stroking his manhood with both hands. "Gods, woman but you can get a rise out of me faster than anything."
Giggling softly, she moves her hand along his length before guiding him inside her in one strong downward thrust, causing both of them to moan loudly. "Quiet, Little bird," Sandor groans through gritted teeth.
"My love," she gasps when Sandor quickly flips her onto her back, rubbing his length against her wet entrance several times before entering her once more. "Shh, Little bird; if we're going to do this, you must stay quiet," he chuckles low, nibbling on the skin over her hammering pulse.
Holding his face in her hands, Sansa stares deep into his eyes, relishing the raw passion raging with in them as he loves her.
"Yes, oh yes, my love," Sansa whispers into his hair as he begins moving inside her with the strong fluid motion of his hips. Heatedly matching the rhythmic movement of her hips to his thrusts, it does not take long for both of them to reach their completion. Clutching him tightly, Sansa bites down on his shoulder to muffle her cry of pleasure.
After his breathing returns to normal, Sandor carefully helps her back into her clothes before relacing his breeches. "Seven hells but you're spirited," he chuckles softly, his own eyes reflecting the tender regard he sees in his wife.
"Dearest, I love you; that is all the stimulation I need," she whispers against his mouth, kissing him several times before snuggling down into his arms once more.
Sandor is awake at dawn, and while allowing Sansa a few extra minutes of sleep, he packs their things and readies the wagon. The loss of his warmth awakens her and soon she is up readying a simple meal of bread, hard yellow cheese, fruit, tea and milk to break their fast. "We'll eat a better meal tonight, love. Perhaps we will come across a more respectable inn to stay in."
Remembering to remain silent, Sansa merely nods, her eyes twinkling at him.
"I was thinking some about your behavior while among the townsfolk. You ought to gesture with your hands when I speak to you; I recall seeing Lord Varys' servants doing such. You know, he only kept mute servants who were unable to read or write in his quarters, lest someone overhear the Spider's secrets and tell the wrong person."
Frowning, Sansa nods and then slightly flaps her hands in the air while watching Sandor.
"Yes, like the mockingbird, Littlefinger," he laughs, nodding. "You're a smart one."
Grinning, she nods excitedly, happy with the success of her first attempt.
"Also, we're trying to make people think you're a boy, which is hard enough with that sweet face and lush body of yours. You must stay covered up with the fur cloak Elder brother gave you, it's heavy enough to disguise your abundant charms," he winks and grins wickedly at her, causing a deep blush to flood her cheeks. "And no smiling, got it? Men don't smile as much as women and you're supposed to remember your place so only give the barest glances at people, alright?"
Sansa nods and then takes his hand, kisses it tenderly and rests it on her cheek.
"Yes it would be nice to find a warm bed tonight, it's fucking cold up here," he growls low, brushing the hair from her eyes. "Being with you is softening me up."
Raising her eyebrow suggestively, Sansa shakes her head and looks into his lap, causing Sandor to laugh long and hard at her implication. "Bloody hells I've corrupted you; making bawdy suggestions when you're not even talking now, are you?"
Laughing softly, she nods as the blacksmith comes in to begin work. "Mornin' holy man," he grunts, moving about to get the fires going for the day's work. "Sleep well in the loft?"
"Good enough. Many thanks," Sandor nods, handing him more coin.
"Did you hear noises out here last night? My wife insisted there was foul play afoot."
"Only some raccoons but they didn't disturb us none," Sandor rasps, holding in his laughter with difficulty.
"Glad to hear it. I'll set the dogs in here tonight. Will you all be back later?"
"Might be, if we get all our supplies. If not, I might take the boy to an inn, he looks poor this morning. You got a respectable inn around here?"
Laughing the blacksmith shakes his head. "You stayed in the only respectable place left in Maidenpool last night, septon."
Grunting, Sandor nods and hands the man two more coins. "Then hold our place, will you?"
"Aye, I will at that," the man replies, fingering the stags. "Might want to see Willem in the supply store in the next village over, right before the orchard for your purchases. He's honest and will give you a good price and there are no soldiers to bother with your boy.
"Heard about that, did you?"
Nodding, the blacksmith spits in disgust. "The men around here now are the foulest louts you're like to come across. You're welcome store your things here for the night with what you just gave me, I'll fix a lock for you as well."
"Thanks again," Sandor replies, then offers his hand to the man. "I was once a knight before I converted; I can guard my purchases well enough but a lock would be most appreciated."
"Glad to do it; it'll keep you and the boy safer, that," the blacksmith grunts. "Jon's a fine boy and respects his elders; he don't deserve the men around here botherin' him. Give him some honeyed ale before bed, that'll set him aright. If that don't work my wife makes elderberry syrup that should set him up nicely."
"I'll do just that. See you tonight," Sandor says, gesturing for Sansa to climb into the wagon.
After an hour's travel they reach the sleepy little village and promptly locate the supply store. Sandor finds Willem to be just as blacksmith described: fair and both eager to please and make a large sale. In several hours' time, the couple manages to complete the shopping for the village and Willem offers to store their supplies while they enjoy a meal.
With Sansa by his side, Sandor feels far more relaxed in this environment than Maidenpool. A brief look around town tells him there are far fewer people, mostly just a few older villagers. As far as he can see there are no Lannister soldiers, brothels or wine sinks to be had and the sole dining establishment is in reality just a private home set up with long tables for guests.
The stout elderly woman running the place approaches as they enter the dining area, smiling and wiping her hands on her apron. "I'm Annie. Would ya be likin' a table, septon?"
"Yes, preferably one toward the back, facing the door."
Sizing up the large man in front of her, Annie nods. "You was a soldier before a holy man, I'll wager. I've got just the spot. You and the boy come along now."
Seating them next to the window, the elderly lady turns the table facing the door as Sandor requested. "We got beefsteak, lamb stew, cheese, baked apples, porridge, brown ale and for the boy, milk."
"Bring two of everything, milady," Sandor grunts, settling himself in the small dining room chair. "Here's a bit to bring it to the table faster and more where that came from if there's lemon cakes to be had."
"Aye, I baked a batch this morn for my grandson. They're all yours, good septon," she grins, biting the coin.
"Leave some for your boy; a plate will do us fine."
Hurriedly the woman returns with her grandson, both loaded down with steaming dishes. The delicious aroma immediately sets Sansa's mouth to watering and Sandor chuckles watching his wife greedily eying the plate of lemoncakes before her.
"Many thanks," Sandor nods, handing the boy a coin. "Dig in, boy," he rasps with a laugh.
Sansa, ever the proper lady, daintily begins slicing her lemoncake into quarters. "No, no, Little bird," he whispers. "Eat like a man; like you've seen me eat."
Nodding, she picks up the lemoncake with her hands and shoves the entire pastry in her mouth, wiping off the crumbs with the back of her hand and sending Sandor into fits of laughter. "That's the way," he grins approvingly.
The meal passes by pleasantly with Sandor and Sansa eating their fill, talking of plans to speak to Elder brother about staying on at the Quiet Isle once they return from the trip. Sansa sits with her back to the dining room, nodding and smiling at his words, carefully making gestures as necessary for communication.
A large group of men enter the dining room, quickly transforming Sandor's easygoing demeanor into his typical guarded countenance once more. "Good afternoon, septon!" The oldest man calls, raising his tankard in Sandor's direction.
"Afternoon. What's the word?" Sandor rasps politely, his strained attempt at civility threatening to make Sansa laugh.
"A wedding, septon, that promises to bind two of the finest and oldest houses in Westeros. Heard it from my lord this morning."
"Oh, yes?" Sandor asks disinterestedly. "Which ones will be joining?"
"House Frey will join House Tully in a moon's turn. Edmure Tully will take Roselyn Frey to wife to appease old Walder for Robb Stark's folly. It should patch things up nicely."
Sandor watches Sansa's eyes grow huge but she says nothing, merely tugs at her cloak. Her husband catches the reference and asks, "Where will the wedding take place? I'd guess Riverrun, as it is the seat of the groom."
"Aye, you'd think so, but no; it is to be held at the Twins. Odd indeed, I'd say; the bedding will take place at the seat of the bride's father, most unusual. Word is to accommodate the Young Wolf himself; it is said he will attend with Lady Catelyn of House Stark, Lord Eddard's widow. It will be a fine thing to see that rift mended and such bodes well for all of us."
"Indeed," Sandor rasps, raising his mug to the man while watching Sansa's reaction. "The Seven bless the couple and their houses."
"The Seven bless the couple and their houses," everyone in the room chimes in, after the Southern tradition of repeating a septon of the Seven's blessing. Visibly paling, Sansa lowers her eyes to her cup, her knuckles whitening in a tight grip but still she says nothing.
Annie returns and hands several packages of neatly packed food to Sandor. "For your trip, septon. Would you allow me a blessing? I have the coin."
"You made us a fine meal; consider the blessing my thanks," Sandor says.
"Won't ya make the sign o'the Seven over me, brother?" Annie asks, puzzled.
Coughing, Sansa touches her forehead and chest, reminding Sandor of the way Elder brother gestured over them before they left. Making the sign of the Seven pointed star, Sandor roughly barks, "The Seven bless and keep you."
"Thank you, septon. May the Seven go with you and yours."
"Many thanks," Sandor replies awkwardly and when Sansa glances his way she notices he is gritting his teeth, all the while his face colors clear to the neck of his tunic.
Once they are outside, Sansa cannot suppress her laughter. "Fuck, Little bird. Buggering old lady, asking me of all people for a blessing," he grumbles, roughly tugging at his hooded cloak. "Lucky we didn't get struck by lightning."
Smiling, Sansa nods, her eyes twinkling with fun. "About the Young Wolf," he coughs, dragging the toe of his boot in circles in the dirty street. "You want to go to the Twins? I'll take you to him, if you wish it. We can leave once we deliver our load to the Quiet Isle."
Frowning, Sansa shakes her head and draws a line across her throat, indicating they will speak of it later as she climbs into the wagon.
When they return to Maidenpool, the town is alive and crawling with Lannister soldiers. "Reinforcements to search for the Imp," Sandor mutters, scowling as they ride the heavily packed wagon through the town. Raising her eyebrows, Sansa seeks his eyes questioningly. "Aye, I was wondering the same thing. I, too, wouldn't mind getting out on the road but we will lose the sun in a few hours from now so it's better if we stay here. We can hide at the blacksmith's."
Nodding, Sansa ties her scarf over the lower portion of her face, obscuring all but her eyes. "So, the septon with the pretty boy are back at last," one soldier staggers over to the wagon. "I've struck out with these whores."
"Not enough coin for the wenches, is that it? What did you do with what I gave you?"
"Drank and gambled it up, septon. Can you spare any more or mayhaps sell me the boy?"
"The boy isn't for sale. You best move on; I'll give you a bit more," Sandor growls low, tossing the coin into the dirty street. "That buys our privacy, got it? No more interruptions from you men or I might just forget my vows."
"Ser, you remind me of the man I used to squire for; Sandor Clegane was his name. You ever heard of him?" Brad Lannister says, walking out of the inn and watching the soldier scramble for the coin.
"Aye, I heard of the man. Buried him, too."
"You buried Sandor Clegane?"
"The Hound, as was. You men need not worry about him anymore."
Stunned disbelief fills the man's face. "The Hound is dead…that information should fetch a favor or two in King's Landing. Who killed him?"
"The Hound died from an old wound."
"Bet he got it at Blackwater," one of the other soldiers commented darkly. "I saw him fight that night. He cut through the Baratheon soldiers like they were made of sand. I never saw one man kill so many."
"First Gregor, now Sandor," whistles Brad. "Hard to imagine they are both gone."
Clearing his throat, Sandor nods gravely. "Your men are on the Quiet Isle searching for the Imp as we speak for murdering the king. Have any of you men seen any sign of Tyrion Lannister in these parts?"
"No, not yet. The extra soldiers you see about were sent in preparation for the King's funeral, keeping the Kingsroad clear of thieves and vagrants at the Queen Regent's orders."
"How good of her; her subjects will be most grateful," Sandor hisses, barely concealing his rage. "What news of King's Landing?"
"The place is a madhouse preparing of King Joffrey's funeral. All the major houses loyal to the Iron throne are attending."
What else, you say?" Sandor asks, observing the man is drunk and likely to offer more details.
"Oh, and Queen Cersei gave Haranhall to Lord Baelish for allying our family with the Tyrells. After the funeral he will be traveling to stake his claim. No doubt Lord Baelish intends on resuming the search for the Stark girl; the man is obsessed and cannot accept she is dead."
Sansa gasps at this information but Sandor coughs deeply, covering for her. "Hmm, grief does strange things to people," Sandor comments, his voice devoid of emotion and Sansa recognizes the tone well from their days in the Red Keep. "Thank you for the news. If we see Tyrion we'll send for you. Remember my words; that coin buys my solitude this evening."
Sansa touches her forehead and then her chest and so Sandor makes the sign of the Seven over the soldiers.
"Many thanks, septon," Brad calls, waving as the couple departs from the square.
"Good gods, Sandor," Sansa chokes out once the blacksmith leaves, pacing back and forth and wringing her hands. "Robb and Mother are going to the Twins for the wedding? Just hearing those words gives me a sinking feeling."
"Aye, it doesn't sound good. Should we make for the Twins?" Sandor offers again, carefully watching his distressed wife. Frowning, Sansa closes her eyes and remains silent for several long moments. "No," she finally whispers. "I feel such dread at the idea; perhaps Father does not wish it. What say you?"
"I think the Starks should stay as far away from the bloody Freys as possible, for all their 'joining of families' nonsense. Liars one and all; they cannot be trusted."
"I feel the same way, too," she says sadly. "But Sandor, I just know even if we went to Robb he and Mother would be far more preoccupied with our marriage than listening to our warnings. I…I hardly can explain it myself. I confess I do not know what to do."
Sandor tries to hide his relief at Sansa's words. "Call to your Father, lass. He will answer, as he did before, believe that. It worked with Gregor," he shrugs, biting into an apple.
"Yes, yes I will do that very thing. Would you…consider also calling to him?" Sansa asks weakly, reaching for his hand. "In my dreams, Father always tells me to stay with you, that you are family as well. If you do not wish it, I understand," she hurriedly adds, looking down at their entwined fingers.
Though Sandor has never kept any gods, he finds it impossible to deny his beautiful little bird anything, especially when her eyes are filled with such hope. Tilting her chin up to him, he gazes into her eyes and grins at her. "Aye wife, you know I'd do damn near anything for you."
Smiling broadly, Sansa impulsively throws her arms around him. "Oh thank you, husband! You are so good to me; this greatly puts my mind at ease."
"Careful girl; the blacksmith is still around and the way you look in those breeches is mighty tempting."
Sansa hurriedly moves away from him all the while smiling shyly, earning a barking laugh from her husband. "Perhaps later, then," she whispers, blushing.
"Later, then," he answers hoarsely, staring at her with all his might.
That night as they prepare for bed, each of them silently calls to Eddard for guidance, after which the couple falls into a deep, dreamless sleep. "I do not understand it, Sandor," Sansa grumbles, disappointed, the following morning as they leave Maidenpool behind them.
"Patience, lass. He'll come to us when the time is right, just as before. If there is no reply, we'll talk to Elder brother about it when we reach the Quiet Isle, alright?"
"Yes, I will try to be patient," Sansa agrees, patting his leg. Raising his head, Sandor inhales the sharp clean smell of the air. "Storm's on the way."
The words no more than leave his mouth and a sudden snowstorm bears down over the land. "Winter is coming for us all," Sansa says thoughtfully, watching the fat snowflakes descending upon them.
"We cannot stop and make camp with this load, Sansa; we'll have to push through to the cabin."
"I do not mind," she smiles, moving closer to him covering the both of them in furs.
Late in the evening, the couple reaches the brother's cabin. After unloading the supplies, Sandor hastily builds a fire while Sansa prepares their bedding and evening meal in front of the fireplace.
Exhausted, the couple eats in haste, eager to burrow under the warm furs. Stripping out of their wet clothes, they nestle in each other's arms, reveling in the pleasurable warmth of their nude bodies pressed together under the blankets. With her soft skin against his, Sandor cannot resist making love to his little bird and afterward it does not take long for sleep overtakes the weary couple, the crackling of the fireplace the only sound as the snow falls outside.