Thank you again for your support and enthusiasm. I hope you've been enjoying the "resolutions" to the storylines so far. I am purposefully leaving things a little open as, just like in real life, there's much more to tell than what is here. I may feel inclined to write another "epic" story with these characters within the AU I've created—or you're welcome to as well just link me to it so I can enjoy as well. Much of it depends upon what you all want and how much I'm inspired to do. There are still quite a few chapters left to this story before I feel it has come to resolution enough to suit me. So, until then, enjoy and cheers!

Not Your Average Love Story: Alysanne

This place between worlds was strange, horrific, fascinating, enchanting, and Alysanne wondered if she would ever leave it. She knew she lay in a bed at Winterfell and was no longer at the Wall. She knew this because she could hear the voices of the living, could even see them sometimes, but she could never reach out to them, speak to them, let them know she was still here. Yet, Alysanne could also hear the voices of the dead. She saw them as they took their places with their respective ancestors in the realms of the dead, as some took to wandering the realms to find the redemption or rest they'd never found while alive, and as some chose to stay closer by to the living as specters to move in the wind and water.

She saw the others stuck in this in-between. Alysanne could talk to these more readily, could even touch them if she wanted, but she didn't want to. She wanted more than anything for her mind, her heart, her body, to choose one or the other and be rid of this in-between. Bran Stark seemed more content than she to be in this limbo. His time spent with the three-eyed raven had changed him from the young crippled boy eager to live to something else, something near otherworldly. Where she found frustration in the seeing and knowing but the inability to DO, Bran continued to soak it all up, as if he wanted to test the limits of human knowledge—surpass it altogether—and to prove himself in his own ability to recall details. While they'd spent much time together in the first days of this in-between, ever since this difference between them had become glaringly apparent, Alysanne had left Bran to his knowledge gathering and had gone to explore on her own.

She had nothing against him, and Alysanne knew he did not hold her reluctance to spend more time with him against her. Alysanne could see with each successive day spent in this in-between, Bran lost more of his ability to empathize and emote, so it was doubly unlikely that he'd resent her for much of anything at this point. Alysanne recalled what he'd been like when they'd first met. Marginally more emotive than now, Bran been the first to guess her ancestry with the Children of the Forest accurately and it'd been Bran who'd advocated for her presence by his side during the fight against the Night King. She'd been first wounded in protecting him during his warging and he'd been protecting her when she'd dealt the killing blow to the Night King when he'd fallen first into the limbo. It had been because of Bran, as Alysanne knew now, that she hadn't died of her wounds and had instead been brought into this in-between. Alysanne didn't know yet if she wanted to thank Bran for his efforts though.

One of the perks of this limbo was being able to travel anywhere, see anything, and do anything without being limited by time and space, or body. Of course, yes, there were limits in who to touch and whether folks could see and hear her, but aside from that, there were no real limits. After a few days of staring at Sandor as he'd stared at her body, Alysanne had had to retreat from her body and from that place. It pained her too much to see Sandor suffer like that. And so, she'd taken to "traveling" from one region to another where there were other people stuck in the in-between with whom she could communicate. Some had managed to set up a life of sorts, developing a culture surrounding the realities of the in-between and Alysanne found this to be as equally admirable as it was disturbing. How could someone grow so satisfied with the in-between that they refused to commit either way? What must their families be like back in the land of the living, watching the body of their loved one waste away without any indication of inner life and soul? She did not want that and so hoped in her travels she could find the answer that would bring her back into her body fully again—or kill her altogether.

At this moment, Alysanne was in a village on a far continent watching a celebration among the locals. Many had taken to dancing in the streets, the pounding drums and rhythmic tambourines hypnotic in the background to their swaying and leaping about. Numerous bonfires dotted the middle of the wide road and torches burned from near every post lining the street. All the fires made the air warmer than it indeed was, as when Alysanne breathed out, she could see her breath and when she was not near the light of a fire, she felt a chill press at her skin. It was still an odd sensation, to feel in this in-between and yet not feel anything at all, like a ghost sensation, muted from what it was supposed to be, and altogether strange.

The shadows of the fires made graceful silhouettes of the dancer's forms. Their colorful outfits swirled together in a rainbow of brilliant colors, first one darting here, and then another darting there. Mostly reds and blacks, but with a few greens and blues, the flowing skirts and thin blouses pressed against the limber bodies. A pair of stringed instruments joined the drums and tambourines, and the music claimed her senses, almost lulling her into a trance-like state of awareness. Part of her was already with the dancers, twirling and swaying to the rhythmic music, but the other part remained silent and unmoving.

Alysanne's eyes traveled the crowd, seeing both the living, the dead, and the in-between. There were several locals partnered up and dancing, or some who had begun dancing but now had foregone it all together and were getting about to the lovemaking, uncaring that they were out-of-doors and in public. The uninhibited nature of the festival had Alysanne remembering the night she'd gotten drunk and had thrown herself at Sandor. It was a bittersweet memory, more bitter now that she didn't know if she'd be able to return to her body to see clarification and resolution with Sandor.

It had been at one of the last inns they'd found refuge at on the way north, nearly two months after first traveling together. They rarely stayed at inns, but Beric had known this one as a supporter for his band of men and so they'd made an exception. Alysanne remembered feeling cold, colder than she'd ever been in her life and had mistakenly taken Thoros' advice to drink more rum as it'd help to warm her. Alsyanne knew now that Thoros was no longer among the living, she'd bid him farewell here in the in-between as he'd taken his place with the believers of the Lord of Light. If she ever regained her body, she'd miss the red priest for his drunken mischief. At the time, she'd been innocent to Thoros' ways and so had drunk her weight, and more, in rum. And since from the very beginning Beric had assigned Sandor as her protector, he'd been the one elected to care for her once it'd become evident that Alysanne was well beyond drunk.

The memories of what happened when and where were still fuzzy to Alsyanne, even here in the in-between, where it seemed she could see and do anything. She'd tried to travel to that time in her life to relive it, but she'd found she could see other people's lives at any time, but not her own. And so, she'd been left with her own memories. That of Sandor cursing at her for growing extra limbs when it'd come to trying to catch her and carry her; his complaints of her being slippery like a fish when she wouldn't stop squirming in his arms, and he'd dropped her once on the way to her chambers—it hadn't hurt, at least she didn't remember it hurting. She also remembered, vaguely, vomiting on his tunic and then basically ripping it off his body when she'd insisted upon washing it despite his protestations. Her memory got much clearer from the point onward in which Sandor had given up on taking her to her chamber and had instead taken Alysanne outside, broken the ice in the horse trough with the hilt of his sword, and had dunked her head in the water.

When she'd come up sputtering and cursing, doing her best to sound like Sandor and give him a bit of his own medicine, Alysanne remembered his laughter. It'd been the first time she'd ever heard him laugh. Truly laugh. She'd managed to make him smile, and even begrudgingly chuckle in the time they'd traveled together, but never laugh. Even now, in the laughter of the villagers around her, Alysanne could close her eyes and relive the sound again. It had been as much a bark, like his namesake, as it had been a laugh, and Alsyanne had loved the sound of it. She'd loved it so much that she'd taken them both by surprise when, before he could retreat like he always did, she'd used the trough's edge to stand on so she could lean over and seal her lips against his.

If there was ever a moment in her life that Alysanne both regretted and adored, it would have been that moment. That moment had probably awakened feelings in him that he had not known existed, at least that is what she assumed based on the rough way he had responded. Their kiss had barely lasted a few heartbeats before his hands had pushed her away so suddenly she'd fallen back into the trough, and he'd left her to save herself.

From that time forward, Sandor had done his very best to keep even more distant from her, recoiling from any accidental—or intentional—touch as if burned. He'd already barely spoken to her but even more so after, Alysanne had been left to converse with the other members of their party to keep from growing bored. Only when she'd entertained them with singing, the entertainment as much in the way nature responded to her voice as it was in her voice alone, did he voluntarily come near. He had never spoken to her about her singing but Alysanne knew he liked it and she had kept that as her hope that perhaps, with time, he'd grow to like other aspects of her as well.

Even up to the battle, Sandor had kept his distance. Other members of the party, and members among the Wildings, had begun to show a near romantic interest in Alysanne, but never once did Sandor show that he minded or was himself interested. And so, it confused her greatly, even now, that he kept vigil by her bedside. How could a man who showed himself to be so cold despite her own authentic warmth towards him choose to sit for so long by her side?

"It is not good to keep the emotional turmoil inside oneself." A gypsy woman, also stuck in the in-between, came to stand near Alysanne. "When one feels, one must show these feelings, or else one will dissipate into nothingness."

"What if one fears to express these emotions?" Alysanne spoke almost absently as she continued to watch the dancers. "What if he rejects me again? What if he rejects himself? What then?"

The woman didn't reply right away. She knew she could live without Sandor, as hard as the thought of it was, she knew she could. Her life did not depend on his acceptance, and though a large part of her happiness did, Alysanne knew she would continue to find joy in life even without him. She could learn to smile and laugh without him, and she could go on living without him, but that did not mean she wouldn't want him to be there with her or that she'd forgotten him. From the moment he'd thrown her in the river that first day, Alysanne had known she would love him. Whether or not he ever reciprocated her love, Sandor would always be a part of her, and she would always love him.

"He feels the same." Alysanne jerked at the woman's words but then settled again when she remembered that here, in the in-between, all that was in the mind and heart was known by the others stuck in limbo.

Alysanne looked over to the aged woman, searching her face for truth and a reason to hope, "How do you know?"

The woman smiled before she led Alysanne into the middle of the dancing, never giving Alysanne a chance to protest or jerk away. Alysanne was too puzzled over this woman's actions to provide much of a reaction other than raising her eyebrows. When the woman stopped, she turned to face Alysanne, taking both her hands into her own.

"Imagine him here," the woman looked around at the dancers then back to Alysanne and placed her hand over Alysanne's heart, "And dance for him, here and here." She again looked at the fellow dancers then tapped Alysanne's chest. "Dance for yourself here." She reached up and smoothed the hair on Alysanne's head.

Alysanne gave a crooked smile, "How will dancing help me?"

"You will know." The woman pulled away, leaving Alysanne in the middle of a circle of dancing.

Alysanne stood still, not at all knowing what to do. All around, the dancers kept swaying to the beat, and the music kept vibrating the air around her. Everything was as it had been before the gypsy woman had spoken, and yet it was all different. Almost as if it was all happening for her to help her.

"Dance," Alysanne murmured to herself, "Dance for him here and here." Alysanne swept her left arm out to encompass her surroundings as she reached across her chest and laid her right hand on her heart. "Dance for yourself here." She raised both hands to her head then reached beyond it, stretching her arms high above her shoulders in an arc. "Dance for him here," she swept both arms out, "and here," she brought both of her arms in, crossing them over her chest, "Dance for yourself here." Alysanne kept her arms crossed as she slowly raised them, then uncrossed them in front of her body.

Alysanne kept repeating her movements, and her words, as she slowly worked herself into the music, into the rhythmic beat of dancing. She moved her feet and legs, first dipping low, then standing on her toes, first swaying and twirling to the left, then doing the same to the right. She was dancing with her emotions through her emotions, slowly learning to express her feelings through her movements. Her body was now her language, her way of communicating. And so, she danced. And danced. Danced…

"MAESTER!"

Alysanne frowned. That didn't sound like the gypsy woman. She glanced around at the dancers and through the shadows of the village. Could Sandor have followed her here?

"You fucking cunt! Where are you, you bastard?"

She heard rushing footsteps, but when she looked around herself all she saw were the dancers and the village.

"What is it, ser?"

"Do I look like a fucking ser? Look at her; something's changed."

Alysanne felt hands on her face and her wrists and as the sensations increased in reality the scene around her, the dancers, the villagers, the gypsy woman, began to fade.

"Here, have her drink this. I will return in a moment."

Alysanne felt her head lift and a large hand cup the back of it.

"Fucking cunt," something cool was pressed against Alysanne's mouth as Sandor continued to grumble, "leaves me knowing shite all what to do."

Whatever liquid it was going into her mouth and down her throat, it caused Alysanne's whole body to seize up. She reached out and caught hold of Sandor's arm as her body was wracked with a chill and a violent cough. She clawed at his warmth, desperate to have it inside her as well, to combat the bone-deep cold that'd been holding her hostage. She didn't stop her thrashing and railing until both of Sandor's arms were around her, holding her tightly against his chest in as much an effort to keep her still as it was to keep her from hurting herself.

"Oi," she felt his warm breath as he spoke near her ear, "shush now. Be still. You're all right now. No one's gonna hurt you." She felt one of his large hands stroke down the back of her head, and with the gesture, she felt another portion of the cold in her body flee. "I've got you."

Alysanne blinked the world into focus, her head perched on Sandor's shoulder with his strong arms braced around her like a constraint. Only she didn't feel constrained; she felt warm, finally, and at home. Alysanne looked at the other beds around where hers was and recognized a few other occupants, but she hadn't the energy to offer more than a lopsided smile at Ser Jorah when they made eye contact with one another.

"There you are, slow fuck," Sandor growled at someone behind Alysanne's back, "I think she's awake."

The person coughed, "You'll need to lay her back down for me to examine her."

Sandor was thankfully slow in lowering her back to the bed. Alysanne felt as if trolls were dancing in her head, and a giant had taken hold of it and twisted it back and forth violently as well. She also felt both achy and heavy in every muscle of her body, as if the same giant was sitting on her while he twisted her head. Even her eyelids felt heavy, but Alysanne fought to keep her eyes open. She was afraid to fall asleep again, worried that she'd go back to the in-between. She managed to make eye contact with Sandor as he extracted both his arms and hands from her body. She thought she saw his eyes widen a bit in response but couldn't be sure as the view of his face was quickly obscured by the maester.

There was much more discomfort in the examination, and much more ill-tasting liquid poured down her throat in the time that followed. By the time the maester was satisfied that Alysanne would live—and in a fashion, her being stuck in the in-between had allowed her wounds a head start on healing without risk of her further damaging them—she felt the fingers of fatigue closing in around her mind again. She waited until the maester moved away before she boldly held out her hand to Sandor. To her relief and surprise, he did not hesitate to take it as he leaned closer.

"Where you been, swamp bird?"

Alysanne smiled and gave a light chuckle, unable to manage more than that at the time. Sandor had called her quite a few names over the months of their travels but never had he used something that could, with imagination, be considered a term of endearment. Perhaps this was a step in the direction she'd been hoping they'd go.

"Here and there," her voice sounded odd even to her own ears, and she attributed it to lack of use for all the time she'd been in the in-between, "not sure you want to hear about it."

Sandor shook his head with a shrug attached, and again Alysanne smiled. She'd missed this man.

The door to the healing hall opened, and a blast of fresh air swept through. The touch of it against her skin was rejuvenating and Alysanne was suddenly seized with what was most likely a terrible idea.

"Sandor," she squeezed his hand, "do you think you could help me break the rules?"

His eyebrow rose, "You're barely awake an hour, and you're already about mischief?" she thought she spied a hint of a smirk at the corner of his lips. "What do you want?"

"It would require you to touch me," Alysanne kept her gaze steady on his face as she spoke even though she felt butterflies in her stomach, "and I know you don't like to-"

"What do you want?" His interjection was curt and telling. It seemed he had no time for her reminders of his behavior. That was a good sign.

"Could you please carry me to the godswood?" At his skeptical look, Alysanne quickly added, "You know I'm connected to nature in a way others are not. I may have healed faster, and come back faster if I'd been in the godswood all this time."

"You certain of that?" He pulled his hand away and crossed his arms over his chest. "You think it's a good idea to take you out into the cold after you've just come back from wherever the fuck you've been?"

Alysanne nodded, "Yes, I am certain. But I understand your reluctance to take me. I have been a nuisance to you for some time, and so I can understand your lack of interest in spending more time with me than is nec-"

Her words were again cut off by Sandor only this time, not by his interjecting reply. Instead, it was his growl and his movements that had her words dying out in her throat. He stood up and walked away so abruptly she thought that her ploy had backfired and she would now be left alone in the healing halls. But then he was back and Alysanne's eyes widened at nearly the rate and size her heart swelled when he took to wrapping a thick fur around her shoulders and tucking an equally thick blanket about her legs. Then, without uttering a word but most assuredly growling out his dislike, he scooped her up into his arms, mindful of her wounds, and cradled her against his chest. She felt smaller than ever, held as she was in his arms, but Alysanne didn't mind her slight stature when it came to relation with Sandor. Where others who were large and gruff like Sandor made her feel vulnerable or disquieted, Sandor had always made her feel comforted and safe.

"By the gods, where are you taking her?" A different maester intercepted them at the door before Sandor could escape through it.

"Fuck off," his glare had the well-meaning maester backing away. Sandor surprised Alysanne when he spoke 'reassuringly' to the maester over his shoulder, "Don't be a Nancy; I'll bring her back."

The wind was strong but not unpleasant as it drifted around the various buildings that made up Winterfell. Alysanne barely felt it anywhere except on her nose, Sandor had tucked and covered her so well, and even through the blankets she swore she could feel the heat of him—but this was unlikely as he was wearing numerous layers himself to fight against the cold. The sounds of rebuilding echoed off the stone walls but Alysanne didn't try to look around at it. She'd had to unbury herself from the furs to be able to see and also, she was more content to lay in Sandor's arms than spy around Winterfell.

It took longer than she remembered, but soon enough, the sound of the wind ceased and instead, all she heard were the trees whispering to one another and to her. Almost to the very moment, Sandor stepped inside the godswood, Alysanne felt new energy come to life inside her. It was akin to what a fish must feel when outside the water for near too long, only to be released back into the stream: gratitude, peace, joy, a renewed sense of purpose. Alysanne moved her head back and forth until she managed to wiggle it out from the layers of fur. She could gaze around now as Sandor continued through the godswood towards the weirwood. Alysanne had known he would go there, as that was where he'd first found her and Bran after the battle.

"Thank you," she broke the reverent silence of the enclosed forest, "for saving me."

Sandor grunted and punctuated his grunt but shifting her whole body in his arms. The jarring didn't feel splendid on her wounds, but the maester had made her drink something that would ease the pain—though she'd insisted that it not be milk of the poppy. Alysanne smiled despite Sandor's lack of comment. She thought, or had begun to assume, that Sandor felt more for her than he was willing, or able, to verbalize. Mayhaps, she wasn't without all hope when it came to pursuing a relationship with him.

"Thank you also for bringing me here."

Sandor didn't say anything; he didn't even grunt. Instead, he stopped and waited until Alysanne took note of the weirwood before he moved to sit on an unusually large root that had some centuries ago decided to lunge out of the ground before diving back in, making a perfect natural seat. As he sat, Sandor still kept Alysanne in his arms, though he shifted her to be in his lap and he loosened his hold about her body. Then they sat together in silence, both of them in their own thoughts, as the trees whispered around them, and the weirwood gazed at them.

Alysanne leaned her head back against Sandor's chest and breathed in the scent of forest and Sandor. She treasured these sensations in her heart and was unhurried to break the moment by talking or questioning. It seemed Sandor was either content as well or was exhibiting far more patience than she'd ever seen him exhibit before, and either way, it made her smile. He wasn't in a hurry to be rid of her and he had seemed almost annoyed with her when she suggested that he would be. All reasonable indications, and in her favor.

"I never did like these trees," Sandor ended the meditation and Alysanne looked up to see him staring at the weirwood, "the faces are," his eyes narrowed, "not what I would imagine trees faces to look like."

The fact that he shared this had Alysanne's eyes widening, and she clenched her fists together to keep from reaching out to him. Instead, she put on a contemplative expression and looked between Sandor and the tree.

When Sandor noticed her glances, he sighed, "What is it?"

"I think you have a good tree face."

He glared, "The fuck you mean by that?" Sandor then turned his head ever so slightly so she would have a harder time seeing his scars.

"I would imagine tree faces to be strong, hard, expressive but not in an over-the-top way, the changes in expression more subtle but no less telling of the soul of the tree." Alysanne chanced it as she reached out and tucked a finger under Sandor's chin, using it to turn him to face her again. She was humbled and thankful that he allowed her to do so. "Trees live through a lot of hardship if you think about it, and in the bark, you can see many scars from those hardships, but we don't focus on the scars of the tree. We notice them, yes, but we tend to look at the whole tree and not just the scar, and we are in the end in awe that the tree could survive so much hardship and still have the strength to keep on living."

Sandor remained silent as their gazes locked. He also allowed her touch to continue and did not move to shake away from her. Alysanne didn't quite know where the words had come from or what had possessed her to say them. Living isolated in the swamps had garnered her a reputation as a near-magical sage but she knew herself better than to believe such things. She, as Sandor would say, fucked up more than she succeeded, and up till this moment, she'd been doing a grand job at fucking up with Sandor.

Finally, Sandor's lips twitched into the closest semblance of a genuine and not sarcastic smile she'd yet seen on his face. She heard a chuckle escape his mouth as he shook his head at her and looked back towards the weirwood.

"Of course, the swamp bird would compare me to a tree."

Alysanne grinned, and her chuckle joined Sandor's, the sound muffled to anyone outside the godswood.

"Well," she added, "there are worse things to be compared to in a swamp."

Sandor's chuckle turned to a bark of laughter then quieted into a relaxed smile—or at least the closest thing to a smile Sandor could/would offer at this time.

"I've always loved trees." Alysanne continued, her eyes on the weirwood even when she felt more than saw Sandor's attention shifting back to her, "their strength, their size, their unapologetic nature of 'I'm a fucking tree, deal with it,'" she heard Sandor give another barking chuckle and she smiled, "and though they grow in forests they can also exist all on their own in a field, so the versatility of trees has also been inspiring to me."

"Are we still talking about trees?"

Alysanne looked back to Sandor and laughed at the expression on his face, "Maybe? Unless you want to talk about something else. We can-"

He placed his hand against the side of her head and shoved it back against his chest. She took that as a signal to stop talking, and Alysanne was content to do so. She knew if she did keep talking, her words would continue to get jumbled up as she felt herself growing weary again, and this despite the rejuvenation being in the godswood brought. Alysanne took a deep breath and let it out on a heavy sigh. This was the closest to happy she'd felt in a long time.

"Thank you for the happiness," she heard herself say, "I like sharing it with you."

She wasn't sure if he replied or not. Alysanne fell asleep to the sound of his heavy breaths and the wind whispering through the trees.

Not Your Average Love Story: Sandor

Before Sandor knew it, he had laid down on the ground and rolled over until Alysanne was pillowed on his left arm, her arms still wrapped around him. He stroked his right hand up and down her side, stopping just below her right breast; his other hand was tangled in her hair, the silken tresses sliding through his fingers. Sandor lost all track of time and place as he lay there with Alysanne, kissing her with all the fierce passion in his body. He had never kissed a woman like this before; his kisses had never been welcomed like this. Alysanne had awakened a desire in him that Sandor had not thought would ever be possible. Sandor let his hand roam upwards, slowly, first brushing his knuckles against the underside of Alysanne's breast. He felt her sigh into his mouth; her body arching off the ground slightly. He smiled as he moved his hand up more, splaying his fingers over her soft breast. She was so smooth, so warm. He could feel her nipple harden beneath her tunic. He growled in pure male satisfaction and stroked his thumb across the tip of her breast. Sandor pushed his hips into Alysanne's, pleasurably grinding himself against her. He felt her moan against his mouth, and he smiled in response. He would have continued had it not been for Alysanne; if she had kept silent, then there was no telling what might have happened.

"Are you going to wake up any time this morning?"

Sandor's eyes popped open, and he rolled onto his side facing away from the source of the question. Fuck…it'd been a dream. A fucking sex dream. Sandor growled, annoyed with his hardened cock, annoyed with himself, and annoyed with Alysanne who was innocent to the images he'd had in his mind just seconds before.

"Are you okay, Sandor?"

He heard her footsteps approach him and snarled at her over his shoulder, "I'm fucking fine. Just leave me be."

He didn't have to worry about her feelings being hurt with his gruffness. They'd been traveling together long enough, both before the battle and now after, that he knew she'd most likely find his cursing and surly attitude amusing and either ignore it altogether or do her best to make him more annoyed so she could laugh at him more. It was her way of dealing with him, and Sandor found, begrudgingly so, that he liked that about her. She'd never shied away from him and his moods and had, in fact, met him toe-to-toe verbally. He wasn't an idiot but he knew she could dance mental circles around him and yet she'd never jested at his lack of mental prowess as many of the highborn did. Perhaps it was because she'd grown up in a swamp with trees for friends.

"Well," he heard the sound of laughter in her voice, "whenever you're done being a grump, breakfast is ready." He waited until he heard her footsteps retreat to the cooking fire before he stood and stumbled away from their campsite.

They'd been on the road for a week now, heading south as he'd promised, towards her swamp hovel. Why the hell she'd want to return to that backward frail husk of a home, Sandor couldn't fathom. But at least she had a place that wouldn't wince at her return. Sandor hadn't given much thought to where he'd go or what he'd do now that this shite show was over. Maybe there was another religious sect that needed a woodcutter…

Sandor let out a slew of curses as he dunked his body in the cold water of the river. His cock all but ran back into his body at the extreme temperature, but it was a necessary venture. Ever since Alysanne had woken up and demanded he take her to the godswood, Sandor had felt it grow more difficult to resist her. He knew she was attracted to him, which did not speak measures for her sanity or intelligence in Sandor's opinion. But he knew the attraction she felt towards him was not the quick bedding kind. It was the forever kind and that scared the shit out of Sandor.

He'd never thought anyone would ever want that kind of fuckery from him, and yet here was a beautiful and strange as fuck woman who wanted nothing else. Sandor didn't have to assume this either. No, in the month they spent at Winterfell after Alysanne woke up, she'd made it increasingly clear what her desires were. And not only that but other dumb cunts had taken it upon themselves to tell him what she wanted and what he should do about it.

The dwarf had been the first to do so, a parting shot before he left for the south with the Baratheon bastard and his she-wolf wife. Then the one-armed Mormont had felt the need to risk losing his other arm when he'd spoken to Sandor about matters of the heart. Sandor had found his advice somewhat ironic and hypocritical since it was apparent even to Sandor that the young Tyroshi woman was in heat for some bear cock and yet the old bear had decided to accompany his niece back to Bear Island.

The real winner had been Lady Sascha Stark herself, and in truth, out of all of the nosey cunts, she'd been the most believable. Once the announcement had been made that he was traveling south to take Alysanne home, the Lady had sought him out, her twins strapped to her chest and back and a sword strapped to her hip. Sandor had never thought he'd find a mother remotely a source for lascivious thought but the sight of this tall and capable woman striding across the courtyard towards him, obviously fertile and armed, Sandor had had more than a few passing images in his mind.

"Clegane," she'd stopped only when she basically stood on his feet.

"Aye?"

The Lady had looked past him to where he knew Alysanne was rechecking their provisions. When her eyes came back to rest on Sandor, he found it strange yet impressive that her expression had him near shifting in his boots.

She gave him a nod then, and as she turned away, she said, "Don't fuck it up."

Easier said than done now that he was alone day and night with the one woman in the world who wanted to play home with him, and despite his gruffness towards her. Each night they spent together, he was plagued with more and more detailed dreams of what life could be like with her. Not all of them involved sex, though most of them did, all of them had her as the main feature and he always woke in the morning with cramping in his chest and a lump in his throat robbing him of breath.

Sandor's body shook from the cold as he drew himself from the icy river and made his way back to his clothes. Only his clothes were no longer where he left them. He didn't have to guess what had happened for the source of his dilemma, twice over, announced herself within seconds of his discovery.

"We need to get this over with." Sandor looked over towards where she stood, and his eyes nearly popped out of his head. She stood only in her underclothes, obviously shivering in the cold air, holding his clothes in her hands.

Sandor turned towards her, naked, "The fuck you talking about, wench?"

Alysanne chuckled at him and shook her head. Her expression held both a challenge and a promise as she backed away and disappeared behind the brush. Sandor knew she meant for him to follow her. He didn't have to, he had other clothes back at the campsite, but something in the way she'd spoken, in the light in her eyes, had him both grumbling and moving in the direction she'd disappeared. When he got a hold of her, he'd-

Rounding another thicket of bushes and trees, Sandor found Alysanne again, standing just outside what looked to be a cavern with steam coming out of it. No doubt another hot spring, the north was dotted with quite a number of them and Winterfell was not the only place that had made use of them to combat the colder seasons. Alysanne grinned at him and dropped a boot before turning and disappearing inside the cavern. Sandor felt a smile touch his lips but he didn't want to show it; he didn't want her to win. He picked up the boot and followed inside. As he picked his way along the rocks and smaller pools, he found other articles of his clothing and by the time he made it to the back of the cavern, still lit from a gap in the natural ceiling overhead where sunshine came streaming down onto the water of the largest pool, he had enough of his clothing to redress and retreat.

Only Sandor's stomach clenched, and he felt his cock jerk at the sight of Alysanne standing in the sunlight at the edge of the pool. The sun made little work of his underclothes, leaving nothing to Sandor's imagination. He moved towards her as if in a spell, her body retreating from his and his body entering the pool before he quite realized what he was doing. The water was lukewarm but not too warm as it lapped at his skin, but it did nothing to quell the fire beginning to rage inside him. The pool was deeper than he expected; his feet only barely grazing the sand-like bottom. He floated closer to her, their gaze still not parting from one another, but did not reach out for her. She'd started this and he would let her set the pace of whatever the hell "this" was. She was right about it though; they did need to get it over with. And it took every ounce of control not to reach out and trace his fingers down the column of her ivory throat, not to follow the droplets of water on her face with his lips, not to wrap his arms around her and soak in the warmth of her body.

Sandor didn't know how long it took for her to find the resolve to touch him. Time had either stopped or raced on without them. She'd circled behind him, and when her fingers lightly traced against the taut skin of his stomach, he'd nearly submerged from the shiver of pleasure it shot through him. He kept his arms out to his sides but his feet finally found purchase on the floor beneath him. Sandor felt her press closer, first her legs brushing the backs of his, then her chest on his back, as her arms wrapped more securely around him, her hands flattening against his chest. He reached down with one of his hands and laid it over hers where it rested over his heart. Sandor knew she would feel his heart racing and from where her chest was so tightly pressed against his back, he could feel hers beating at a matching pace. He knew this was an embrace, though he had so little experience with them, and Sandor was surprised that now that it was happening—as he'd feared it would for some weeks now—he wasn't consumed with the same sort of panic and disgust that he'd thought he would be.

Until his dying day, Sandor would remember how Alysanne slid in front of him, her arms wrapped around his shoulders, her legs equally wrapped around his waist. He would remember her lips against the skin of his neck, her body flush against his. His hands descended on her, pulling her tighter against him. He could not hold her close enough, it seemed. He could not get enough of the feel of her in his arms. He hadn't even kissed the wench like he'd surprised himself with wanting to, and yet he already felt his body hard and ready for what was inevitably coming next.

His body thrummed with energy, a vibration that began on his skin and echoed in his soul—all traced back to the source: Alysanne's touch. Her lips were light against his when she finally kissed him, her fingers where they cupped his face equally light as if she were afraid a firmer touch would harm him or cause him to stir away from her. He understood her reasons for gentility, her softness of approach. He had proven to be a surly and unpredictable bastard. Now, Alysanne had broached new territory—offering up a new level of a bond between them—and she awaited his response. Never before had Sandor felt so frustrated in his own skin. He'd been taught the intricacies of swordsmanship to such a level he could fight many a foe with his eyes closed. He'd killed numerous fuckers and had never shied away from a fight—except with fire than he got the hell away. However, his body, his mind, was unaccustomed to the soft touches of a woman. This was a first and because of this, he had no fucking idea how best to proceed.

"Alysanne," he breathed out her name, his hands coming up to hold her face—either so that she could not draw away or so that she would come closer he didn't know yet. He pulled back just enough to stare into her eyes—he knew then that her eyes would be the last thing his mind sought out in memory before his death. They were open, earnest, full of warmth, full of tentative hope. He smiled at her, the feeling as foreign for his facial muscles as it was to be reflected in his heart—he felt real joy then, standing at her mercy, her touches warming his body and soul. He smoothed a hand over her head.

If he'd had more words to say, they were cut off when she pressed her lips against his again, this time more firmly and insistently. Alysanne used her arms and legs to undulate in his arms in the water wantonly, and immediately a shiver traveled through his body and he clenched and unclenched his fists as they hovered in the air on either side of her face, unsure of how to touch her without hurting her. After a moment, he settled for cupping the back of her neck with one hand while the other settled firmly on her shoulder, drawing her closer.

She took charge of the kiss, deepening it further—he sucked in a breath when he felt her tongue swipe against his lips, then exploring his mouth as she traced her tongue against his, brushing against the roof of his mouth—he no longer understood precisely what was happening only that every touch, every sigh, every moan would for many years hence be branded into his mind.

Only when the air became a necessity did he allow her to pull away, though he no longer felt the earlier uncertainty clouding his impulses. The passion that had built up since the first brush of her lips now allowed Sandor the surety of movement to trace his lips across her jawline, then when she tilted her head to the side to press a soft kiss below her ear and to take in deeply the rich scent that was unique to her as his lips traveled downward until he rested them against the pulse point that was now throbbing rapidly in her neck.

Hearing a moaning sign escape her throat from his movement further emboldened Sandor. His hand moved down from her shoulder to her ribs. Alysanne was tender when she touched him, her fingers firm but soft as they traced the contours of his skin, her lips mapping out the lines of his face and neck.

They mouths melded together, and he was robbed of all thought, all sense of time and place, the longer she pressed against him. Their touches flowed one into another, the heated sensations growing into a smoldering fire. Never before had he known such feelings, both in mind and body. Sandor felt as if he were being baptized in her attention, washed clean in her affections. As they clung together, climbing to the heights of passion, Sandor knew then that she would never leave him. He would stay with her in that damned swamp if that meant he could stay by her side. He would sail into death as well if that was where she was to go. This woman, moaning his name on panted breaths, the sound of it echoing off the cavern walls, was more than he deserved but Sandor had finally decided that damn everything and everyone but he was never going to let Alysanne leave him nor would he leave her.