Sandor wondered, as he walked Sansa back to the castle, if he could lose his head for what he'd just done.

Worth it, he decided, staring at the back of Sansa's bent head as she slipped through the door.

Kissing her had been different from the many fantasies he'd had. For one thing, it was infinitely better. Sansa hadn't acted scandalized or bashful about any of it. In truth, the way she'd touched her lips had been almost reverent. She had stared at him for several long seconds before Sandor broke their silence.

"The mid-day meal will be served soon," Sandor told her. "Now that I've made my point, we should go."

Sansa hadn't said anything all the way back to the keep, but she kept peering over her shoulder at him, as though she expected him to say something. He didn't have anything else to say though. He'd made his point and that was that.

Except…

Sansa had imagined kissing him. Multiple times, to hear her tell it. And she had gotten under his skin, claiming that he'd kissed her when he hadn't - had no intention of it at all. His intentions varied from wanting to be in the company of someone gentle and wanting to scare her into thinking he was the monster she saw him as at the time. There had never been even a suggestion of a thought about kissing her. He hadn't kissed too terribly many women in his life - he never kissed the whores he lay with because he couldn't trust where their mouths had been. No, the only times he had kissed women were when he tumbled the occasional serving woman or the rare noble lady who was bored with her lord husband.

And even then, some of the women clearly didn't want to kiss him because of his terrible face.

But Sansa -

He had imagined kissing Sansa, but not the night the Blackwater burned. Sandor had always seen Sansa as untouchable, and once he realized that he cared for her, he was more than content to show that he cared by merely protecting her. The fantasy of kissing Sansa hadn't formed in Sandor's mind until after he'd met her again in the Vale. He didn't even know why the thought had crept into his head.

His best guess was that it had to do with her newfound bravery in the face of...well, his face. She simply hadn't cared about his scars anymore and for Sandor, who had grown quite accustomed to people flinching away from his face, the whole situation almost left him unsettled. At one point, he had begrudgingly peered into a looking glass just to make sure that his scars hadn't lessened somehow, and then immediately regretted it when his face was just as ugly as it had been the last time he'd ventured a look.

Sansa had kept up a steady stream of pleas for Sandor to help her get back to Winterfell, which he had begrudgingly agreed to do if she could get her lordly husband to assist. He'd watched her face fall when he'd told her that and for the first time, it occurred to him that Sansa didn't want to marry the Hardyng cunt. He realized he loathed seeing her pretty blue eyes turn sad, hated seeing those pretty lips turn downward into a frown.

That had been the first time he'd wanted to kiss her. He'd wanted to kiss the pout away and tell her that she didn't have to marry that puffed-up lordling. He didn't do or say any of that. He'd been powerless to stop her wedding.

Almost as powerless as he was to stop these suitors from seeking her hand now.

At the mid-day meal, Sandor stood behind Sansa dutifully. There wasn't any awkwardness between Sansa and the Tallhart lad, but Sandor couldn't decide if that was good or bad. Sansa was a little more engaged than she had been previously, approaching something closer to her usual charm. Arya was nowhere in sight, which wasn't terribly unusual.

Lord Stark looked bored as usual, his chin dropping into his hand as he snuck scraps beneath the table to his wolf. Lord Snow seemed to be watching Sansa. Perhaps he had noticed that she was in a slightly better mood too. His long face didn't reveal much else though. Sandor wondered if Lord Snow had actually put Lord Tallhart up to kissing Sansa. The thought made him angry, but it occurred to Sandor now that that may be the reason he was watching her so closely.

Seven hells, the little bird had been kissed twice in one day now and Sandor couldn't stop the regret that flooded him as he thought back on his actions. And regret was not something he typically dwelt on. And it wasn't that he regretted kissing her exactly, but it was so soon after she'd been kissed by someone else.

He shouldn't have done it. He knew that, of course, but she had been so infuriating. Those blue eyes had blazed with conviction and her cheeks had turned the loveliest shade of pink as her temper had gotten the best of her. Gods, she'd looked beautiful, all angry and indignant that he'd forgotten something that never happened.

As if he could ever forget kissing her.

He was certain now that the memory of how her mouth had felt beneath his would haunt him every second of the day now. His hands balled into fists at his side as a wave of anger washed over him. Why had he done it? Why had he put himself in this situation? He knew, without a doubt, that he had only opened himself up to a new kind of torture. He didn't even bother to tell himself that his curiosity should be satisfied now that he'd done one of the things he'd imagined over and over.

Unfortunately, it only made him imagine doing it again, among other things.

Arya showed up in her sister's room later that afternoon, relatively clean considering she'd been gone for most of the day. Sansa was sitting in front of the fire. Now that the days were getting warmer, she needed dresses made of lighter material, so she was working on the first of several. Arya plopped into the chair across from her, slouching in her seat with her knees spread, looking most unladylike.

Sansa opened her mouth to ask where Arya had been all day, but her sister's statement froze the words in her throat.

"You're in love with the Hound."

Sansa made a gasping noise, and then promptly stabbed her finger with the sewing needle. She swore, putting the finger to her mouth as a bubble of red bloomed at the tip.

"Language, Lady Stark," Arya said, lifting a dark brow as she watched her.

"Arya! What - why -" Sansa stumbled over her words, beyond distracted at the pain in her finger and the words that had spilled from her sister's mouth.

Arya sat up straighter in her chair and leaned forward, her elbows propped on her knees. "You know, Clegane is smarter than I give him credit for. He put things together that I hadn't quite worked out…"

Sansa's spirit left her body.

"He- he what? He...worked...what?"

Arya frowned, clearly bewildered by Sansa's complete inability to speak. She tilted her head and waited for Sansa to calm down.

Sansa drew in as deep a breath as she could manage and let it out shakily. "He worked out that I…he knows that I..."

"Oh, no, he doesn't know that you…" Arya stopped, narrowing her eyes. A smile curled her lips. "Did you just admit to it?"

Sansa's eyes widened.

"I was going to say he worked out that you wouldn't lay with a man unless you were in love with him because when I talked to him, I didn't tell him that you specifically wanted him. I'm ashamed really," Arya sniffed. "He put it together before I did. But he's right. You wouldn't lay with someone outside of marriage unless you were in love. Perhaps he knows you better than I do."

"He likely does," Sansa admitted quietly.

"And you love him," Arya said.

Sansa met her sister's eyes. She could deny it. She could insist that Arya was being dramatic and trying to stir up her own entertainment with such a bold statement.

Arya's features softened. "That's the real reason you're so against marrying one of those lords, isn't it?"

"No," Sansa insisted. "What I told you before is true. I don't want to marry to make someone else happy. I had to marry a man whose family murdered our family. Then I had to marry a man who was more interested in tumbling the serving women than being an honorable husband. Sandor hardly factors into this. It just...makes it worse that I feel…"

"When did this happen?"

"I don't know. It snuck up on me. And Arya, today in the Godswood, he...kissed me."

"He what?" Arya, usually coolly composed, stared at her in open shock.

"I may have goaded him into it," Sansa said, frowning as she recalled the events that had transpired in the kiss.

Then how would you have kissed me? She didn't know how she expected him to respond, but perhaps she should've guessed that he would give his explanation in the most practical way.

Arya's face was twisted in confusion, as though she couldn't fathom why her sister and the man she'd known as the Hound would share a kiss. Sansa was thankful that she'd managed to hide her feelings so well for so long that the whole situation struck Arya as preposterous.

"How-" Arya stopped and shook her head, chewing at her bottom lip. She took what appeared to be a fortifying breath, then asked, "How was it?"

Singular. Breathtaking. Delicious.

"It wasn't what I'd imagined," Sansa admitted.

Arya scrunched her nose. "That bad?"

"What- no! The opposite, actually. It's just-" Sansa thought that she might as well come clean. So she told her everything. She told her what happened the night Sandor left King's Landing - the true version. And then she told her that at some point, her mind, heart, something had inserted the memory of a kiss where they hadn't been one. She told her how for so long, for years, she believed Sandor had kissed her.

"Sansa," Arya said, almost in disbelief with a shake of her head. "This is- you have to tell him. And tell Jon. And- wait, did you tell him earlier when he…?"

"No! Of course not."

"But he kissed you. For true this time. That means something."

Sansa shook her head. "It doesn't. You know him, Arya. You know how stubborn he is. He was trying to make a point. He even said as much."

"He was trying to prove a point by kissing the lady he serves?" Disbelief colored Arya's voice. "Sansa, he's not that stupid."

"He knows I wouldn't take offense to his crass lessons," Sansa insisted. "He knows he has nothing to fear from using those methods with me. The way we've interacted for years has been defined by his insensitivity."

"Crass lessons?" Arya scoffed. "I doubt that Clegane would do something that will get him removed from your service over a lesson. Listen to yourself! You are deep in denial. For just a moment, put aside the idea that he was trying to make a point. Why else would he kiss you?"

Sansa thought about it, she truly did. Could he have kissed her because he actually wanted to? She didn't know, and since the memory of their first kiss had been proven to be her imagination, she was now questioning everything. Was the kiss as passionate as she recalled? Had it truly been as enjoyable for him as it had been for her? She was so uncertain. Everything felt like a trick now that she'd realized how faulty her own memory could be.

Finally, she sighed and said, "Perhaps he was trying to annoy me."

Arya gave her a rather peeved-looking glare.

"Oh, please," Sansa sniffed. "You know he likes to annoy me."

Arya rolled her eyes and stood up. "Fine. Carry on with your stubborn disbelief if you want, but I think you should at least talk to him. What if he feels the same?"

Sansa grew quiet as she considered it. Could he care for her too? Of course, she knew he cared for her, the way any sworn shield would care for this lord or lady, but what if his feelings matched hers? She had not considered the possibility that Sandor could be secretly pining for her too.

And at that thought, a bubble of laughter rose up in her throat and she covered her mouth.

Arya watched her with suspicion. "What now?"

Sansa shook her head, still grinning, though her mirth was shadowed in a hint of sadness. "Arya, think about what you've just proposed - do you really think Sandor has a soft spot? For anyone?"

Arya's brows drew together. "Of course he does, Sansa. He kept me alive. He kept you alive…"

"I know, but- I don't mean like that. Do you truly think that he cares about -" Sansa shook her head and only brought forth the words with difficulty because it was so ludicrous. "Do you think someone like Sandor would really open himself up to love someone like that? He mocks knights, he mocks romance, he never fails to tell me when I'm being a fool…"

"Not everyone gets to love, little bird."

His words came back to her and suddenly that shadow of sadness was enveloping her and she wanted to be alone. Arya seemed to realize this because she strode over and awkwardly patted Sansa's shoulder. They were quiet for a few moments and finally Arya made her way to the door. She turned back just before exiting.

"What I think," Arya said quietly, "is that there's no choice in the matter. You love someone or you don't. If he had the choice, then no - I don't think he would do anything that might leave him vulnerable. But I don't think it's a choice."

She slipped away before Sansa could think of anything to say in answer.

Sandor was standing behind Sansa during dinner as usual when Arya strolled into the Great Hall and came to stand next to him, pressing her back into the stones. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, but she was looking out over the hall.

"What do you want, wolf bitch?" He muttered.

"Sansa told me you kissed her."

It was only thanks to years at court with the Lannisters that made it possible for Sandor to show no outward reaction. Inwardly though, his pulse picked up and his jaw clenched. His hand curled around the hilt of his sword out of habit. His eyes darted to her again.

"What?"

"You heard me, Hound."

He wondered if she was bluffing. He chewed on the inside of his cheek as he considered what she'd told him, thankful that the hall was noisy enough that no one could hear their conversation.

"Did you see something?" He growled.

"I just told you that she told me," Arya hissed through clenched teeth.

Why would she do that?

"It was nothing," he said, and his tone brooked no argument. He was quite adept at seeming like he didn't give a shit.

"Why did you do it?"

"Are you going to tell your brother?" He snarled, finally turning to face her. "Is this your feeble attempt to finally make good on your promise of killing me, she-wolf?"

Arya glared at him for a few tense moments, then rolled her eyes. "I'd kill you myself if I wanted to. I took you off my list. You know that. I do want to know why you kissed my sister though."

"It was nothing," he repeated, even though it was everything. "Long story."

"She told me the story," Arya said. "Though why she would ever fantasize about kissing you is beyond me…"

"She didn't fantasize about it," Sandor grumbled. "She imagined it."

"You're truly going to argue with me about semantics?"

"She just...misremembered."

"Misremembered? She completely fabricated something in her head that didn't happen and then convinced herself it did."

"Mayhaps she was mad," he bit out.

"The issue now is not whether or not Sansa was mad. The issue is why did you kiss her?"

Sandor was dangerously close to losing his temper and being very loud. No one seemed to get under his skin the way the Stark girls did. He imagined they inherited this trait from their mother. Old Ned Stark had been so calm…

"Clegane," Arya growled softly.

"She kept telling me I was too drunk to remember it," he offered. He could feel the burnt corner of his mouth twitch in anger.

"I'm not asking you what she did to annoy you. I'm asking you why you kissed her."

Sandor barked a laugh that was perhaps a bit too loud. Though it didn't silence the room, it did draw a quick look from Jon, who just as quickly got back to his conversation. Sandor turned to the she-wolf, leaning down so he could look her in the face.

"She said I gave her a sweet little peck. Like one of her buggering knights," he muttered. "Her imagination is shit."

"Is that true then? You kissed her to show her how unchivalrous you truly are?"

"Aye," he sniffed as he straightened back up. "Something like that."

"You're an idiot."

"And you're a pain in my hairy arse."

"Here's another question…"

"Of fucking course…"

"Why do you think she imagined that you kissed her?"

Arya likely thought she was catching him off-guard, but the truth was that he'd thought about it all afternoon. And even though it was hard to say, he steeled himself for the difficult words.

"She was a young girl who was cornered by a rabid dog," he said, trying to keep the shame from overtaking him. "She imagined a sweeter version of what happened because the truth was ugly."

Arya was quiet for so long that he finally looked back at her, and he could tell from the look on her face that his explanation was something she hadn't considered yet. She seemed to accept that as her silence stretched on and she relaxed back against the wall.

Sandor turned away from her as well, trying to ignore the twisting pain in his chest at the realization that he was right. Sansa hadn't imagined that he kissed her because she wanted to be kissed. She had imagined he kissed her because the alternative was remembering that he had threatened her, held a knife to her throat, and then left her for the lions.