Sansa wanted to speak to Sandor, but he was being rather standoffish and Sansa, apparently, was a craven. As he escorted her back to her chambers, she opened her mouth half a dozen times to say something, to tell him that she thought they should clear the air because things had been awkward all day. Every time she drew a breath and prepared to speak, she would stop herself, biting into her bottom lip before she could embarrass herself.

Normally, he would speak to her - or rather, she would speak to him and he would speak back. She frowned as she thought about this. She wondered if she bothered him by constantly talking to him all the time.

"I'm sick of you peeping at me." He'd said that to her once, and though it was years ago, she found that it wounded her a little, even now.

Before she knew it, she was standing in front of her door. She turned around, prepared to invite Sandor in - that wasn't an uncommon occurrence, after all - but he had already turned his back on her and started down the corridor.

She pouted a bit as he retreated and let herself into her chambers. The fire was going and it was a little too warm in the room. Her maid wouldn't be around to help her undress for hours now, so Sansa struggled with her heavy wool dress on her own, a litany of curses running through her head that she wouldn't dare say aloud.

Once she was finally able to remove her gown, she collapsed onto her bed in her chemise, wondering what Sandor had been thinking all day. He was probably still annoyed with her about the events that had transpired earlier, and frankly, Sansa was still in a mild state of shock to learn that she had dreamed something up and then convinced herself it was true.

The memory - the false memory - had seemed so real for so long. It was embarrassing, really, that she had lost her temper with him because he hadn't remembered something that had never actually happened. She closed her eyes, overcome with shame that she had been so stupid to think he had kissed her that night. Why had she invented such a thing?

Because you wanted him to, a voice whispered.

Perhaps she hadn't wanted him to do it that night. The whole event was a nightmare and she had been scared out of her mind because of the endless possibilities of what could happen to her - from Stannis's men attacking her, to Ilyn Payne killing her so Stannis's men wouldn't attack her, to Sandor waiting for her in her room covered in blood.

But afterward, aside from the kiss she invented, she had imagined kissing him plenty of times. Perhaps she'd wanted to kiss him before the night of the Blackwater and just hadn't realized it. She wanted to kiss him again so badly that she was tempted to go to his room and beg for it.

And what could he do, other than possibly turn her away? She had been through far more pain than a little rejection from him might cause, hadn't she? She pushed herself up in bed on her elbows, watching the fire as her resolution grew.

She was going to kiss him again.

Sandor had kissed her after all, and it didn't seem to be something he was averse to, so Sansa figured she might as well take advantage of the opportunity until he explicitly told her to stop.

Sandor's mood did not improve once he sat down to eat his supper in his room. He had seen Sansa to her chambers safely and turned to leave without a word. Neither of them had said much since his good sense had completely failed him in the Godswood, but Sandor was beginning to think it was one more thing for him to be sorry for.

He didn't think he'd take back kissing her if given the chance. He was mostly just sorry to realize that he'd wanted it so bad that he had subjected her to it. He was not one to apologize, but their encounter had brought his greatest shame to the forefront of his mind. He didn't give a rat's arse if he ever apologized to anyone else, but Sansa...she deserved to know that he regretted his actions on that night.

As he finished up his meal, he wondered what he could say to her to make her understand that he never would have truly hurt her. The image of the dagger pressed to her pretty throat haunted him everyday, even more so now that they had spoken about that night. It made him physically sick to think about it, to remember pressing a blade to the soft skin of her throat. Sansa was the one thing in the world he wanted to protect and he had made her feel that her life was in danger.

Self-loathing rose in him, though that was nothing new. He should never have agreed to be her sworn shield. She couldn't have been thinking clearly when she'd asked it of him. And of course, weak as he was where she was concerned, he'd immediately knelt and made vows to her that he'd promised he'd not make to anyone.

He would give her all of them though. All of the oaths, vows, promises - anything she wanted, if it were something he could deliver, it would be hers.

But she had only asked for his protection.

She had not asked for his affection, though that was not something he had complete control over.

A knock on his door stirred him from his thoughts. He frowned, wondering if it was the maid already returning to collect his dinner plates. Usually, she gave him a good hour to finish his food. He stood from his seat and pulled open the door

Sansa's hands were shaking as she rapped on his door.

When Sandor opened it, he was clearly taken aback at finding Sansa on the other side. He frowned at her.

"What are you doing here?" He almost managed to hide the hint of suspicion in his tone, Sansa noted.

"Can I speak to you for a moment?" She asked politely. His eyes swept over her and she tried to pretend that it was completely normal to show up at his door in nothing more than a robe and the chemise she'd been wearing under her dress.

"Aye," he moved back from the door and waved her in. "Shouldn't you have summoned me to your rooms?"

Sansa shrugged as she stepped into the room. She shut the door behind her and leaned against it.

"Lord Snow doesn't want you wandering the halls too much while there are guests…" Sandor started.

"It's not as though I'm wandering the halls. I came straight here from my chambers…"

"Which you should've summoned me to…"

Sansa huffed. "I didn't want to wait for a serving girl to pass on a message."

He crossed his arms over his chest and she could see it for the defense mechanism it was. He looked distinctly uncomfortable. Her heart twisted in her chest.

"Do you want me to go?" She asked softly, almost willing to abandon her plan with the knowledge that he didn't want her here.

He sighed and shook his head. "No, little bird. Just don't understand what's so urgent that you had to come here."

"You come to my room all the time," she reminded him.

"You have a proper sitting area," he reminded her. He swept a hand in invitation for her to look at his chambers. It had a bed, a small table, and exactly one chair.

"Oh," she murmured, her eyes falling to the bed.

"Sansa," he said, a touch impatiently. "What is it?"

Her lips felt dry, so she flicked her tongue out to unstuck them and he...followed the action with his eyes.

Interesting, she thought.

She was hardly a seductress, but maybe she didn't have to be. After all, she had been angry and frustrated with him before when he'd kissed her. Surely it wouldn't take too much to get him to do it again?

"I wanted to speak to you about what happened earlier."

His eyes widened so minutely that if she hadn't known him so well, she might not have seen the reaction. His arms were still crossed over his chest and he was still frowning.

"And what would that be?" He rasped.

"I think you know," she said quietly. She felt heat creep slowly into her cheeks.

He looked at her for several long moments. Then, "Aye, I know."

"I want to do it again," she said it so quickly and quietly that she was surprised he heard her.

But he definitely had because now the shock was more evident.

"What?"

Sansa pushed herself away from the door and inched toward him, her head tilting back so she could see his face as she approached. Her breathing wasn't quite right, but she knew it was only nerves.

"I want you to kiss me again," she told him, and her voice sounded stronger this time, the words coming slower so there was no misunderstanding.

His face contorted then, and she saw anger flash in his eyes as he closed what little space there was between them and leered down at her. "Is this some kind of jape, little bird?" His voice was a growl and standing over her like this, he should've looked menacing.

But Sansa was not afraid of him. She had known for years that he wouldn't harm her and she would not be bullied into backing down. "It is no jape…"

He snarled at her, leaning down to put his face close to hers, turning ever so slightly so that his scarred side would be closer to her. "What game are you playing? You think because you're a lady that you can get me to roll over whenever you want?"

"No," she told him calmly, her eyes narrowed as she began to lose her patience. "No japes, no games. It's as simple as what I said." She took a fortifying breath and repeated herself. "I want you to kiss me again."

"You've taken leave of your senses," he muttered, though he made no move to back away from her.

"Perhaps," she admitted. She swallowed with some difficulty, but managed to push her shoulders back as she stared at him. "Will you deny me?"

The corner of his mouth trembled and his eyes seemed to darken. His anger did nothing to dissuade her. He can't frighten me anymore, she thought, even as his hands shot up to her shoulders and he began pushing her gently, walking her backwards.

Her back hit the door and a little noise of surprise fell from her lips. But then a hand came up to her face, cupped her jaw. He bent to her, his face so close to her own that all she could see were his eyes.

He breathed against her mouth, "I will never deny you anything. "

"Oh," the exclamation was breathy and soft.

It was different from the last kiss. His mouth met hers gently this time, moving against her lips slowly. She pressed her hands to his chest. She was thankful he wasn't wearing any armor, only a thin tunic, because she could feel the solid muscles of his torso beneath her hands.

He nipped at her lips teasingly and she hummed into his mouth. If she had known kissing him would be like this…

He took hold of her hands and moved them from his chest, draping them around his neck. Sansa went up on her toes to better accommodate his height. His hands fell to her waist and he pulled her closer. When his tongue slipped out to lick at her bottom lip, she gasped and tightened her arms around his neck

It felt so good. Indescribable. And Sansa became aware that her body was starting to respond in embarrassing ways. She felt an unbearable need to press her hips into his, no matter how improper. Her small clothes felt wet between her legs and her nipples pebbled beneath her clothes. She pressed her chest to his, welcoming the bit of friction it caused against her breasts.

Sandor seemed to like it too, judging from the growl that rumbled through his chest. His huge hands were in hair, fingers carding through the loose strands. It was a gentleness she hadn't even known that she needed from him. She was vaguely aware that they were moving, but whined when Sandor broke away to take a seat on the bed.

There was a look of apprehension that crossed his face and Sansa found that she was terrified that this was the end of it. But before she could think of what else to say to make him kiss her again, his hands went to her hips and he pulled her closer to stand between his knees. With him sitting and her standing, their heights were closer, and this seemed to have been his goal all along.

His lips found hers again and Sansa closed her eyes, sliding her hands back around his neck. She hadn't kissed many men, but it seemed to her that Sandor was superior when it came to kissing. Then again, it could be that she just wanted to kiss him more than she'd wanted to kiss anyone else. Every brush of his tongue, every light nip to her mouth made her a little more breathless.

Somehow, she found herself sitting on one of thighs. It was improper, of course, but Sansa couldn't find it in her to care. The longer they kissed, the bolder she became. She found enough courage to move her hands to his face, laying her hands on either cheek. He flinched when she touched his scars and she pulled back.

"It hurts?" She whispered, lifting her hand no more than an inch off the burned skin.

"No," he rasped, and then his hand covered hers and guided it back to his scarred cheek.

She brushed her thumb across the twisted tissue beneath his eye, then repeated the caress with her lips. His hands dug into her hips, not painfully, but enough that she pulled back to give him a curious look. He looked...laid open, more vulnerable than she'd ever seen him. She could see questions in his eyes, ones that she would gladly answer if he would only give them a voice.

It was odd, Sandor thought, that of all the fantasies he had entertained involving Sansa Stark that this somehow topped them all. It was laughable. They were clothed (mostly) and Sandor hadn't touched her too inappropriately, but somehow at the moment Sandor could not imagine anything he wanted more than what he had - which was the woman of his dreams sitting on his lap and touching his scars like they weren't the hideous disfigurement they were, but instead something precious.

And not only had she touched them with her hands, she had kissed them.

Crazy little bird.

"Why?"

Her pretty little brow furrowed and she frowned at him. "Why am I asking if it hurts, or…?"

He bit back his impatience and shook his head. Why was what he should have asked from the beginning when she said she wanted him to kiss her again, but his mind had been moving too slowly to ask the proper question. "Why did you want me to kiss you, Sansa? Are you that-" He stopped, searching for a word that would adequately explain this turn of events, " - desperate? Are you so lonely you would kiss a dog…"

"Stop it," she hissed, sounding harsher than he'd heard her in a while. "Don't you dare."

When he saw the tears gathering in her eyes, he felt a stab of guilt. He pulled her closer, even as she turned her face away from him. "I don't want to fight you, Sansa," he told her quietly. "Help me understand."

"I am not lonely, nor am I desperate. Don't you think that if I wanted someone to kiss me that I would at least find someone more convenient? Someone that I was expected to kiss?" Tears choked her voice and she dabbed at her eyes, her face still turned away from him.

He reached up and grasped her chin gently, then turned her to face him. "Explain it to me, then."

Her pretty blue eyes dropped from his face down to his chest and she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. "I don't know how to explain it to you."

Sandor closed his eyes for a moment and pleaded with whatever gods were listening for patience with this woman. He had always been forthright and blunt in his speech, and anyone who didn't also make a habit of this managed to irk him. He took a deep breath and looked at her again. She was peeking at him from beneath her lashes.

"Do your best," he said, his tone somewhere between a plea and a demand.

She stared at him for several seconds, unblinking, and he thought his brave little bird would turn craven for a moment - but then, she lifted her chin and met his eyes straight on. She looked terrified, but resolute, and he could respect that.

"It's not complicated, truly," she admitted softly. "But will you promise me not to be angry? No growling or yelling or accusing me of playing games?"

"Aye," he muttered. "I'll be calm."

She nodded and took a moment to steady her shallow breathing. Her lips turned up in a sad sort of smile and Sandor found his eyes drawn there as she said, "Yesterday when I told you that I knew that I would never love Beren Tallhart or Larence Hornwood - it's not only because I thought I should already have felt something for them. There's something else… I can't love them because I'm in love with you. That's why I wanted you to kiss me."

And though he had watched her mouth form the words, though she had been close enough to him that he couldn't have misheard her, his eyes jerked back up to hers in shock. He felt something in his chest twist painfully at the look in her eyes, as though it cost her something to tell him, as though she was conceding some ground to him somehow.

"I know you don't feel the same," she rushed on, watching him warily. "But I also know you feel something. I refuse to believe you kissed me earlier - and just now, for that matter - because you were trying to teach me a lesson. It's ridiculous."

This woman.

"Such a little fool," he said, though there was no bite to his words.

She gave him that same sad smile. "I know, but...I can hardly help how I feel."

He snorted softly and shook his head. "Not that, Sansa."

Her eyes narrowed and she tilted her head in confusion. And he supposed it was his fault that she was confused because it was taking an effort for him to formulate a coherent thought, much less an actual sentence. Sansa was patient, though - certainly more patient than him. So she sat there and waited for him until he could speak without spouting nonsense.

Sansa felt relief to have finally told him how she felt. She hadn't known before that it would make her feel lighter, as though a burden had been lifted. What was there to fear? She knew that he didn't love her, knew that his reaction might be harsh, and since she was prepared for all that, she found that there was no outcome that she could not handle. There had been so many times in her life when she had felt weak, helpless, and trapped, but this was not one of those times. She felt brave and powerful. She had laid herself open for him and she was still alive after all.

The fact that he'd called her a fool was not groundbreaking either. It was the second time in as many days that he'd called her foolish and, contrary to what most people thought of her, she had tough skin. Sandor was partially responsible for that, having spent a considerable amount of time speaking his harsh truths. But while she was relieved, she also felt trepidation as she sat waiting for him to finish his thought.

He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to hers and one hand snaked around her neck, fingers tangling at her nape. She wondered if he would kiss her again rather than speak, which Sansa found she was not opposed to at all.

His words, when he spoke, could have been harsh had his tone not been so gentle. "You're a fool, Sansa," he repeated, "How can you be so blind? How can you look at me everyday and not know? Did I not tell you that I would never deny you anything?"

She wanted to pull back to get a better look at his face, but he held her against him, their faces so close that his lashes brushed her skin when he blinked. He released a shaky breath that warmed her skin. She wanted to urge him on, to ask questions, but she sensed he would get there in his own time. Continuing to practice bravery, Sansa pressed a soft kiss against his mouth for encouragement.

Somehow, that seemed to be all the motivation he needed, for he began speaking quickly and quietly.

"How could you not know by now that you mean more to me than anything else? How could not know that I would die a thousand times - that I would burn over and over again just to keep you safe? You changed me, Sansa. Everything that I thought I knew about the world, you turned on its head. My world was ugly and cruel. But you were kind when I didn't deserve it. I hated you because you believed in the same things I believed in before Gregor burned it out of me. And I didn't want you to have to get burned to realize how ugly the world could be. I told myself that I was doing it for you, to open your eyes in the gentlest way that I could. But I was doing it for me - because I couldn't bear the thought of you thinking the world was a beautiful place only to be burned.

"I hated you back then, but I loved you too," he told her, his voice quieter when he said it. "Still do. Because even after all the ugly things you've been through, you're still kind. I don't hate you anymore, but I still love you."

Sansa's breath hitched as her chest surged with warmth. He loved her too. He loved her too. She had no words, so she kissed him, hungrily, much like he had kissed her in the Godswood. She might have lacked in technique, but judging from the low groan he emitted, Sandor didn't seem to mind. Never pulling his mouth from hers, he rearranged them, flipping Sansa so her back was to the bed as he straddled her hips. It was a callback to that night - the night she thought he'd kissed her, but this time the kiss was real and there was no dagger at her throat.

He was careful to hold his body away from hers, even as Sansa tried to tug him down to her. She wanted him to touch her everywhere. She tentatively brushed her tongue against his, attempting to mimic what he had done earlier. He growled into her mouth and deepened the kiss. Sansa had almost mustered up enough courage to arch into him when a pounding at Sandor's door had them springing apart. He was off the bed and several feet away from her by the time she sat up. Her heart hammered wildly in her chest at the knowledge that they were about to be caught. She looked up to Sandor, hoping he had some idea of what to do next.

He breathed heavily and glared at the door. "That'll be the maid," he hissed.

Sansa scrambled out of the bed just as the unbolted door swung open. The maid pointedly didn't look at Sandor, but seemed to sense another presence in the room. Her eyes swung to her left and landed squarely on Sansa - who could do nothing to hide the fact that she was half-dressed with messy hair and flushed skin.

The maid's eyes widened as she finally looked at Sandor, who was about as well put-together as Sansa, which was not at all. Sansa struggled to find something to say - she could beg her to keep quiet, or threaten her (though she didn't think she could truly manage that), or perhaps come up with some valid explanation.

"L-lady Sansa," the maid stuttered, and Sansa could tell from the look on the maid's face that her next words were not going to be welcome ones - "what has he done to you?"