Author Note:

I am so sorry for the long wait for this next chapter. I have been really struggling with how to write the relationship between these two post-intimacy. This chapter just brings us up to speed on happenings surrounding the characters. The next chapter will be more time spent with the two of them together.

On another note, I got asked about writing from Sandor's POV. So here I am trying that out. Please note that it bounces back and forth between the two of them. Thank you for the suggestion and be sure to let me know what you think.

The Hound woke to a pounding in his head. It felt as if his eyes were throbbing and his forehead was about to split down the middle. He squeezed his eyes as tight as he could, trying to slip back into darkness where the pain had been unable to reach him. The throbbing continued, the feeling as though his head was going to erupt continued. He grunted and turned burying his face in the pillow, letting his arm stretch and reach across the mattress, only it wasn't the mattress his hand rested on. Beneath his fingers was a warm body, flesh as smooth as marble. His heart suddenly felt like a stone sitting behind his ribs.

The night before came flooding back. The images behind his eyes were clear, vivid, and completely overwhelming. He opened his eyes slowly, ignoring the throbbing, and was looking right into hair of fire. Her red hair was cascading over the feather pillow, the sight of it shocking against the dirty white of the sheets. His dark green cloak was wrapped around her, underneath her arms, open at her thighs exposing her pale skin and the stain of pink blood high between her legs. His hand was resting on her chest, right above her breasts. It moved up and down with each breath she took. He curled his fingers, feeling her collarbone beneath his fingertips, her skin soft and inviting. Fuck. He could feel himself stiffen and the throbbing behind his eyelids begin to fade. His focus was shifting from the pain the wine was causing to the sight and feel of the little bird he had taken the night before.

With a carefulness he didn't know he possessed, he lifted the cloak and looked at her thighs more closely, the pink between them became deeper the closer to her core his eyes ventured. The thigh he had held to restrain himself was purple with a bruise the size and shape of his hand. The tuft of hair between her legs was streaked with red. He walked his fingers over the thigh not blossoming with a fresh bruise, and watched as goose pimples sprouted along her legs. Her one hand near her face clenched into a fist and her nose scrunched, then she settled. He watched her face as he let his hand wander to her stomach, where he had spilled himself the night before. The throbbing completely left his head and traveled down to his manhood. He curled his hand into a fist and quickly took it away. Fuck.

He sat up quickly, too quickly. The throbbing returned. His eyes felt swollen and his face hot. He looked back to the little bird once more, her eyelashes kissing her cheeks, her hair a frame of fire around her round face. Behind her closed lids was Tully blue. Before his judgement wavered, he got up and stumbled to the table and chairs and sat. The skin on the table was wine, which made his lip curl. For once he wanted water. Something to wash away the fogginess filling his head and the aching that was making his teeth grind together. And something to distract him from his wandering eyes that kept moving up and down her body. Her skin was like milk, unblemished and glowing. With a grunt he stood, threw his tunic over his head, and shoved his feet into his worn boots. He grabbed a small dagger, leaving his longsword beneath his side of the bed. With one last look he walked out of the door, slipping the key from his pocket to lock it behind him. He needed to keep his little bird safe.

Sansa woke to a pulsing inside of her. Not in her head, but in her core. Down there. The ache was slow and steady, persistent and somewhat sharp. As she opened her eyes and looked up at the ugly brown ceiling of wooden slats her heart quickened in her chest. She remembered the cause of the ache, the reason for the pain. The Hound. Sandor Clegane. She felt a heat begin to burn her chest and swarm up and coat her cheeks. Her blush was like a melted ruby oozing over her pale skin. She kept her eyes staring straight up, afraid to look next to her and see him. She almost felt embarrassed. The sun was spilling in from the small window in a small pool on the floor near the base of the tub. Sansa concentrated on the sunshine and her breathing as she summoned up the courage to look to her right. When she turned her heart did a little flutter and then dropped like a stone. Empty. The Hound had left an imprint where his body had been through the night, but otherwise, there was no sign of him. Sansa could smell a bit of his scent, the pure smell of man and sweat, but no other traces. His boots were gone, his clothes gathered. The wineskin that had been tossed onto the table was the only evidence that he had been with her at all. That and the cloak tucked beneath her arms, embracing her, and the steady ache between her legs. She shuffled to his side of the bed and peered over the edge. The glimmer of his sword was bright in the sunlight. Sansa let out the breath she didn't know she had been holding. Now she felt certain he was only gone temporarily. Her heart resumed its normal rhythm.

Sansa sat up and let her hair fall over her chest, covering her breasts as the cloak tumbled and pooled in her lap. She stretched her arms out in front of her and wiggled each finger. Even though she had lost her innocence the night before, there was little else different about her. Upon closer examination she saw the blossoming bruise on her thigh. Once again he marked her, and the shape was undoubtedly his hand. The purples and blues of the bruise looked like a painted hand on her leg, not the result of the Hound restraining himself from hurting her even more. She pulled the cloak up and looked at the tuft of hair between her legs. She wrinkled her nose and felt her heart hammer at the sight of the blood. Pink stained her inner thighs and streaks of dark red ran through her strawberry curls. She lifted her legs and shimmied back closer to the head of the bed and saw a small patch of blood. Much less than when I had first flowered. She shuddered at the memory of attempting to cut the evidence out of the mattress in King's Landing. The look on the handmaiden's face when she found her and Shae trying to flip the mattress would forever be imprinted in her memory. It was the day everything shifted. She became a woman on that day. And it was surrounded by monsters.

Shoving King's Landing to the back of her mind, Sansa wrapped the cloak around herself and stood. You're not in a castle anymore. There's no lions here. Her thigh throbbed where the bruise was forming, and her core was aching with more intensity now that she was fully awake. She craved water, but she knew the only beverage in the room was wine. And the thought of wine made her stomach turn. She had taken a drink before slipping into darkness the night before, and her stomach had flipped and protested. Her head had spun a few times before finally she was able to rest. Her body had been slick with sweat and her heart had already been hammering, but the wine had made it worse. How does the Hound drink so much wine?

A knock at the door made Sansa jump. She wrapped the cloak tightly around herself and put the hood up, pulling it far over her face. When she reached the door another knock came, a bit louder than the one before. Sansa put her hand on the latch then thought better. Don't be a stupid little bird. The Hound was becoming the voice inside of her head. "Yes?" Sansa said, against the wooden door.

"We've been told you would like another bath, miss," a girl behind the door said. Sansa pictured the small girl from the evening before. Freckles had been dusted across her young face, and her eyes had been a sad, dull blue.

Sansa unlatched the door and opened it a crack. Her hood blocked her view, but she could see the rough woolen dress of the young girl. The end of her braids went to her stomach, the dirty blonde of her hair wrapped tightly and shiny with grime. "That would be lovely, thank you." Sansa pulled the cloak tighter around her body, completely concealing herself. She walked quickly back to the bed and sat, still as a stone while the young girl emptied the tub and refilled it with steaming water. An older woman helped the young girl and brought Sansa some breakfast of porridge with honey and some water. Her mouth watered at the sight. She couldn't resist to wait, so she ate quietly at the table while the tub was being filled. One hand kept her cloak secured while the other fed her the sweet breakfast.

"Your husband said to tell you he will be back by dinner," the girl said at the door with the last empty pail in her young hands. Sansa tilted her head high enough to see the girl's face. "He also said not to worry." Sansa could have laughed. She smiled and nodded, watching the girl turn and leave. He said not to worry. Sansa couldn't picture the Hound saying such words. She pushed the empty bowl away and stood, latching the door. She listened to the footsteps of the girl disappear down the stairs. When silence came, Sansa turned to the tub and didn't hesitate to walk over.

The cloak floated to the floor with a thud as she stepped into the bath. The water felt hotter than it had the night before. Her skin screamed in protest as she sucked in a breath and sat. The ache between her legs turned to a stinging sensation as the water touched her everywhere possible. She imagined the blood washing away, slipping into the water and rising in red swirls to the surface. I'm no longer an innocent woman. And I don't mind. Sansa took a deep breath and plunged beneath the surface, her thoughts replaying the night before. With a smile beneath the water she remembered how she had stretched and welcomed the Hound into her body. For those moments they had been one being. Her fear and uncertainty met with his harshness and hate and became something new. It was as if their deepest fears and all the unspoken words between them were exchanged through their intimacy. Sansa felt as if she knew the Hound now. He fears fire, my delicate body, and losing me. Of the last one she grew more certain the longer she stayed beneath the surface. The way he had watched her, held her, and touched her. I'm his. He's mine. Sansa opened her eyes and let the water sting her eyes.

Sandor had inquired the night before about the deal happening at the Twins to anyone who had been drunk enough to spill their knowledge. Several men had told him the same story. The Young Wolf had made a terrible mistake and was trying to make amends with Walder Frey. And every man thought the same thing Sandor did. It was a fatal mistake. The more he drank and the more he listened the more he felt something close to sympathy for the little bird he left upstairs. Her family was falling to ruins all around her and she was unable to stop it. She barely knew anything of it, in fact. Murmurs of a wedding at the Twins stirred through the room as the night got darker and the men got drunker. When Sandor asked if it was Robb to be wed, he got smirks. When he asked if it was Catelyn, he got laughs. No one answered.

He had kept his hood up and refused to say his name, but he knew these people had caught a glimpse of his face. And none had said a word. How is it that no one here knows me? He had asked himself the night before. But as he had gazed around the room it became apparent that the fear was not at the large man drinking an impressive amount of wine with a hideous face, it was with the war surrounding this small town. They had remained untouched, for the time being. It was only a matter of time before their gates would come crashing down and the village torn apart. For once in his life, he was not recognized. For once he was free of his title. He wasn't a dog here.

Now he was wandering down the main dirt road of the town, passing shops being packed up. Houses being made to look abandoned. They're preparing for war. They're preparing for men to come and take it all away. He got several stares as he continued down until he reached a farmer's house. He had heard talk of an old dying man whose son was seeking help. But everyone at the inn had laughed while talking of it. Sandor saw the opportunity and took it. He walked up to the fence and saw several cattle, pigs and goats. A wealthy man. Before Sandor could walk to the house a young man came over to him, dressed in filthy wool pants and a scratchy tunic and boots with holes.

"And who are you, ser?" the man asked, his hands on his hips. His messy brown hair covered his ears and fell into his eyes. The green of them was shocking. They looked like fresh moss.

Sandor snorted. "I'm not a fucking knight," he answered turning to the boy. "I hear your old man's dying." The Hound was not known for his way with words. The boy looked stung but nodded.

"Aye," the boy answered while looking down at his boots. "What of it?"

"Rumor is that he was to bring food to the Twins for a wedding." Sandor gestured to the livestock.

The boy nodded. "I sent word to the Twins that he would be unable. I got no response."

Sandor walked to the boy and looked down at him. The Hound was nearly two heads taller. "The only response you'll get for slighting Walder Frey is a sword in the belly." The boy looked up and studied the burnt side of his face. It always tingled when eyes stared at it for too long. "I'll butcher the pigs and take them."

The boy shrugged. "I can't offer you anything for the work."

"But you can," the Hound replied. "Silence." The boy raised his eyebrows and looked confused. "Never speak a word of this to anyone. Or I'll gut you while you're still alive." A glimpse of fear swam over the boy's face before disappearing. Then another look lingered. Something much worse than fear. He knows who I am.

"You have my word," the boy said quietly. "Not a word will be spoken to anyone."

And with that the boy left Sandor to slaughter the animals while he undoubtedly returned to his dying Father's bedside. The Hound took no joy in killing the beasts. It was different from a human. Watching the light leave the eyes of a creature made no difference to him. The light of a human, the soul of an enemy, now that was worth something to him. It tasted finer than any wine. When Sandor finished the task of killing and butchering the animals, he used the old man's wagon to pack the meat and prepare it for the journey. By the time he was ready to leave the sun was setting. His body was slick with sweat and blood. He was certain he smelled foul. The work had been grim and unsatisfying, but Sandor looked up at the house as he covered the wagon and sneered. He had one more satisfying task to complete before he left. The voice in his head that sounded like the little bird almost made him stop and turn back. But as soon as he entered the home of the young boy and his dying Father, there was no turning back. He knows who I am. Words are just words. Death is certain.

Thoughts? I hope this helped tie in happenings outside of just these two characters. Reviews are amazing.