Thanks to everyone who has followed, favorited, or reviewed. Not that it's important, but this is my favorite chapter.

CHAPTER 8

SANDOR

Once Sandor passed into the low hills that hid him from view of the Eyrie he dismounted from his seveteen-hand stallion and walked alongside it with slow, plodding steps. The farther away he got from the castle the more he felt like he was making a mistake and, worst of all, there was nothing he could do about it. He thought that only his brother could make him feel helpless, but now he knew there was another.

"Sansa," he whimpered, his voice just above a whisper. Her body was the lyre and his heart was the string, each step he took a twist that pulled it tighter. He just had to get far enough away that it snapped, that's all, and then he'd be rid of her. He was a strong man and he would not let himself be defeated emotionally by a little girl, but he had no idea that riding away would be so hard; no idea that his spirit was so weak.

He reached the rainclouds that blotted out half the sky and fat raindrops hit him on the face. It suited his dark mood and the water running down his cheeks felt cathartic. He knew he shouldn't worry about Sansa, because there was nothing he could do for her. He couldn't force the people around her to treat her right, and she wouldn't let him take her away from them. He hated this, the whole thing felt like a repeat of King's Landing, except without the fire (thank the Gods) and he wasn't drunk.

The thought of drinking almost got him back on his horse. He had a bag full of coin, but he'd never get to an inn to spend it at this pace. He stumbled at the bottom of the hill and got ready to swing onto his horse's back. There was a crack of thunder in the distance and he heard Sansa call his name.

Sandor squeezed his eyes shut tight. It was bad enough that he had to admit to himself how strong his feelings for her were, but now he was bloody hallucinating. Why didn't he just get on the damn horse and leave? The wind rippled over the grass and brought the sound to him again.

I'm going fucking nuts.

"Sandor Clegane!" He heard his name for a third time, louder and unmistakable. He turned towards the sound and there she was, racing towards him on a palfrey. As she got closer he could see the frothy sweat on the horse's chest and legs. It took long enough for her to reach him that he accepted she was not an apparition, but his elation was tempered by confusion. What in Seven Hells was she doing galloping alone across the prairie?

She stopped her horse when she was close enough for him to see the blush of exertion on her cheeks and smell the tired sweat of her animal. She jumped off the horse, ran the distance between them, jumped into his arms, and kissed him.

Every question and thought fled his mind then. None of it made sense, but none of it mattered. Sansa had her arms around his neck and pulled herself up to give him a long, close-lipped kiss on the mouth. He wrapped his arms around her and crushed her to him. She put her hands on his face, touching him like she couldn't believe that he was there.

"Take me to Winterfell, please, take me home."

His brain was filled with an awareness of her soft body, her heady scent, the lingering sensation of her lips against his. "All right," he said.

She smiled—a true smile, her eyes pinched at the corners—and kissed him again once, quick. Reluctantly, he set her down. He was so happy to see her he would have promised her anything, and taking her to Winterfell didn't seem so impossible just then. They would just have to take it one step at a time.

It was raining in earnest now, and it streaked down his face, but Sansa had her fox-fur hood up and stayed dry. Her horse was shivering and wheezing from exhaustion, its tongue lolling around its bit. "You rode that beast hard," he said, wondering how she planned to get anywhere on a broken horse.

"I had to hurry." When she said that she reached out and grabbed his hand, and his heart leapt into his throat. How is she doing this to me? It was no good—he would have to think clearly if they were going to make it.

"We have to hurry, if we want to make it off the Vale before Petyr Baelish finds you." This is crazy, stupid. "I don't know how we're going to do that when your horse is almost broken."

Sansa looked at her horse, dubious at first. It started to cough. She looked back at him, embarrassed.

"How much time did you buy us?"

"I'm not sure." She wrung her hands together. Sansa was an honest girl, not given to deception, and Sandor resolved to be patient with her.

"When will Baelish know you're gone?"

"By morning, definitely."

Sandor frowned. "Then how did you get out riding? He wouldn't send you out without an escort."

"That's true. I had an escort."

"So in the next few minutes, someone could come over that hill looking for you."

"Yes."

"Or in the next few hours, the company of armed men Baelish sends to find you."

Sansa blushed, realizing her mistake.

"What do you want me to do when they get here? I'm one man, Sansa, I'm not equipped to fight an army."

She got the faraway look in her eyes he knew from the hopeless and the dead. Sandor didn't want her moping, he wanted answers and a little more common sense from her in the future. That was if they had a future—worst-case scenario, Lothor Brune and Littlefinger's cronies would be on their way shortly and kill him when they found him leading Sansa off the Vale.

"Do you know if your escort went back to the Eyrie? Or did he chase after you?"

"Well, he followed me at first. But after that I don't know."

"You'd better hope he's the type to try and find you himself," Sandor grumbled. He pulled the packs off of Stranger's back and onto the ground to lighten the horse's load. "If I had any sense I'd take you back to the Eyrie right now. Tell Littlefinger I rescued you from some mountain men and claim a reward."

"Please don't do that."

"I won't," he muttered, and picked his Hound's helm out of the bag. He donned it and slid onto Stranger's back.

"Where are you going?"

"To buy a little time. Put those packs on your horse and head east. I'll catch up with you."

He rode over the hill she'd come down on and scanned the landscape. Grass waved over the plains, punctuated by rocky crags that punched through the turf; in the distance, the monstrous and mountainous Eyrie. Far to the west and hopelessly off her trail Sandor spotted Sansa's escort, an unarmored boy on a shaggy garron trotting in the direction of the castle. He was probably just now going back for help.

The wind in their favor and the boy's back to them, Sandor was able to canter Stranger within a hundred yards before kicking the horse into a gallop. Here was the edge of the rainwall and the sun broke through the clouds. They were almost upon the boy before he heard the thundering of hooves and wheeled his pony around. He should have just ran. Instead, he turned to see the Hound bearing down on him on his panting black war horse.

The garron whinnied and tried to run, but the boy held the reins, even though his only protection was the question on his lips. It was not enough. In one motion, the Hound drew his sword and cut through half the boy's torso. The pony, already terrified by the stallion charging down on it, screamed at the sudden and overpowering smell of blood and tried to sprint away, its rider bouncing loose in the saddle. Stranger overtook it with easy, loping strides, biting out at the other horse to herd it back the way they came. When they were close enough Sandor pulled the body off and let it fall to the ground. He grabbed the pony's reins and forced it to keep up with them, though exhaustion and panic interfered.

It was raining hard when he caught up to Sansa, walking lazily through the meadow. The rain plink plink plinked off his helmet. When she saw the garron, she went into a flutter.

"Where did you go?" she asked. "That's the horse Timory was on. Where's Timory?"

He jumped off his horse and Sansa did the same, flapping from him to the garron and back again. He redistributed the loads the horses were carrying, trying to guess which was the most tired, and ended up putting most of the packs on Stranger. Then he tied their reins together.

"There's blood on the saddle here," she pointed out. There had been a lot more, but the rain washed it away. "What did you do with Timory?"

"I rode him down."

That put an end to her questions. He lifted her onto Stranger's back and vaulted on after her. He picked up the reins and urged his horse on as fast as he felt he could go without killing the two being pulled along behind him.

Sansa shifted to look up at him, the rain splattering onto her face. Her complexion nearly matched the whites of her eyes in color. "I changed my mind," she said. "I want to go back. Take me back to the Eyrie."

He smiled at her through the teeth of his Hound's helm. She was so pretty, even when made pale from cold and fright.

"Not a chance."

He had Sansa Stark in his arms now, and he'd die before he let anybody take her from him.