DISCLAIMER: George R. R. Martin owns A Song of Ice and Fire. This is a derivative work by an unaffiliated person.

The new picture was painted by Edward Leighton over 100 years ago.

Warning: Some Mature content in this chapter.

Don't get too excited, though . . .

& I feel to mention this: Things have to get worse, before they get better.

CHAPTER 14

SANDOR

After Sandor watched Sansa get out of the pool naked, there was no doubt in his mind that she was a woman.

He had once seen a painting of a goddess rising out of the sea, and that's what she looked like now. One hand lay across her breasts and the other covered the place between her legs, but they could not hide much of the figure she had grown into. Her breasts were as large as melons, her hips strained to match their girth, and the nipples she tried to cover with her arm were as pink as her lips. She brought the sound of rain with her out of the water as it ran over her skin. Her long hair was finally losing its fake, dark brown color, and between her legs he could see the edges of her shock of true red-brown hair.

He tried to keep his face a mask when she approached him, but his mouth twitched. Sansa's face was as impassive as the moon. The droplets coming off of her absorbed into the earth when she stepped onto the bank and left them in an uncomfortable silence. She was careful not to touch him as she took the cloak from his hand. She was so close he could see the goosepimples on her arm when she reached for it, leaving her breasts free and her nipples tightening into rosebuds in the crisp air. She covered herself and moved past him to stand by the fire.

Sandor walked off the beach into the cover of the trees. He'd always thought of Sansa as a little girl, helpless, a flimsy thing, but little girls did not have huge perky tits bouncing around on their chests. Her waist was so tiny he guessed he could get his fingers to touch if he reached his hands around it, but even his large hands wouldn't cover the Little Bird's squashy breasts. Now he saw that she was no longer a child, but a woman, with a woman's body that could make children of her own.

The thought of her flesh spilling out between his fingers caused his cock to jump. He knelt down over a pile of fallen leaves and took it out. Knowing she was bathing had kept him half-hard, but seeing her naked had brought him to full mast. His cock had grown considerably since she had watched him step out of the cold pool, and he wished that she could see it now. It was longer than the span of his hand, and thick, the red head pushing out stiff. He pulled the skin back up around it and rolled the head between his fingers, thinking of her soft body and sweet voice.

Somehow it felt wrong to imagine fucking her, but he couldn't get the image of her rising from the water out of his mind. Whenever he closed his eyes, the picture was there. He pumped into his hand and thought of the droplets running over her body, the ones between her tits he'd like to dry off with his tongue, of her delicate nipples and how he'd like to taste them. No. He opened his eyes and a vein in his thick cock was pulsing. He couldn't deny that he wanted to give this to her, to spear her red pussy and shake her small body and hear her sing his name again and again.

"Sansa," he muttered, and came, shooting glob after glob of cum on the innocent pile of leaves he crouched over. There was a lot of it and he gritted his teeth as he pressed the last of it out of him, feeling guilty that he'd succumbed so totally to his desires. Well, not totally, he decided, because even if his thoughts had been impure that wasn't the same as acting on them. If his actions were as impure as his desires, he would have raped her already.

No. That was a lie, too. As much as he wanted to fuck her, he didn't really want to rape her. He hated to see her cry, for one thing, and it wouldn't be worth it to hurt her so and break the trust between them. What he wanted was to share himself with her, and for her to want that. It was a feeling Sandor was unaccustomed to, as a man who would need the fingers on both of his hands to count the women he'd fucked, but less than one for those he hadn't paid gold to beforehand.

Yet he knew that Sansa would not become one of those rare women who stole into his bed of their own accord. She was a princess, as she was fond of reminding him, and would marry a prince or a high lord that could help her secure Winterfell. She wasn't interested in satisfying base desires with a lowly swordsman. The devotion he felt for her was best left unconsummated, expressed as loyalty instead of love. Do I love her? Is that what this is? The very thought made him uncomfortable. He returned to camp somewhat shy of her gaze, but Sansa was not so keen to ignore him.

"Where did you go?"

"Why? Did you miss me?" he sneered, knowing the answer.

"No." Sansa curled her lip back at him. "I . . . I wanted to know if the food was ready."

"It's not, so stop asking questions."

He'd set fish to roast, and actually it was a little overdone. He stabbed his knife into the fire to get out the root vegetables he'd packed at the bottom. They'd found wild onions and carrots in the woodlands, and leeks and mustard seeds near the mouth of the river. Nature's last harvest. He put the latter in fresh after peeling and chopping the cooked fish and vegetables, mixed everything together and gave half of it to Sansa in a bowl. It was peasant fare, to be sure, and he could only imagine how she felt being served it.

Sansa fell upon the food like a hungry wolf. Because she is, he realized. He was used to surviving on battle rations when the need called for it, but Sansa had lived pampered all her life. She wasn't prepared for the struggles of running, hiding, and fighting coupled with the rare cooked meal on a journey like this.

"This is really good!" Sansa said, spooning more of the fish mixture into her mouth. "I mean, it's loads better than what we eat when you don't cook."

Sandor winced. "You don't have to rub it in."

"I'm not! Why can't you just take the compliment?" They ate in silence a few moments longer before she spoke up again. "You know, you'll have to get over it as we go farther north and it gets even colder."

He fixed her with an icy stare. "Get over what?"

He must have looked angry, because Sansa stammered and cringed. "Making, well, uhm . . . Nothing. I'm sorry, I should not have said that."

"Yeah, you really shouldn't have." He took a deep breath, remembering his promise to himself to be patient with her. "Sansa, I don't want to build fires because of the reason I've been trying to explain to you. Anyone searching for us will be able to find us by the smoke from the fire."

"Oh, I'm not worried about that. I have you here to protect me!"

Sandor's laugh sounded like a bark. "So, the only way you'll have a problem is if I'm dead, right?"

"Yes! Well, no, that's not what I'm trying to say . . .. I just don't know what I would do without you. You're the only person I have to rely on. If you weren't helping me, I wouldn't have a chance to get to Winterfell."

"It's fine. I can't think of anyplace I'd rather be during the middle of Winter than heading north to take a helpless Princess back to her ruined castle."

Sansa's smile fell away and her face reddened. "Oh . . . you're mocking me."

"Well," Sandor stamped out the remains of the fire, "You were mocking me."

Sansa turned to what was left of her food and pushed it around in the bowl. Sandor looked at the soft gray ash, dead and growing cold under his boot. He couldn't talk to her now. He didn't really feel like talking to her again, ever. Better to let her go and see how far she gets by herself, he thought. This was all becoming too much for him to deal with. Just then, a wolf came onto the beach.

"Look out!" It was closer to her, and the biggest wolf Sandor had ever seen. Its thick grey and white fur, ticked with black, bristled to make it look like it was coated in spikes. The wolf was the size of a yearling pony, at least—big enough for a small girl like Sansa to ride. Sandor reached for his sword reflexively and realized he'd left it on the bank near the water.

"Sansa! Get back here!" He took a step forward and the wolf growled, a deeper, more menacing sound than he'd ever heard from any dog. The wolf held its ears forward to show that it was not afraid. Sansa crouched down and crawled towards it.

"What in Seven Hells are you doing!" he yelled at her, and took another step forward. The wolf's tail stuck straight up. His sword was only a few meters away, but he'd never reach it in time if the wolf decided to snap. One bite from those lion-sized jaws would kill her. He didn't dare take another step, but Sansa did. The wolf stared into her eyes and cocked its head.

Sandor fell to his knees. He would have prayed then if he thought it would help. Sansa came to within a foot of the wolf. The seconds passed like hours, Sandor sure with each one that the wolf was about to bite her head off. Finally, it sniffed the air and turned back to the woods from whence it came. Just before it bounded into the woods it looked over its shoulder at them, and then it disappeared.

Sansa stood up like nothing strange had happened. "I think she wants us to follow her," she said.

"What the fuck! A wolf almost attacks you and you want to go chasing after it? If I didn't already know how fucking stupid you are—"

"She didn't attack me," Sansa interrupted, frowning at him.

"She? Listen to yourself!"

"Don't argue with me! Get the horses. We're leaving."

Crazy wolf bitch. Like her sister, he thought, but he didn't dare say it. He got Stranger and led him after Sansa and her horse. They went through the woods the way the wolf had gone. The horses were nervous from the wolf smell, but they urged them forward, even though there wasn't any trail.

"There she is!" Sansa said, pointing through the trees. The wolf was crossing the Kingsroad. Sansa crashed through the bushes trying to catch up, pulling a reluctant Lady along behind her.

"Sansa, wait!" He didn't look to see if anyone else was on the road—he didn't have time. He saw the flank of Sansa's horse backtrack south and parallel to the road. South, why? And he caught her, panting. When he went to scold her she put a finger to his lips.

"Listen," she whispered. He heard someone coming up the road. Not one horse, but several, galloping, and one man yelling to another. They were well hidden in the brush, but through it Sandor could make out the movement of four figures, one with splashes of red and gold on his armor.

"We found the camp, Ser!"

"Did you find Sansa Lannister?"

"Does it look like it?" answered a gruffer voice than the first. "If I did, I'd have her fist wrapped around my cock by now."

"Whoever it was, they left already. We can't be sure it was their camp, anyway."

"Of course it was them!" Sandor recognized this man's voice. It was Lothor Brune. "Who else would be coming off the mountains of the Eyrie? I want them found!"

"There's a trail from here to the beach, but we didn't see signs of anyone."

"We'll ride up the the road and search alongside it. Whoever it was, they can't have gone far."

The four horsemen galloped past, too swift for Sandor to make out any details through the cover of the trees. He didn't have to. He had heard enough to know that Baelish and the Lannisters had sent men after them who were hot on their trail. If they hadn't left camp when they did, they would have been caught.

Sansa grabbed his hand. "Come on," she whispered, and led him deeper into the woods.