I'm not doing so well on getting out two chapters a week x_x I have a friends helping me edit so I am still trying to pick up the pace. Thank you very much for reading! Your comments are always appreciated.

Warning: Mature content. I dont like to spoil and I dont plan to warn you in the future, but (SPOILER) this is possibly triggering.

NOTE (Once you have read the chapter): This chapter got so many reviews, and though I enjoyed reading the discussions I feel I have to respond to some of the comments: It was NOT my intention for Sandor to rape Sansa. He would never do that and that has already been established (explicitly in Ch14.) I'm not excusing his actions, but he is drunk, thought they might have sex, expected her to be coy, and thinks that her reluctance comes from her negative past experiences, not his present actions. Under these very different circumstances, they probably would have had sex.
This chapter is from Sansa's point of view, so you don't get any of that. I wrote it this way because I wanted it to be upsetting and uncomfortable. Speaking for myself here, but I think that, in canon, SanSan does make you question rape and challenge rape fantasy. It's strange to want them to be together, even for him to ravish her, without really accepting what that means. I am sorry if this offended you and I am really sorry if you don't want to keep reading, but if that's the case you probably won't be able to handle the later chapters anyway.

CHAPTER 19

SANSA

Sansa was delighted to be sitting in front of a mirror. After more than a month of travelling they were finally spending the night at an inn. And at Barrowton, no less; a town in the North.

She combed her hair until it was fluffy and then she braided it, humming to herself all the while. It was so clean now, a rich copper color. Sansa had lit all the candles in the room, heedless of the waste, to keep the room bright and joyful and to see herself better in the mirror. The cream she had put on her skin was moisturizing nicely. She'd had the maid bring her a half dozen beauty supplies along with her bath and also help her trim her hair. At first the girl had been incredulous, especially when Sansa insisted on refilling the tub with clean, hot water after Sandor got out of it. But in the end she pressed the gold coin he gave her into the maid's hand and Sansa had to practically push the poor girl out of her room after that. She was tying a ribbon on the end of her braid when the door banged open. Sansa flinched, but it was just the Hound stumbling in. She turned back to the mirror to finish her hair. He came over to stand behind her and put his hands on her shoulders.

"Gods, you're pretty."

They watched each other in the mirror for a moment and then she turned to look up at him questioningly. All at once his grip tightened and he leaned down to kiss her. She could smell alcohol on him heavy so she pushed him away and jumped up. The stool tumbled over and Sandor's foot caught in it when he took a step towards her."Fuck. Piece of shit." He tried to kick it off and one of the wooden legs snapped. "Ah, fuck it." He made quite a show of disentangling himself and Sansa put the bed between them. "What's the matter, Little Bird, do I still scare you so much?"

"You're drunk," she accused him.

"Yeah. What of it?" He lurched towards her and Sansa flew like a leaf to a corner of the room. Sandor laughed, sounding like a little boy. He made to go around the bed, but she ran to the other side, keeping the greatest distance between them. After a few turns, Sansa felt uncomfortably like they were playing a game.

"I'm going to catch you, Little Bird." He crawled over the bed.

Sansa backed up into the vanity. The furniture rattled and sent half the room's candles to the floor. Sansa watched in horror as one landed in the fallen tin of beeswax and ignited. Sandor was there in a second, stamping out the fire before much of it caught.

The light went out beneath Sandor's boot and they stood near each other in the blue darkness. Sansa's eyes only reached level with his chest. He was breathing heavy. She looked up at him.

He laughed.

She was too close to slip away, but she tried anyway. He caught her easily and held his wrists in the vice-like grip of his hands. She flailed against him. His physical strength was her shield, but against it she was defenseless. There was nothing she could do. "Let me go!" she shrieked, and pushed against him with all her might. He did.

Sansa landed on the bed so hard it winded her. That and her struggles left her panting, and Sansa felt half a fool for her futile display of force. "What's gotten into you?" she hissed.

"I want to kiss you." He stood over her and she knew he was looking at her through her flimsy nightdress. She felt a little afraid.

"No," she said.

"Why not?" he sneered, and leaned over with his hands on either side. His weight created a slope in the mattress that pulled her down towards him. "I thought you liked kissing."

"I do . . ." she looked away from him, ". . . but you smell like ale."

Sandor took her hand in his. She could have pulled it out of his grasp, but she didn't. He spoke low to her. "I don't have to kiss you on the mouth."

Sansa's heart beat faster. She forced herself to look at him. "W-what are you talking about?"

"Come here," he growled, scooping her up in his arms, "I'll show you."

He brought the inside of her wrist up to his mouth and kissed it, going up along her forearm. She shuddered; the kisses felt so good, as good as they had ever felt between them. She hadn't known her arm was so sensitive. The heat was rising in her, but somehow that scared her more.

"Sandor," she whimpered, and he pressed closer to her, his knee between her thighs. She could smell the ale on him as he brought his face up to her neck. "Stop. Oh." The whole right side of her body tingled when he kissed her there. His hands roamed over her free and clumsy. He licked along her collarbone to the other side and she knew he was out of it; he was pressing his burned flesh right up against her cheek.

He should not be kissing me, she thought, I never gave him leave. He moved away from her for a second and she felt relieved that he had stopped, but then he kissed her nipple through the fabric of her dress. Sansa gasped and put her hands on his shoulders. Part of her thought it would be easier just to lie here and let him do what he wanted, to offer him neither acceptance nor resistance. But she knew in her heart that was wrong and she did not want things to be that way between them. At the same time, to say "No" and have him ignore her would be a greater pain than the first.

His hands went under her dress and slid up her thighs, pushing the dress up with them. She tried to pull it down, her hands tugging at the lacy edges. He didn't even need both hands to keep her dress up, he left one hand there for her to struggle against and the other came up to fondle her breast. He nuzzled her and she writhed beneath him. In some way it felt good—his hands on her, familiar, possessed by desire, but it was too much too soon and she wanted to stop. "Please, stop."

He pulled her knees apart and slid his hands along her inner thighs to open her further. He kissed her on both knees and up her legs. "Sandor, I'm not ready," she said meekly, but her body was shaking with an unfamiliar need and she used her hands to prop herself up instead of push him away.

She wanted to tell him to stop but another part of her, a selfish part, didn't. He kissed her lightly at first, then rougher, sucking at her the way he had done at her neck. She clawed at his shoulders and back, folding herself over his head, but whether to pull him away or closer even she herself was not sure.

She had let herself relax for a moment and knew that this was a mistake; she felt that she had lost control of her body. She felt his breath on her, a hot wind, and then he kissed her there. She cried out and after that every breath that left her was a little moan. Her thighs trembled against the side of his head as he tongued her, lapping at her slit like a dog drinking water.

Sansa bit her lip to keep from cursing. He would never hurt me, she told herself. This is just a kiss, but she knew that it was something more.

"Please," she begged. "Please please stop it." She dug her nails into both sides of his face and raked down.

"Gods damn you, Sansa." He grabbed both of her wrists as she scratched him and pinned her arms above her head. The wetness between her legs turned cold, a feeling that crept over her whole body as dread. "Why are you fighting me so much?" He gave her a little shake. His voice sounded as menacing as a demon snarling from a pit, but there was something else in it, a pain that grew more pronounced until he choked on the final word. "After everything we've been through together, you should want this! There's nothing to lose by it, Sansa . . . I know you had sex with the Imp."

Tears ran down her cheeks. She did love him, want him even, but he asked too much of her. She was still a virgin. She couldn't do this. Thoughts of Tyrion—and their unconsummated marriage—were the last thing on her mind. Sandor was confused, and drunk, and pressing down on her. She felt herself near hysterics. "No. I don't want to. I never did."

"You're a bloody liar," he cursed her, and pulled down his breeches.

Sansa's eyes widened when she saw his manhood spring free. He is bigger than the dwarf, she thought, though in her memory Tyrion's cock was frightfully large against his small body. The Hound's was large by any comparison. As soon as she saw it, she knew he meant to use it on her. "Please, Sandor. No." She was crying.

He kissed her tears away. "I'll show you how good it can be."

He held her around the waist, her legs spread on either side of him, looking down, his long hair hiding his face. Sansa couldn't watch. She looked away. On the nightstand were the items she had taken out of her bag; her comb, Aunt Lysa's jewelry, and the pearl-handled dagger Sandor had given her.

She flung her her arm out and grabbed the dagger. She had to stop him, or she would lose everything. Not deep. Please don't go too deep.

She stabbed him in the shoulder. Sandor grunted. Sansa's hand fell away, her whole body limp, and the dagger slid out of his flesh and landed on the bed. Sandor looked over at it and put a hand on his bleeding arm. Blood was pouring out everywhere. Sansa sobbed and shook; she didn't care what happened now. She put her face in her hands and cried, and felt the bed move when Sandor got up to leave her.