What a spike in reviews. That can't be good! :P Glad to know people are reading and hear from some new people. Hopefully this chapter will answer some of your questions. (Though if you were upset by the last one, I may lose you at the beginning of this one. Keep reading! Remember this is rated M!)

DISCLAIMER: I am not GRRM and this is a fan-fiction.

CHAPTER 20

SANDOR

Fire! There was a fire. He could feel the heat of it on his face and body. He opened his eyes, and sure enough, it was all around him. The green fire. The city was burning, and even the river was ablaze with flames. This was a fire that even water could not quench.

Damned if he was going to stay here. He climbed the steps to the the Little Bird's room. Sometimes she was there, and sometimes she flew back to her cage later. Tonight she was there, looking scared and all of twelve, staring out her window at the green flames.

He removed his helm and went to one knee before her. "I pledge my service to you, my Lady," he said. But when he held his helm out to her it wasn't the snarling dog, it was her father's severed head.

Sansa started to cry. "Don't cry," he told her. "Sing," and he held a dagger to her throat. Sansa sang "Prince Aemon the Dragonknight" and it was too much for him. He'd killed men today, he knew. He ripped off her dress. Underneath she was a woman and her body was wet like it had been at the pool, drops of water rolling off her tits like tears. He put a hand between her legs and she was wet there, too, so he fucked her.

Her voice wavered with every thrust but she kept singing. He looked down to where they were joined and blood was running between her legs like a river. Her voice was garbled, like she was singing from underwater, like she was drowning. He looked up and somehow the knife had slipped and she was bleeding from a gash in her neck, too. She couldn't sing anymore. Her head fell back and her neck opened and she didn't look like Sansa anymore, she looked like someone else, she looked like Lady Stoneheart, the witch—

Sandor awoke with a start. He was lying beneath some hedges outside of the inn, though they were scarcely more than clumps of sticks in this season. If it had snowed, he might have died—as it was, his joints were frozen stiff. He forced himself up and groaned as a pain shot through his shoulder.

His head was numb from the alcohol he drank the night before, but the pain cut through that as well and a piece of last night came back to him. He couldn't remember much, not even how he'd gotten the bandage wrapped around his arm, but he remembered how he got the cut. Sansa had stabbed him with the dagger he'd given her to protect herself with. He groaned again, a rage against himself, and fell back into the hedges. He doubted if Sansa would ever forgive him. She'd cried a river and begged him not to rape her. How the fuck did we even get to that? he wondered, but the full memory eluded him like voices in a fog.

"Fresh bread! Cakes!" A shopkeeper's voice called out. "Cakes! Last chance for cakes!" The smell of his goods followed him into the street. It was probably just a bid to attract late-morning customers, but it got Sandor to his feet and he startled a townsperson as he lurched out of the plants and onto the road.

The baker's assistant was stacking the goods on a cart outside while the baker himself handled transactions. The delicious smell had lured a small crowd over. A woman at the front asked, "What kind of cake is that?"

Sandor's leg was bothering him, but as he limped closer he heard the baker's reply. "That's a lemon cake."

Lemon cake. That was Sansa's favorite. It was also close to the flavor of her cunt—tangy and sour and a little bit sweet. The memory of parting her legs came back to him in a rush and he had to sit down.

He tried not to be too hard on himself. Who could have guessed that she had remained a maid after being married to Tyrion Lannister? The Imp could scarcely go a meal without porking a woman. Sandor had told himself that she was reluctant because anyone would be, if their first time was as painful and humiliating as it had to be with someone like that. But the truth of it refused all these excuses. Tyrion had been more of a gentlemen to Sansa throughout their marriage than Sandor had for one night, and he had to bury his face in his hands to think that he was less than the dwarf in this.

He finally made it over to the baker and pointed at the cake. "How much?"

"One silver stag."

"A piece of silver! For one ruddy tart!"

The baker looked him over, but was not cowed by this swordsman standing amongst the commonfolk. "It's not too much for a man like you to pay. This is the last lemon cake you're likely to taste for the next ten years!"

"I ought to give you a piece of steel for it instead," Sandor grumbled, but he reached for his money belt instead of his sword.

Sandor and Sansa had been as careful as they could to avoid being recognized when they got to Barrowton. They went about the town separately and Sansa stayed at the inn after dark. But before she took her bath she had prattled on about a traveling merchant's fine dresses she saw on her way in, nearly in the same breath as her plans to treat with the Lady Dustin. Sandor was not so thick as to not put it all together. The man sold his wares out of a gaudy wagon pulled by two strong horses, growing prosperous off of war's easy pickings until the day some crueler thief would come and steal it from him.

"I need to buy a dress for a lady," Sandor told him.

The man looked him over. "Well," he rummaged through the back and pulled out some fabrics, "I have a few. But to be true, none of them are fitting enough for a lady of noble birth."

"The best you have, then."

"How tall is she? Shorter than you, of course." He put a hand to Sandor's chest at about Sansa's height. "Would you say thereabouts?"

"Sure."

"Then you better choose one of these. I recommend this one; it's blue enough to match her eyes, but with a lovely accent orange trim."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it will bring out the color. Trust me Ser; girls know about these things, she'll like it."

"I never said her eyes were blue. I never said she was highborn, either."

The peddler stared at him like a cornered animal. Sandor contemplated killing him for what he knew. But finally the peddler picked up the dress and said, "I'll just wrap this up for you."

He pulled his hood up after that, wary of being seen, and headed for the stables. Sandor wouldn't have been surprised if Sansa had ridden on herself, but Lady was still in her stall, whickering to be let out. Sansa peered out of the stall, and came out when she saw him.

"You're here!" she said. "Where did you go? I looked all over for you."

"Here." He thrust the packages into her arms.

Sansa looked down at them, and when she looked back to him her eyes were all watery. "You remembered my nameday . . . !"

"Uhm, not quite." He knelt before her. "Sansa, I need to apologize to you."

She crushed the boxes to her chest and looked away. "If this is about last night . . ."

"It is. Listen. I would never do anything to hurt you. Not intentionally. Sansa, I'm sorry. I was drunk and I—I thought you would want it—"

"No," she shook her head. "No, I can't."

"I know. I was way out of line. I thought there would be no harm in it, but even so, I never should have . . ." I never should have taken her from the Eyrie. I never should have thought myself strong enough. I never should have imagined that she loved me.

"You scared me so much." She squeezed her eyes shut tight and turned away from him. "I thought you would hurt me."

"Gods, Sansa, no. I never mean to, I only wanted . . . I love you, Sansa. I wanted you to love me."

"Oh, Sandor . . . It's not that I don't want to . . . I mean, not that I wouldn't consider, if . . . with you . . . it's just that I am the heir to Winterfell. If I am to restore it . . . I am highborn, Sandor, and a maiden. I have a certain responsibility . . . an expectation by my husband."

She is letting me down easy. "Right," he said. But it hurt him worse to hear how close he'd been to costing her something so dear.

She rested a hand on his shoulder and spoke to him softly. "I'm sorry, too."

"It's not your fault." He leaned into her, and wiped his eyes against her stomach. It felt good just to be close to her, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he had damaged something between them. She put her arms around him and they hugged for a long time, until Sansa pushed him away.

". . . No more drinking, all right?"

"All right," he said, thinking he had never needed to drink more in his life. He stood up and Sansa looked up at him with big doe eyes, almost submissive now that he towered over her.

"I'm sorry that I can't . . . I can't give you what you want," she whispered.

"No, Little Bird. Stop it. All I want is to keep you safe. I swear it." He reached a hand out and almost drew it back before he touched her face. I cannot be so free with her anymore, he thought, but Sansa brought her own up and held him there, tilting her head with closed eyes into the big hand that cupped her cheek.

"I forgive you. You didn't do anything wrong in the end, and if you had, I doubt that whatever's in these boxes could make it up to me." She shifted her hand back to them. "I want to open my presents now."

"Go on."

She unrolled the bundle and held the dress up in front of her. "It's beautiful!" she said. ""But why did you get this for me? It isn't practical at all."

"It is if you want an audience with the Lady Dustin." Sandor thought it was a stupid idea, but Sansa was insistent. They had argued about it when they first got to town. Sansa said that if she couldn't trust her bannermen enough to treat with them on her return, she had no hope of holding Winterfell and all the North. The Lady Dustin should give her with provisions to ensure her voyage north. But Sandor thought it more likely she would be captured and possibly killed.

"Thank you," Sansa smiled at him. She squealed when she opened the box with the lemon cake and sat down right there and then to eat it.

"I still don't like the idea of you going to the keep alone."

"But you said yourself you can't come with me."

He nodded. "They'd kill me if they saw me."

"Well, I don't think they'll kill me alone . . . and if they do, this whole journey was a mistake, but you'll be spared."

I would rather die with you. "And if they take you hostage? How will I know if you are dead or alive?"

Sansa shook her head. "If I am killed or taken hostage, there is no hope for me. I give you leave."

He scoffed. He had half expected her to ask something impossible of him, like to storm the gates, though now that she hadn't he felt a little disappointed. It was just as impossible that he would leave her, but maybe that was what she wanted. "And if the Lady of Barrowton gives you the host you are hoping for, should I leave then, too? You will have no need of me, with your banners around you."

"No, of course not! Sandor, how can you say that? You must come with us, but it would be too dangerous for you to approach directly. We would have to meet afterwards, out of sight of the keep."

Sandor thought for a moment. "The northeast road outside of town leads into the Barrowlands. Meet me there."

"A secret meeting," she smiled. "And then we ride off together. It's almost like a story."

"No." Abruptly, he felt frustrated with her again. Didn't Sansa get it? What all those songs and stories were about?

Sansa frowned. "Well, I'd best be going." He helped her saddle up and pack everything away; then she mounted her palfrey and left. He watched her until she disappeared, then turned his back on the stable doors. He had to get out his armor and ready it, himself and his horse if he was going to meet Sansa tomorrow in time for the next leg of their journey. He walked over to the stall where he kept his horse and armor and put the inn's key in the lock.

That was when the big knight ambushed him.