I don't know if I'll be able to finish this fanfic, (me from the future: yes you did!) but I feel horrible leaving it at such a cliffhanger. I want to dedicate this chapter to Midnight Dawn, who has been supportive of me despite my obstinacy and encouraged me to keep writing.

CHAPTER 23

SANDOR

When Sandor saw the big knight with the Valyrian steel sword charging up the hill to join her companions, he thought that all was lost for him and Sansa. He could not fight three men at once.

"Run, Clegane." The black knight taunted him behind a smile of yellow corn kernal teeth. "After Blackwater, I know you have it in you. The battle that made men call you a coward made me a knight."

"Cease goading him, Ser Bronn!" The Lannister knight was in a seething rage. "I want him to stay and die."

Only a fool would stay and fight this out, Sandor thought, but that's what he did, attacking with the ferocity of a cornered boar. He slashed out and Bronn took the opening and hit him across the back with such force that the sword felt like a club. This was how knights in heavy armor died—beaten to death from the shocks of blows through their armor.

But when the lady knight got there, she turned her sword on the knight who'd lost his squire. She cut into him like he was a hunk of meat. Her sword was a carving knife, his armor the charred outside of a roast, and the bloody red insides sprayed out.

Sandor's relief was as palpable as if he had tasted the blood on his tongue. He cracked the black knight across the face with his sword. The man's helmet—and his head, too, Sandor hoped—spun around at an odd angle. Sandor turned to the crossroads at the bottom of the hill to face who was left, but Sansa and Lothor Brune were gone.

"Which way did they go?" he asked the woman.

"I didn't see."

Sandor cursed. "You go south, towards the town, and I'll go west." He didn't wait for her affirmation, but put his heels into his horse. He had little doubt that Brune had taken Sansa this way, but there was always the chance that he'd taken her back to Barrowton. And as great as a relief as it had been not to die at the top of that hill, he didn't trust the woman knight enough to ride with her.

He didn't look back to find out if she was stubborn enough to follow anyway. Stranger galloped over mud, gravel, and melting snow to where the road lined the tops of the cliffs along the sea. It was here that he spotted Sansa and her captor, zigzagging at a distance.

He didn't doubt that his wheezing and sweating horse was growing tired from carrying all that armor, but he forced Stranger on all the same. In addition to the extra pieces of heavy armor Sandor had been able to acquire since yesterday, his horse had plates over his chest and rump and a crinet to protect his neck. But if Stranger had half the adrenaline running through his body that Sandor did, he would be able to run and fight for another hour at least. That was more than enough time to end this.

Sansa turned around in her saddle and he knew why the horse she was on weaved from side to side instead of trotting straight ahead. She was fighting and kicking the whole way. His heart went out to her, that she would struggle so hard with such little hope of escape. When she saw Sandor she redoubled her efforts, going so far as to fruitlessly bite down on the mailed fist of the man holding her.

He hit her across the face. What little caution Sandor had left in him snapped. Of all the times he had stood by and watched Sansa beaten, he could not do it now.

Stranger raced like a demon down the road. When he came up on the other horse he didn't stop. The stallion collided into the dapple gray horse with his front hooves. Both Sansa and the gray horse screamed. It stumbled while Sansa struggled to get away. Lothor Brune cursed, trying to keep a grip on her and regain control of his horse. Stranger reared up again. Sandor drew his sword and blocked the path. The two horses paced and snorted across from each other.

"Sandor Clegane." Brune pulled Sansa firmly against him in the saddle. "I'll have you know that Petyr Baelish asked me to kill you after you left the Eyrie, but you never passed the Bloody Gate. I never thought I'd have to track you this far north to complete the job."

"Let her go, Brune. You can't beat me in a fight."

"I think I could. Especially with her as my shield."

Sandor's rage burned inside of him from knowing that men could be so cowardly. "Let her go. We'll fight it out like men, in single combat."

"Tell me, did you take your pleasure of her before you lost her?"

He'd had enough. "I'll get my pleasure from killing you."

Brune drew his sword with the hand that wasn't keeping Sansa held in front of him, while Sandor wielded his into the heart of the gray horse beneath his rival.

"Off your horse," he said.

"Aaargh!" Brune yelled as his horse's legs went out from under him. He threw Sansa off and jumped away in time to avoid being trapped beneath the dying animal. Sandor vaulted off of his own horse and came at him. He knew he had the advantage from horseback, but he couldn't risk Brune trying the same trick that he had just pulled.

"Craven!" the former freerider spat at him, his dying horse's legs kicking away mud and snow in its last twitches. "That horse was worth more than your life." He held his sword out in front of him, ready to parry and attack.

Sandor said nothing. Brune had done the dishonorable thing, not him. He had the advantage from horseback, but he didn't want Brune trying what he had done and killing his horse, too. And now it could be said that he beat him in a fair fight.

Sandor walked to well within striking distance of Brune's sword, taking a few taps on his armor, and deflected a heavy cut. The steel rang out like a chime being struck with a hammer. Sandor's slashing counterattack was almost clumsy, and Brune was pushed backwards by the force of the blow.

The smaller man was an accomplished swordsman, but Sandor fought with a clarity rent from anger. He hated Lothor Brune and his careful, nervous way of fighting. He hated the Lannisters and Petyr Baelish and everything behind all of this man's pathetic attempts to save his own life. Every blow he struck out at Sandor was another swat his old masters tried to land on him, and every blow Sandor landed was recompense—for himself, for the Lannisters' subjects, and for the North.

Brune made a desperate strike and was stunned for a moment when Sandor parried it. Sandor raised his sword and brought it down with all his strength onto Lothor Brune's helm.

The noise was like an avalanche breaking, or a clap of thunder. The sword broke, but not before it had split Brune's helmet, and lodged fatally in his head. Sansa had been on the floor since being thrown, scrambling to get out of the way of the battle and the hooves of the dying horse, and now she screamed as the body fell next to her on the ground and splashed her dress with blood.

But Brune's gory death was the most beautiful thing Sandor had seen all day. He scooped the girl up in his arms and got on his horse. He carried her to the top of a hill, from where they could see the port, the steeple of the sept at Barrowton, the scattered buildings of a ranch house; and, to the north, nothing but the rolling hills of the Barrowlands, a wilderness beneath a blanket of snow.

Also, they could see if anyone approached them. Relief came over Sandor. He was exhilarated to have killed men today, but now he could relax. As soon as he knew it he felt the soreness and pain in his body. He needed to rest. Sansa clung to him on the horse, and kept clinging to him even after he'd dismounted.

And she kissed him—a dozen pecks across his cheeks, his eyes, his lips. He couldn't bring himself to kiss her, at first—he didn't trust himself after the other night—but she kissed him across both sides of his face twice and he relented. He sought her mouth with some hesitation and a great deal of restraint, but Sansa's passion was furious. She kissed him with a deep need, even going so far as to touch the inside of his mouth with her tongue. He broke away but she would not stop, landing pecks on his jaw and cheek and ear, and whispering to him the things he did not admit even to himself that he wanted to hear.

He knew his armor had to be crushing her and he didn't want to wear it anymore so he pulled his breastplate off. Sansa helped him like a good squire would, and removed the other pieces, but more often she climbed into his lap and kissed him, tangling her fingers in his long black hair and holding him close to her. A heat was rising in him, and after a particularly bold move on Sansa's part he held her by the hair to kiss her, and touched her face.

She was crying. He pulled away from her. He'd done it again, he knew; got carried away and scared her. Sandor cursed himself and barked at Sansa. "You should have said something. We should stop!"

"I don't want to stop. Oh, Sandor. It's my dress. It's ruined."

It was. It was torn, and although it had been a warm pastel color when he gave it to her, it was impossible to tell that now because of the stains. It was splotched with mud, which might wash out; and blood, which wouldn't. Sandor hated the thing. Sansa was safe, but seeing it destroyed made him think of all they could have lost. And it was such a meaningless thing for her to worry about. "So get rid of it," he growled at her. He gripped the top of her bodice and tore it down the middle, to her waist.

She gave a quick intake of air as though she had been struck. Her breasts bounced free, like swans settling to roost, her lips parted and a blush crept over her cheeks from being laid out naked afore him. Underneath, Sansa was beautiful and perfect. She was clean and didn't have a scratch on her. He felt so good that he had killed men today and saved her. Her perfect unmarred body was proof of how good he had done. He drank her in with his eyes, afraid to touch her and spoil the lovely vision in front of him. He waited for her to protest, cover herself, complain. But she didn't.

She pulled on his hands and guided them to her breasts, tossing her head on the cloak as he touched her. Still, he couldn't believe that she wanted this. He pulled his hands away, afraid to look her in the eye.

"Sandor, I want to tell you something. Look at me."

When he didn't, she put a hand on his face and guided him to her.

"I realized something. I'm a princess, and that means that I must always put the needs of my land, my family, and my people before my own desires. Even though all my life I've dreamed about love through songs and stories, my husband will marry me for my castle, not myself. I may never have a lover. And I was so scared today that we would lose each other, and I would never get to tell you this or do this with you. I love you, Sandor. I know I can't have you as a princess—I only want you as a woman."

He couldn't really accept it. She's not Sansa. It's some glamour. Beneath him she was naked, the most beautiful woman in the world. "You're too young."

"No, I'm not." Her expression turned devious and she pulled off her smallclothes and her boots. "I had my nameday, remember?"

Sandor groaned. He had no more resistance left in him. He'd wanted so badly, for so long, for her to love him. He pulled her into his arms and held her for a long time.

"Will it hurt?" Sansa whimpered as he petted her softly.

He didn't want to lie to her, but he didn't want to scare her, either. "Not so much, if you're wet."

"Oh. Then, should we go down to the water?"

"No," he laughed, and laid Sansa down on her back.