After that burst of chapters, I'm going back to publishing the newest chapter on Sundays. I am a few chapters ahead in my writing so this gives me a chance to revise. The writing is going really well so I feel confident that I will complete the story on schedule.

Hope you enjoy!

CHAPTER 28

SANDOR

Sandor had traded his horse for a bag of gold. What was a man like him without a horse? He felt the loss as keen as if he were missing his legs. All the plate mail he'd scrounged together was gone, too, and his sword lay broken on the road behind him. He'd kept his helmet only to avoid stamping his signature on the deal he'd made with Barrowton's Master of Horse. The man was much the type of lesser lord Sandor's father had been, charged with raising animals for his lordship, but he doubted if this family had ever been to court. He had not recognized Sansa or her burned companion.

The helm stayed snug at the bottom of his bag. Now it was all he had to remind him of who he was, which was probably for the best, since he had to pretend to be a different person among these Wildlings. He had a price on his head, a fraction of what could be got for Sansa. Thankfully, the Wildlings were removed from Westerosi culture. Segregated might be the better word. He'd heard the residents of Barrowton bitching about their new Wildling neighbors, who lived in dirty makeshift hovels a few miles northeast of their pristine residences, clean as the Queen's butthole.

There, Sandor knew, was their saving grace. A bunch of newcomers to the fuck-up that was Westeros, who until recently had lived in the coldest climate on earth, who were dirt poor and needed money. They wouldn't know who he and Sansa were, they knew how to travel in winter, and Sandor had more money from selling his useless horse than any one of them was likely to make in a year. It was a pitiful amount. When Stranger was at peak health, the entire Wildling village could not have bought him even if they had pooled all their money together.

It was a moot point. Sandor would never have sold him. He'd loved that horse, and the only consolation he had when the young lordling dropped the skinny bag of gold into his hands was that it was still far heavier than what could be got from a butcher. He hoped Stranger would have an easy winter, fucking mares and growing fat in the barn.

Horses were no good for them anymore. Whereas hoofed animals floundered in the snow, the Wildlings used teams of dogs to pull sleds across the top of it. It was the fastest way to travel. Dogs could cover seven or eight leagues a day in fresh snowfall, and twice as much in better weather. If they were lucky, and the weather was good, they would be at Winterfell in a moon's turn.

If the weather was not good, Sandor did not think they were going to make it. The Wildling camp was only a few miles north of the horse pasture, but Sansa had collapsed halfway there. Sandor had to pick her up and carry her. Now she was locked in the healers' tent, her feet blue, her lips purple. The two women taking care of her shooed him away whenever he came to visit, saying that if they left the couple alone too long they would, naturally, copulate, and this would contaminate the sanctity of the healing tent. Sandor ignored them as best he could and managed a few minutes uninterrupted with his little bird at least twice every day, until the old healer's caterwauling drove him off.

Grtta and Wyndi insisted on keeping Sansa bedridden, so they stayed more than a week at the Wildling camp. During this time Grtta introduced Sandor to her husband, who was named Rrrn as far as Sandor could tell. He was a stout man with a bear's strength and a weasel's cunning, eager to take Sandor's money, show off his know-how, and play the part of expert woodsman. But he was good-natured, and Sandor truly ignorant of how to survive in the snow, so they got along better than Sandor could have expected.

Despite the tutelage Sandor still had reservations that he and Sansa would be able to make it to Winterfell. The Wildlings were a large group helping each other, while he and Sansa would be alone in some of the harshest conditions the world had to offer. And though he was generous with his help, Rrrn plainly thought Sandor was crazy. Since his main reason for taking his family south was to escape a race of ice people and their undead army, Sandor thought much the same of him.

The strangest thing Rrrn taught him during their time together was how to build an ice house. They stomped over an area to compact the snow, cut it into blocks, and assembled those over the hole they'd been cut from to form a one-room house. The inside was surprisingly well insulated and would provide a much better shelter than the waterproof, tar covered tent that was packed in with the rest of their supplies.

Rrrn and Sandor spent several days ice-fishing at a nearby pond—another thing Sandor did not know how to do, but would have to get good at if he didn't want to starve. Though he and Sansa would hopefully be able to vary their diet by trapping hares and frying tree bark, fishmeal was necessary for the dogs. These were fluffy creatures with pointed faces and long tails, who made a yodeling sound higher than the hunting dogs Sandor grew up with. He'd been with the Wildlings for over a week before Rrrn finally took him to pick his team.

"They're vicious dogs," he warned. "Part wolf!"

But Sandor didn't think so. He put a fist out and a fluffy red one got up and licked his hand. They did resemble wolves in a superficial way, but they were diminutive compared to the Starks' half-grown direwolf puppies he remembered. Rrrn taught him what commands the dogs were trained to and how to drive them, and after a few challenges common to a new team testing a new rider, proclaimed Sandor a natural dog-man.

"My family kept dogs." Sandor shrugged off the compliment, but his mind returned to his boyhood and the hours of hunting that filled it. He'd loved hunting with his father and brother and the dogs they brought on their outings, though Gregor often ruined it at the end with his cruel way of killing whatever they'd caught.

These dogs weren't trained to hunt, but to pull, and in their high-pitched yelps showed the same excitement for working that the dogs of his youth did for a chase. It was an emotion he shared, and, seeing its persistence across men and all breeds of dogs, made Sandor wonder if it wasn't men who were more apt to barbarism.

They tied the dogs down as they would for the journey, far enough apart from each other that they couldn't steal one another's fish, and packed the supplies onto the sled. Everything was ready to go. Rrrn and Sandor headed back to camp for dinner. Afterwards Sandor washed up and went to say goodnight to Sansa.

"Look at what we finished today!" Sansa shook out an enormous wolf-skin cloak. The head was still attached, forming the hood. "Grtta and Wyndi gave it to me. Can you believe it? Isn't it beautiful?"

"Yeah." He just hoped the fact that it was a wolf was a coincidence. He decided it didn't matter, since they'd leave soon anyway. Right on that thought, Rrrn's wife, the snaggle-toothed healer, came in.

"Yeh should take her stuff and pack it on the sled!" she said, pointing to two bundles near Sansa. Grumbling, Sandor lifted them up.

"Come back after!" Sansa called to him. The days were short and the nights were long, and it was pitch black except for the stars when he headed back to the healing tent.

"Grtta says I'm well enough to sleep in the longhouse now," Sansa told him, rising on wobbly feet. He helped her get there. He was so excited to have her back that he practically carried her out, but Sansa insisted that she could walk, she just needed to take it easy. She took his arm and he led her slowly to the back entrance of the longhouse. Inside, all the Wildlings were packed together on the floor. A few had well-settled nooks with their families, but Sandor's chosen spot was apart from the others, against the rear wall. Everyone in here was quiet, light coming from just a few burning torches.

Sansa made her bed quickly, next to his. She put the cloak down over the top of her covers like a pet resting at her feet. He half expected her to start stroking it. Instead, she got between his furs and cuddled up next to him.

He growled at her. "What are you doing?"

"I'm cold."

Judging from everywhere she was putting her hands she was not only cold. His voice was a deep whisper in his throat as he put his arms around her. "I know what you want."

He kissed her deeply, hoping that if she could feel the need behind it she would do the responsible thing and stop this. Instead, she met him with her mouth open and her tongue ready. Thrusting his tongue into her mouth made him think of her hot, wet sex and he pulled away from her, painfully excited.

"We shouldn't be doing this," he whispered.

"Why not?" she whispered back at him. "You told them we're married."

"There are people around us."

"So? Look at those two over there."

Sandor followed her gaze to where Rrrn's ass was pounding between two shapely legs. Sandor couldn't throw his hand over his eyes fast enough. "Bloody barbaric."

"I think it's sweet."

"Don't stare."

"All right, sorry," Sansa giggled, and looked up at him with round, devoted eyes. "But even if they knew who we really are they'd say we're married. They've heard rumors of the Hound kidnapping Sansa Stark, and for the Free Folk that's how a man takes a woman to wife."

Sandor said nothing. Sansa would never be his wife.

"I know it doesn't work like that for us. But when we're alone, it could . . ."

She reached up to touch his face. It was the burned side, and it was hard to feel her touch through the scars. "Wait," Sandor told her. He rolled them over so that she was closer to the wall, his back to the Wildlings, and his scars beneath him. Then he touched her.

He rested his hand on her waist and when she didn't flinch pulled her shirt up to touch the milky white skin underneath. The Gods had given her perfect breasts. He tested their weight in his hands, running his thumbs over the taut points of her nipples. Sansa's breath came out in uneven sighs and the last vestiges of his resistance left him. He kissed her roughly; her long neck exposed as she tilted her head back to reach him. Sandor kissed her there, too, feeling her pulse, the vibrations of her throat as she moaned under his hands.

"Be quiet." He pulled away from her and took off his shirt. He wanted to feel her naked against his skin. The break in contact made him self-conscious again, his mind taking up the fight to understand why such a beautiful, stupid girl would want to touch him. Sansa was looking at his body with her lips parted. She put her hands on his forearms, his shoulders, his chest, her touch light and sensitive. She traced down the line of his stomach and surprised him by pulling out his cock.

"Oh Gods, Sansa," he said, and began a fight with her clothes to get the necessary ones out of the way.

"Shhh," she teased, and pulled one leg out of her pants, the rest of them pushed down under her around her ankle. As soon as it was free he grabbed her behind the knee and put it around his waist. His hand followed the curve of her thigh to rest on her butt and pull her onto him.

Sansa was already sweaty and trembling, and when he entered her she cried out and shook. He pulled her closer, his free hand caught in her hair to cradle her face, kissing her, giving her a minute to adjust to his size. She felt bloody perfect, warm and hugging him tightly. He started to move back and forth, slowly, Sansa's little gasps of air hitting his lips. She was so soft it was like fucking a flower. Sandor tested her, giving her more, harder, and she took it, raising her leg and wrapping her arms around his neck. The only explanation for her being so wet and eager was that she liked being stretched around him like this. He held himself inside her, stiff, and kissed her, Sansa pulling away sometimes to catch her breath, her breasts heaving against his chest, her hands going from his shoulders to his hair and back to steady herself when he moved inside her again.

He wanted the moment to go on forever. He wanted to be the only man who would ever be inside her. He wanted to believe that she would never leave him. Sansa's breaths were shallow and he could feel her body tensing up and relaxing as she squeezed him between her legs. He knew what was happening. He wanted this for her. He moved a hand to her face and felt her open jaw trembling, her eyes open to watch the man who did this to her. She made no sound at first, but then she gave out one long high note and he felt her ripple around him.

Sandor cursed and held his cock against her belly, where it should have been inside her. Sansa trembled. She was a hot, wet mess of sex—her body sticky with sweat and other fluids, her hair a mess half stuck to her face, some of her clothes still on her. He grabbed his shirt and wiped her down.

"What happened?" she asked, clinging to him.

"Sex is over when a man finishes. But a woman can finish, too."

"Then did I . . . finish?"

"Mmmhmm."

"Oh . . . Sandor . . ." Sansa snuggled up to him, and in a moment she was asleep. Even in sleep she was calm and affectionate, muttering a sigh and settling against him. He rested fitfully. Sporadic human sounds like snores and grumbles reminded Sandor that they were not alone. Even these died down before dawn, the quietest hours in the longhouse.

Outside, he heard the heavy crunch of boots in the snow. He raised his head slightly to hear better, some sixth sense alerting him that it was no sentry outside.

At the far end of the longhouse, Sandor saw Westerosi men pour in. In a minute there were half a dozen armed soldiers rousing sleeping Wildlings with kicks. The men turned them over and pulled them up by the hair to look at their faces.

Sandor shook Sansa awake rough and quick. "Get up. We're leaving."

"No . . ." Sansa mumbled. Her eyes widened as she took in the scene in front of her. The Wildlings were not taking this invasion complicity. Rrrn jumped up to challenge a fleshy man in pink armor. The man took a step back, unsheathed a stiletto dagger, and stepped forward—burying it into Rrrn's gut.

"No!" Sansa shouted from her bed, and the people sleeping closest to them jolted awake. The dagger buried in Rrrn was the first drawn, and it caused an uproar. While Sandor pulled on his boots, Wildlings at the front of the longhouse shouted, some of them making for the door, others fighting. More soldiers drew their weapons.

Grtta tried to carch Rrrn as he fell. His eyes rolled back in his head and the big man tumbled out of her arms. Sandor saw her face transform into a mask of fury as she morphed into a fighting spearwife, launching herself at the attacker like a wildcat. He met her with equal savagery, stabbing the stiletto overhand and into her face.

"No!" Sansa screamed. The people around them roused in panic. Sansa howled; an inhuman sound that only added to the surreal din of the slaughter before them.

Across the room, the man in pink met Sansa's eyes.

At that moment Wyndi crouched by their furs. "You have to run!" Sandor nodded, fully dressed now.

All around them was chaos as Wildlings hurried to run or fight and men-at-arms checked and cut and killed people around them, but neither Sansa nor the man who'd met her eyes moved. Then Sansa whispered, "It's Ramsay Snow."

He started towards them, moving around people, ignoring the fighting, killing, and running going on around him as he headed towards Sansa.

Sandor lifted her under one arm and kicked open the rear door of the longhouse. He put Sansa down on the snow—and she collapsed on her first step, her fall broken by the wolf pelt wrapped around her. "I can't walk," she cried, panicking, "Sandor, I can't walk—"

"Crawl, Little Bird. Crawl to the sled." Though crying, Sansa listened, a slow-moving wolf wriggling her way to the pack of dogs at the north end of the camp.

Sandor looked back into the longhouse. Ramsay moved fast, his sword drawn and quite literally cutting through people to get to Sansa. Lacking any good, concrete plan of how to deal with this, Sandor shut the door.

Ramsay hurled himself into it with such force that Sandor had to throw his own shoulder into it to keep it in place. "Stand back!" Ramsay screeched. He threw himself into the door again and again with the same wild force he'd used the first time, screaming like a madman. He got his sword through an opening and the point searched up and down, dangerously close to Sandor's person, as Ramsay flailed it wildly on the other side. Sandor knew too well the craze of bloodlust, but even to him this man seemed unhinged.

Ramsay did not even have the presence of mind to call his men-at-arms to help him or call them round to the back of the longhouse. Sandor decided he had to act quickly, before these thoughts occurred to Ramsay. On what would have been the deranged man's fifth attempt at throwing himself against the wall, Sandor stepped aside. The door swung open unceremoniously, and Ramsay tumbled outside.

Sandor fell on him like a pit fighting dog. He knocked the smaller man to his stomach, his hands around Ramsay's right arm. He tried in vain to wrestle away the sword. Ramsay's other hand sought the dagger sheathed at his waist, but Sandor managed to pin this arm down beneath his knee. The snow was slippery, and Sandor had to keep correcting his grip as Ramsay struggled to wriggle out of his grasp.

The entire time Ramsay, facedown, screamed into the snow. "I'll get you, bitch! You can't get away from me." Sandor let one hand on the wrist go. Ramsay brought the sword up, trying to reach back and cut him like a scorpion would sting. There was his chance—he socked Ramsay as hard as he could in the back of the head.

The first had no effect; the second, the sword wavered a bit in the air; by the fourth blow Ramsay's arm lay limp. Sandor wanted to get away as soon as possible. He made a quick attempt to pull Ramsay's sword free, but his fingers were wrapped as tightly around the hilt as if they were frozen. Sandor scrambled to his feet. As he did so, heard Ramsay groan. The smaller man lifted up his awful bruised face to look at him, the back of his head a sticky, bloodied mess.

"I'll get you!" Ramsay threatened, "I'll get you and your bitch!"

Sandor ran to the dogsled. Sansa had managed to get there unscathed, and in her wolfskin she looked like one of the dogs as she dutifully tied them to their traces. She gave a yelp as he scooped her up and planted her on the sled.

"Yah!" Sandor kicked them off, the dogs yelping with excitement and the sled speeding over the snowy ground. He could still hear the battle behind him, and the terrible smell of burning.