Author's Note: Next update! I have to admit that seeing the Jaime/Cersei stuff (I hate how the show is handling those two) in the finale is totally messing with my Jaime/Amarah mojo, so this chapter ended up veering into Sandor Clegane territory again. Sorry, if you wanted Jaime/Amarah this chapter but they have some intense scenes (very very intense) coming up soon, so hold on a bit longer for that. However, Rory Mccann's brilliant portrayal of Sandor on the show has just given me a lot of inspiration at the moment, so that's what I'm going with right now. Enjoy!

Sandor Clegane was drunk. As Amarah pondered the sight of the soused knight at her feet, she wondered how he could have found himself in such an inebriated state at such an early hour of the day. Unlike her father, Clegane had never seemed the type to over-imbibe. So the sight of him slumped against the wall of the keep with an empty goblet dangling from his large fingers instantly peaked her curiosity.

The unfocused look in his eyes as she stood looking down at him indicated that he was not entirely aware of his surroundings. Just as Amarah considered leaving him to sober up on his own, she remembered the confrontation the evening before between him and her cousin. Even a simpleton could have drawn the connection between the reason for the Hound's intoxication and his Little Bird.

Choosing to leave him to his own drunken company for a few minutes, Amarah turned away from the courtyard and started back to the main hall. When she reached her destination, she found Jaime and Jon discussing something intently while hunched over a map of the surrounding territory and its keeps.

At her entrance, Jaime looked up from a spot on the worn map and flashed her a quick smile. "Couldn't bear to be out of my presence for too long, Princess?"

"Not precisely," Amarah answered back.

Since she had awoken that morning to a cold bed, this was the first she had seen Jaime since their heated encounter in her bedchamber. With a knowing smile, she sauntered right past him and placed a sisterly kiss of greeting on Jon's cheek before procuring a cup of black coffee from the spot beside Jaime's golden fist. Not sparing her lover another glance, Amarah turned and left the two of them to their planning and talks of war.

Once she was free of their stares, she began a brisk walk back to the sight of Sandor Clegane's pathetic display. When she returned, she found him in the same state as before. Her nose crinkled in distaste as she looked at the muddy ground where he sat, but with a resigned sigh, she plopped next to him despite the unpleasant squish that met her arse as it settled next to him.

When he still failed to acknowledge her presence, staring off at nothing, she wished she had also grabbed a potful of icy water to douse his head. Shrugging her shoulders at the loss, she instead made do with what she had. Spotting the half-empty jug of wine next to his hip, she reached across until her fingers wrapped around the lip of the spout. Once her fingers were secured around the edge, she pulled it up and tugged until the contents were spilling over his head.

She watched unapologetically as the amber liquid splashed over his head and trailed down his face in a myriad of rivulets. It took a few moments for her action to register with him, but when the wine dribbled over his dazed looking eyes, he squeezed them shut and shook his head roughly to scatter the errant drops decorating his face. He almost did look like a dog to her for a moment, shaking off the unwanted moisture from an unexpected bath.

Amarah was still contemplating that thought when his eyes popped open again, turning to her with a healthy dose of surprise. She had half expected him to shoot daggers of rage at her for the upended jug of wine but was mildly shocked to find his stare absent of the aggression he aimed at her on a regular basis.

"It seemed quicker to empty the wine over your head then let you swallow it," she answered the question in his eyes once she was certain he didn't intend to thank her with a hand closed around her throat.

Sandor's surprise faded gradually at her explanation. "You really are a troublesome pain in the arse," he responded, though the words sounded more amused than irritated.

Amarah found herself smiling in response to his amusement. "I should think the pain would be in your head, not your arse."

"I've felt worse," he said, not looking at her any more but up into the slate grey sky.

"I have no doubt of that." Sitting to his right, she was afforded a very plain view of the horrid scars that served as a silent witness to his elder brother's cruelty. "I was always curious about these," she spoke, lifting her forefinger to gesture towards the roughly burned skin by his eye. "My father noticed my staring at you one day in court and soundly berated for a solid hour for even daring to look at you with such blatant curiosity. He wouldn't tell me the story of how you came to be scarred, said it was none of my concern and the mad dog wouldn't like hearing any questions about it. He seemed to think you would murder me in my sleep if I even breathed a word of my curiosity to you."

She stopped speaking then and Sandor moved his gaze from the cloudless sky back to her. "Everyone stared. You were no different. If it kept them afraid of me, I let them stare."

"It didn't frighten me though."

Sandor's one brow flew up in surprise at her statement. She finished her thought before he could interrupt. "Most people would feel afraid of those marks on the side of your face. The only thing it taught me was that your brother was the true monster of the House Clegane. I couldn't understand how anyone could inflict such cruelty on a child. When I finally met the Mountain face to face I understood."

The anger that had been absent from his gaze returned then at her last statement. "I don't want your pity, you little bitch."

Amarah's spine stiffened at the cruel word, but she bit back an indignant response. She refused to let him bait her. She had certain things she wanted to say to him, and if it meant she had to accept his insults, then she would do it. "I don't intend to give you my pity," she informed him, barely suppressing the urge to snarl the words at him. "I only sat in this mud to give your drunken carcass some very sound advice."

"Then give it and be on your way," he barked in frustration.

Amarah's lips pressed together in a thin line. The brute certainly made it difficult to act kindly towards him. "It's a very simple piece of advice, Clegane. You should accept Sansa's request to become the master at arms of Winterfell. I don't think it would be an inaccurate statement to say you would be hard pressed to find another lord or lady of Westeros that would want to make use of your services. Not after the way you deserted your king at the most critical point of an attack on the capital."

"How many times do I have to tell you people that I'm no knight?" he asked almost to himself, shaking his head wearily. "I don't want to serve anyone any longer. Why else would I seclude myself on an island with those silent brothers, digging graves for their dead? I want to be alone."

His voice continued to rise the longer he talked, and Amarah reached out to lay a calming hand on his forearm. He glanced down but didn't knock the hand away as she expected him to. "I would have believed that if you hadn't left that island to help us find Sansa."

He opened his mouth again but she squeezed her fingers around the tense muscles held captive underneath her palm in order to silence him. "Don't spout off any more lies about not caring about anyone but yourself. It's too late to expect me to believe them. I know you care for Sansa, and though I don't know the full extent of her feelings, it's clear to me that she cares for you as well. You've been miserable your entire life. Isn't it time to take hold of an opportunity that could relieve you of some of that misery? Consider that while your sobering up from the wine."

With those words Amarah rose and left The Hound to consider her advice. She hoped he would give up this stubborn choice to live as miserably as possible, but there was nothing else she could say to persuade him. The choice was his alone to make.

Sansa stood in the kitchens of her restored family home, sporting a look of surprise as she took in the abundant sight of food all around her. "Well, although the Bolton's let the keep fall into disrepair, at least they kept the kitchens well stocked."

Amarah nodded in agreement with her cousin. "That's hardly surprising. Lord Bolton seemed to have a great fondness for his food."

"How would you know that?" Sansa asked.

"I once shared a meal with the man in Harrenhall," Amarah answered, a frown of revulsion crossing her face. "I would hardly classify the experience as appetizing."

"Though we did learn the virtues of prunes," Brienne offered from the doorway where she stood watch over them.

Amarah's answer was a quick burst of laughter. "Of course, how could I have forgotten?"

Sansa assumed that the tall knight had told a joke of some sort, though the humor of it escaped her. As she was trying to discern the humor in a comment about prunes, she caught sight of Sandor as he rounded the corner and approached the doorway where Brienne stood. The other lady twisted her head to look at their new visitor when she saw his hulking shadow pass in front of her.

"What do you want?" she asked him none too nicely.

Sandor's eyes narrowed at her tone but he showed no other hint of irritation. "To speak with Lady Sansa. Alone."

"Of course," Amarah spoke first, astonishing Sansa with her ready agreement. "Come, Brienne. I'm sure Sansa can handle the kitchens herself. We have other things to see to."

With that, she waved her knight after her and the two departed the room, leaving Sansa alone with Sandor. She glanced at him questioningly but didn't speak. Since he sought her out, she would let him break the silence.

He stared at her for a few moments as if searching for just the right words before giving voice to his thoughts. "I've reconsidered your offer," he said when it seemed his thoughts were all in order.

"Which offer was that?" Sansa asked softly. She distinctly remembered making him more than one offer the evening before.

His gaze bored into her then, hot and hard. "I'll stay at Winterfell," he clarified. "I don't want to be alone anymore, Little Bird."

Sansa approached him then, never taking her eyes off his. When she was only scant inches away from him, she had to tilt her head at an almost uncomfortable angle to continue looking at him. "My name is Sansa."

The heat in his eyes flared just a bit brighter at that. "I know what your name is, Little Bird."

"Use it," she commanded, spelling it out for him what it was that she wanted.

He reached out then and gripped her chin before leaning down to bring her lips to his. With a gentleness she had almost thought him incapable of, he brushed his lips softly over hers. Little sparks of heat ignited where the smooth skin of his mouth rubbed over hers, but he made no effort to deepen the kiss between them. After a moment, he pulled back and refastened his gaze to hers. "I don't want to be alone, Sansa."

Blinking away the tears that pricked at her eyes, Sansa pushed up to her tiptoes and threw her small arms around his neck and held him tightly to her as if to relay the silent message that she would never let go. In the case that her hug wasn't answer enough, Sansa moved her lips to his ear and whispered softly. "You don't have to be alone anymore."

Thanks for reading! Stay tuned for more!