Author's Notes: Thank you for your lovely comments! After this chapter this story has only one more chapter left...I promise there will be no graphic depictions of cruelty or death, so rest assured on that front.

Of course she noticed his arousal – Sandor's condition was far too obvious in the loosely fitting peasant trousers he was wearing. Her eyes rounded when she noticed the bulge and then darted away, nervously.

"A good man, eh? I am about to die in a few moments but my cock doesn't care. Have an eyeful of that, girl, and tell me again I am a good man." His tone was mocking. Surely this would teach her that he was as bad as ever, not worthy of her unfounded praise.

She was disconcerted, that much was clear, and flushed too. Part of Sandor revelled in her discomfort, but another rued his cock that seemed to have a life of its own even at this inopportune moment.

Sansa got up slowly, side-eyeing him as she rose. She didn't move away though, only swiping straw and dust away from her skirt. She paid meticulous attention to this task and Sandor simply stood there, not even bothering to hide his persistent hardness.

Eventually she sighed and straightened herself to her full height and looked at him again. "That…" a vague gesture to his nether regions, "is not being bad. It's a natural thing and it happens to all men, good and bad alike."

"When have you become such an expert on men's cocks?"

"I told you the maids talked a lot." She defied him now openly, refusing to be cowered by his scorn. "I know what happens between men and women. You may have forgotten but I was also betrothed and expected to marry soon. I was told about things."

Sandor was amused. Bold bird! Her stance changed soon though, her unflinching expression turning into a sorrowful look.

"I will of course never know the reality of it now. I will die a maid."

Was there a sigh in her tone? Did she have regrets of the matter? Was it possible that such a fine lady as she had actually looked forward to that beastly act?

"You were counting the days until you would be properly fucked, were you?"

A shadow crossed her face and she frowned, a ghost of the prim and proper young maid she had once been showing itself. "Of course not! Why do you have to be so crude?"

"I am what I am, not some bloody prancing prince or a shining knight. Like the ones you probably dream of while thinking about those things."

The sad look returned and she sighed. It was almost as she had decided that time was too short for disagreement. "I have dreamt, that much is true. But not of princes or knights."

"Some strapping soldier then got your attention? With a handsome face and a lithe body?"

"No… there was one other…" Her voice was soft and almost too low for him to hear properly. Sandor tilted his head to catch her words and caught her looking at him under her lashes; not his face but his chest, his arms, even sweeping over his groin where the signs of his arousal were still clearly visible. She blushed.

Fucking hells! Was it…could it be… She hadn't been dreaming of him, surely?

All of a sudden Sandor's throat felt dry as sand and he was lost for words. Any crude remark to follow her admission that she had daydreamt about fucking died on his lips. Suddenly he felt a need to cover himself and he grabbed his cock and forced it down against his leg. Seven hells!

Silence stretched between them but he had nothing with which to fill it. Eventually she stirred and came closer, clasping the iron bars. "I still stand by my words that you are a good man, better than you know yourself. And I am grateful to you for what you did that day. I only wish I could express it to you properly."

Finally Sandor found his voice. He too grasped the bars just below her hands, almost touching them, and not quite believing his own ears rasped, "Let me look at you, little bird."

She cocked her head uncomprehending. "I am here. You are looking at me."

Sandor pointed at her front where the cords of a crude peasant-style top were tied together in clumsy knots. Sansa followed his direction and gazing down at her bosom a deep red suffused her cheeks indicating she had taken in his meaning.

"Oh."

What were you thinking, dog? That she undresses for you here and now, only because she might have thought of a man, any man, and thinks that because she is grateful to you it might have been you?

She lifted her eyes and stared at him standing completely still. If possible her face had gotten even redder, the colour spreading to her throat and the part of her skin visible above the neckline. Against the paleness of her hands, so white because she was clenching the irons so tightly, the difference was striking.

After an interminable time she released her grip and took one step back. Slowly, very slowly, she started to open the fastenings. One by one she went through them, starting from the top. Sandor couldn't believe what he was seeing and his eyes were fixed at the sight. Her fingers were trembling, he noticed, but a glance at her face revealed grim determination - almost as on that fateful day at the battlements.

He had already concluded that she was much changed. The silliness of a young girl had been rubbed away just like when a skilful carver works with a piece of wood; polishing, smoothing, finding the natural shape of the piece and working his magic into its own shape. She had been childish and naïve once but all that had worn away, leaving behind only her true self; kind and yet strong and courageous.

As enticing the sight of pale flesh peeking from under the coarse cloth was for Sandor, he made a mistake of staring into the intense depths of her eyes where he got trapped and couldn't look away. He looked into her eyes and she into his, and for the first time he pictured himself as she saw him; an angry, bitter man who nonetheless was lost, lost and wanting to be found. By someone. By her.

Sansa took one more step back and after last of the knots became loose she took a deep breath and unhurriedly pulled the top open, revealing her nakedness down to her waist. It was Sandor's turn to inhale sharply as he stared at her teats. They were as shapely and perfect as he had known they would be; firm and perky and yet fully womanly. Her pink nipples had puckered into firm buds but whether it was because of the chill radiating from the stone or something else, he couldn't tell.

Gods she is beautiful. Sandor almost felt a bang of guilt for asking her to reveal herself to a dirty gaze of a dog. It defiled her, she didn't deserve this. And yet he couldn't look away or tell her to cover herself – he only stared, speechless.

After a long while she became restless, fiddling with the cords. "Seen enough?"

Her tone was not sharp but remarkably restrained. There was breathlessness in it and the rise and fall of her chest revealed that she was not quite as calm as she pretended to be. Sandor tore his gaze away from the most exquisite thing he had ever seen. Come on. Ask it. She can only say no.

"Let me touch you, little bird," he croaked.

That startled her. She seized the loosely hanging fabric and crunched it into a tight knot in her fist. Her mouth opened, then closed, but she made no sound.

"I swear I only want to touch. A bit. You don't have to worry about the dog ravishing you – these iron bars will protect you well enough." As he spoke Sandor realised that this was something he wanted more than anything he had ever wanted in his whole miserable life. To feel her softness against his fingertips. He would die a happy man if he had that. The thought the she would decline, lace herself and turn away because of his insistence scared him but he had to ask.

"Please."

The Hound had never pleaded with anyone for anything in his life. Never. Even when Gregor had shoved him into the hot coals he had not been foolish enough to beg him for mercy.

"Please." His voice was broken. He hated his weakness but hated the idea of not having this even more.

Sansa looked mesmerised. She bit her lip and hesitated for a moment.

"If I give you this, will you give me something in return?"

"Anything. Ask anything." Relief and gratitude filled Sandor. He only hoped it would be in his power to grant her wish, whatever it was. Would she want to look upon him, could that be possible? The chains in his wrists would make it difficult if not impossible to remove his tunic, but… His reckonings were interrupted by her.

"Tell me about yourself."

Sandor blinked, stunned. What the hells? His astonishment must have been obvious as she continued. "Tell me something you have never told anyone else. Isn't it only fair that if I give you something I haven't given to any man, you will give me something you have never given to any woman?"

"What can I tell? There is nothing much to tell. You know me and my story."

"I know only little. Tell me more."

While she spoke she took cautious steps towards him, finishing so close to the bars that she was within his reach once again. Probably by instinct she had folded her arms across her chest, but when Sandor extended his hand through the bars towards her she dropped them to her sides.

"Ask me what you will."

"And you will answer truthfully?"

"A hound will die for you, but never lie to you."

He folded the fabric away, very carefully, revealing her nakedness to his eyes once again. His forefinger pressed against her skin, which was as soft as it looked. So soft.

"Who is the man behind the mask of the Hound?"

He followed the line of a translucent bluish vein that run across her left breast. She shuddered.

"The man is the Hound."

"I refuse to believe it. You were someone else before you became the Hound. Who were you?"

"I was… a foolish boy. Witless runt. I dreamt of knights, of becoming one. Would you believe that, little bird? Me, wanting to be a knight?"

He pressed his other fingers against her heated skin and moved them around the swell of her teat.

"I believe you. And you became one. No, better than a knight." A soft sigh. "What did you think all those long hours when you stood guard to Joffrey? I watched you sometimes. Did you know that? You always looked so sullen, but nothing escaped your eye nonetheless."

"I tried not to think. Better that way. One has to empty one's mind and let nothing in. If you do, it is enough to make you lose your mind."

He had reached her nipple, the slightly darker circle around it seeming almost out of place against the creaminess of her skin.

"Have you ever had a sweetheart? Someone to call your own?"

The question stopped Sandor just as he was about to cup her whole teat into his palm. Despite his attention being wholly turned to the delicious feel of that supple mound he couldn't prevent a snort.

"Me? What do you think, girl, haven't you seen me? No sweethearts for dogs." He embellished the word, amused how childish her choice of phrase was.

"Please don't call yourself dog. And your looks are nor here or there. I know that now. I am…" She exhaled sharply when he rolled his nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and continued with strained voice, "…sorry that I was so afraid to look at you earlier. I was foolish."

Sandor was fascinated by the sensitivity of her nipples. As soon as he touched one, she trembled and her voice faltered. He tried it with her right teat and the effect was the same.

She was quiet for a while and Sandor lost himself to the feel and sight of her. He could just about reach both of her sweetly curved mounds with his hands, although the short chain limited his movements. He closed his eyes for a second to better experience the sensations that overwhelmed him. When he opened them again the sight of his huge hands, scarred and hairy, so coarse and dark, seemed wholly inappropriate against her honey softness. Yet the sight roused him, and the hardness that had never quite gone away reminded him about its existence by almost painful throbbing.

The girl had shut her eyes and leaned her head back, mouth slightly ajar. Her breathing was constricted, short fast gasps synchronised by the heaving of her shoulders. She… enjoys this? Sandor had never seen a woman taking pleasure in bodily acts although he had seen his share of poor imitations. The little bird had no reason to pretend, though.

Just as he laid his palm once again across her soft flesh she spoke.

"Tell me about your hopes, your dreams, of your greatest desires. Please." The last part was just a whisper and yet her request was a command to him. She had kept her side of the bargain, it was only fair he kept his to the fullest. There was only one problem.

"Bloody hells, girl! What kind of a stupid question is that? Hopes? Dreams? I don't have any. I didn't have any. Ever since…" He had to think back on his life. When was the last time his mind had reached for something he truly wished for? He had been careful of not wanting too much, because experience had showed him time and time again that the only result of any such foolishness was even bigger disappointment. And yet…there had been two things.

"Wanted to kill my brother. Aye, that was my dream. To plunge my sword through his black heart and see his lifeblood leaking out. Twist and turn the blade until I could be sure that there was nothing left of that miserable monster."

Sansa's brow furrowed and she opened her mouth as to say something but then apparently thought better of it. She nodded slowly, whether in agreement with Sandor's words or as an indication of her understanding, he didn't know.

"There was something else I desired. But that is not for me to share now. Or ever." He had stilled his hands and let them rest against her sides, only his thumbs absentmindedly traveling up and down her ribs. "It doesn't matter anymore anyway."

Thank the gods she didn't demand for more information but only stared at him intently. Her hands that had crunched the fabric on her hips while he had focussed on her teats released their grip and the bunched up skirt fell down, crumpled.

Sandor let go of her, reluctantly. She seemed to be finished with her questions; the exchange was over.

"Tell me." Hardly a whisper.

"No."

"Please."

He became annoyed at her insistence. She wanted him to reveal his most guarded secret, something he had hidden even from himself. His whole being protested against that, knowing how vulnerable it would make him.

Sandor looked at her standing there, the living image of innocence and seductiveness at the same time. The dress was all wrong on her; a rough peasant skirt and top of simple cut and crude stitching, made of undyed wool which gave it oddly uneven look. She was like a bright jewel embedded in a crude iron clasp.

His eyes followed the outline of her curves, still visible through the parted front. Her teats had grown and were now fuller, grown-up. He could imagine her as a mother suckling her babes. She was all woman indeed.

He made up his mind and acted before he could give it second thought.

"Show me your cunt."

She cocked her head and her eyes widened.

"I won't do anything – I can't do anything." He lifted his hands to remind her of the fetters still binding him. "I just want to see it. All you have to do is to lift your skirts and drop your smallclothes."

Of course he knew he wouldn't see much even if she for some unfathomable reason would heed his request. To actually catch an eyeful she would have to open her legs for him – and that would surely go too far even in these odd circumstances. Besides, it didn't matter, he only wanted…

Sandor wasn't sure what he wanted.