A/N: I had hoped to post this chapter sooner, but, as you will see, it ended up being rather long and thus took much effort to finish. I hope you enjoy. As always, reviews are quite nice and very much appreciated. If you like what you read, please let me know!
Stranger's hooves pounded hard against the cold earth, kicking up plumes of dust and grass each time they plunged into the ground. Grumbling its warning with thunder, the sky suddenly began to open up, spilling forth its fury in a downpour of icy rain. Sandor felt its chill cutting through cloak, leather, and armor to meet his skin underneath. He shivered at the wind, which was violently whipping against him and Stranger as they accelerated forward into the thick blanket of darkness that the night had become.
Sandor dug his heels hard into the horse's side in an effort to close the distance between him and Ser Lothor Brune, whose form had disappeared beyond the hill overlooking the valley. Sandor cursed under his breath. The thought of turning back flurried across his mind, but was extinguished immediately. There's nothing to go back to. My path is forward.
Steady determination began to take form within him, swelling and blotting out doubts or desires to retreat back to the warmth and comfort of the inn. Whatever was propelling Sandor into the twilight chaos in front of him was a force beyond himself; a celestial phantasm urging him forward, beckoning him towards some unknown fate that awaited him in the darkness beyond. You cannot go back. Your fate is forward.
The voice in his head was not his own, he realized, no more than the words that were spoken. He dare not question them, though. Instead, he let the disembodied bidding wash over him, filling him with a quiet, tenacious resolve.
Sandor Clegane did not believe in the Gods, the old or the new. Since the night Gregor had thrust his face into the embers of the brazier, Sandor had prayed silently to the stars, the direction of whatever being was housed in the twilight expanse above, urging it to vanquish the monster of his waking nightmares.
Night after night, Sandor muttered these prayers under his breath, pleading with the forces beyond. But his prayers were met with a resounding and painful silence; a silence which all but confirmed the Gods' non-existence or their unwillingness to set his troubled soul at ease. After the death of his father and sister, Sandor abandoned the unknowable entities in the heavens above and took up his sword. 'My sword is the only God I need. I wield it and bring death.' Those words had become Sandor's silent prayer ever since. It seemed unspeakably cruel that whatever entity breathed life into his body would also rip his only true family away from him, forcing Sandor to continue on in a world where a monster like Gregor lived and breathed.
Indeed, Sandor Clegane did not believe in the Gods, the old or the new, but he found in this most bedeviled of nights that some force from beyond was compelling him forward. And so he continued, steadfast and resolute, despite the icy rain and the furious wind.
As the rain saturated the ground, Stranger's hooves sunk into thick mud as they rode up the hill that over looked the valley, slowing their pace considerably. Beyond the hill, a forest of trees lay ahead of them, branches reaching towards the sky above like hands thrown to the heavens in prayer.
Sandor's eyes strained against the rain battering his face and stinging his eyes, blinding him to whatever lay ahead. He blinked hard and opened his eyes again, willing himself to identify the form moving steadily towards him. Its frantic pace matched his, beat for beat, heading towards him as wildly as he was heading towards it.
As he struggled to make out the form, shadows of darkness masked its identity as it darted underneath a patch of trees, forcing him to lose sight of it for a moment. When a bolt of lightning split the sky open, the form suddenly appeared in front of him, horse and rider. The face that met his was a manifestation of his memories, sprung forth and brought to life, taking form at the behest of some devil haunting the night and mercilessly taunting Sandor.
And then they were colliding together, accelerating into one another, piece by piece and melting into one form. In a futile and frenzied attempt to avoid the inevitable, her mare cut hard to the right with hooves slipping on the slick ground and legs spilling from underneath her. The horse tumbled hard to the ground and threw Sansa from the saddle in the process.
Undaunted by the near catastrophic collision, Stranger pressed on, forcing Sandor to pull forcefully on the reins, urging the horse to an abrupt stop. Stranger slid to a halt and reeled back hard to stand on his hind legs, front legs swinging furiously while howling out a blood-curdling scream. When the horse's front legs once again met the ground, Sandor swiftly spun him around and began back towards Sansa.
As Sandor approached the Little Bird's motionless form, the mare was hysterically fleeing into the darkness back towards the village. Sandor swung from the saddle and fell to his knees in front of her. Terror filled his heart as he looked upon her face, blood trickling steadily from a gash at her forehead. Her eyes were to the sky and her breath was shallow, her chest ever so slightly rising and falling. Sandor pleaded silently with whatever unknown force had brought her to him, lying broken and bloody in front of him. No. You can't. You won't. You brought me to her and her to me. You can't take her away.
Sandor's thoughts were interrupted as Sansa gasped hard for air. As she drank in the frigid night's air, her eyes searched to meet his despite the relentless pounding of the rain from above. When she found his gaze, her eyes were illuminated once more, as if the breath of life had refilled her empty lungs. She stared intently at him, disbelief flashing wild in her eyes and she did not break her gaze nor did she let her eyes wander away from his. All this time. All I ever wanted was for her to look at me like this.
Slowly and silently, tears had begun to spill forth from her eyes, rolling down her cheeks in steady streams, coming to meet the red river of blood that was running down her forehead. Suddenly, soft moaning gave way to choked sobs, desperation and pleading erupting forth as she struggled to reach out to him.
Echoing her sentiment, Sandor cradled her cheeks in his hands, feeling the softness of her skin and warmth of her blood while slowly and softly grazing her skin in gentle strokes. His heart threatened to beat out of his chest as her small, shivering hands retreated up to meet his. She gently caressed them, softly working over every callous and scar, as if seeking some long forgotten memory in each.
Her hair was a darker shade of auburn, he noticed; not the vibrant, fiery red it had been, but still beautiful nonetheless. He wordlessly smoothed the saturated tresses from her face, intertwining the strands in his fingers. Bewilderment yielded to the overwhelming and sudden realization that whatever unknown force was urging him on at a speeding pace through the night had meant to bring her to him; accelerating them towards one another until their fates and forms were properly together once more.
A debilitating longing to have her in his arms surged through Sandor. He replied helplessly by scooping her up into his arms, cradling her against his chest and rocking gently. In response, her arms gently wrapped around his neck where she buried her face, spilling small tears which patted his neck and shoulder. He felt her chest rise sharply and fall with a gentle sigh. He knew with a calm certainty that she was breathing him in.
The warmth of her in his arms, the familiar smell of lavender in her hair, exhilarated him. He pulled her closer and softly let his lips fall to the top of her head, leaving gentle kisses while resting the side of his face against hers, cheek to cheek. He caressed his face against hers, relishing the warmth and softness he found there, before turning to brush his lips against her cheek, letting the smoothness of her skin meet the roughness of his half-burned mouth and pressing softly to dot her cheek with kisses.
He let his lips linger against her skin, brushing her cheek softly before moving slow and deliberately towards her full, perfect lips. He felt her breath coming short and stifled and the frenzied beating of her heart within her chest; the rhythm steady and in time with the pounding of his own heart. As his lips lingered at the edge of her mouth, she let the breath escape her chest, something between a gasp and a sigh. Ever so slightly, Sandor reluctantly pulled his lips away from her and gently inclined her chin with his finger tips to let his eyes meet her placid and ponderous gaze. Sandor's eyes fleeted from her eyes to her lips and his thumb gently brushed her lips, which parted slightly under his touch, flooding him with a burning desire to crush his lips against hers in a deep kiss.
"Little Bird." The words spilled from his lips like a prayer. "Little Bird, you're hurt."
Sansa brought her trembling hands to meet the gash at her forehead and pulled them away, quizzically pondering the sight of her own blood. Wide-eyed, she cupped his cheek with her hand and brought her eyes to meet his in a consuming gaze, one that matched the yearning that had settled in his heart.
"It's you. It's really you. This is a dream. They said you were dead. They said…" Her voice was tremulous and quivering. If she hadn't looked so convinced, he may have laughed. Instead, he took her hands in his, moving them from his face to his chest, holding them hard there to meet the persistent thumping of his racing heart.
"No, Little Bird. Feel that? That means I'm very much alive." Her expression turned to wonderment as she swept her eyes across his face. It was the first time she had really looked at him. In King's Landing, she would look at the air beside his face in a far-off stare or would avert her eyes altogether, filling him with rage and frustration. For the first time, he felt like she was really seeing him and to his surprise and bewilderment, her eyes were not filled with disgust or fear, only relief.
Instead, it was him that averted his gaze, crumbling under her consuming gaze lest he lose himself in it. He found that when he looked at her he no longer saw a girl on the cusp of womanhood, fearful and unsure of herself. Instead, the creature in front of him was a woman grown with a fortitude and assuredness he never thought to correlate with Sansa Stark. Even with his eyes to the ground, he could feel her stare searing through him, which beckoned a feeling he had never felt before; nervousness. For the first time in his life, Sandor Clegane was nervous. Bugger that! I'm not some fucking green boy.
With that, Sandor brought his attention back to the gash across Sansa's forehead. The blood was thickening and congealing dark and sticky. It wasn't particularly deep, but would need to be cleaned and dressed, nonetheless. The rain had receded to a thin drizzle, but the night had grown cold; their breath was steaming from their bodies in misty white puffs.
Begrudgingly, Sandor pulled his gaze away from Sansa and into the murky darkness behind her. The Little Bird didn't just drop from the sky. She was running from something.
A heavy veil of fog was enveloping the forest behind her, rolling slowly through the trees and threatening to consume them. Sandor became keenly aware that whatever his Little Bird was running from was lurking somewhere within that devilish mist. The hair on his arms stood on end and goosebumps ravaged his skin as an unnatural silence had ascended upon them. You need to get her away from here. Now.
Whether it was his own instincts or some spectral whisper, Sandor knew the words were true.
Sansa was in a daze, her head was swimming and not just from the tumble she had taken from the saddle. The way he had looked at her had all but ceased the steady beating of her heart. His eyes were wild with shock, a frenzy of disbelief and elation. He had never looked at her like that before. In King's Landing, he considered her with either a drunken leer or an enraged scowl, but never like he was looking at her now.
She smirked softly as his eyes fell to the ground, refusing to meet her persistent stare. It seems that now he is the one who cannot look at me. She was simultaneously bemused and disappointed.
Suddenly, Sandor lifted his head, but instead of meeting her gaze, as she had desperately hoped he would, he frantically swept his eyes over the forest behind her. Sansa whipped her head around her shoulder, expecting to see Ser Lothor or Lord Royce racing towards them. Instead, she saw empty shadows and fog spilling forth from between the trees of the forest.
Still scrutinizing the darkness behind her, Sandor abruptly flew to his feet.
"We have to go, Little Bird." She nodded silently in agreement, remembrance filling her mind. Ser Lothor was coming for me. He's still out there somewhere.
Sandor took both of her hands in his and pulled her to her feet. Her heart fluttered as she felt his calloused hands tightly wrapped around hers, his skin warm against her hands. When she came to her feet, her chest was flush against his, her hands still tightly clasped in his.
She had forgotten how tall Sandor was. Margaery Tyrell's cousins had fawned over how tall Sansa was and she had known it was true. In Winterfell, she was at least a head taller than Jeyne Pool who was of an age with her. Long-limbed as she was and despite the fact she had grown since he last saw her, Sandor still stood significantly taller than her; so much so, that she had to incline her head far back to look him in the eyes.
Sansa slowly tilted her head back and allowed her eyes to roam up his form. When they fell upon his face, she found that he was already intently looking at her, his eyes seemingly eager to drink her in. It was as if he was studying her features, willing them to his memory. His gaze swept across her face; first, steadily on her eyes, then falling to her lips, across her cheeks, and back to her eyes. A flush of heat flooded her body. Sansa stifled a gasp as the warmth strangely settled between her legs. Suddenly, his hands came to her waist and lingered there momentarily, gently caressing the fabric of her dress, before lifting her to Stranger's saddle. A fluttering filled her stomach and she felt light headed.
Sandor pulled himself up into the saddle behind her and took the reins. She felt a strong arm wrap around her waist and slide her back into the saddle so that her back was flush against his chest. Her heart was beating wildly against her chest and she blushed furiously, embarrassed at the thought that he was most definitely feeling her tremble at his touch. She felt his lips brush softly against her ear and his slow, rasping breath rustle through her hair.
"Best hold on tight, girl." As he started to pull away, he brushed his lips softly against the side of her face, the half burned flesh tickling her cheek lightly as his lips hovered momentarily there. She closed her eyes as an unsolicited sigh escaped her chest. Her body was buzzing at his touch. She thought he might press his lips against her cheek, planting soft kisses as he had when he found her bleeding on the ground. Instead, he pulled his face away and wrapped his arm around her waist tighter, pressing himself against her.
His other hand took the reins with a steady pull and Stranger thrust forward, riding briskly into the night.
They rode south, away from the village and the forest beyond the hill that overlooked the valley. With the village to the east, the forest to the west, and an unknown expanse to the north, Sandor considered the southern path the only one he was willing to take. On his journey from the Quiet Isle, he had traveled from the south and was somewhat familiar with the route he and Sansa were embarking on.
They had not lingered long enough to discuss from whom Sansa was running. Instead, he had hurriedly placed her in the saddle, plucking her from her unnamed pursuer, and seated himself behind her before setting off into the night.
To Sandor's surprise, Sansa had wordlessly settled into the saddle, leaning back against him, unflinching as he pulled her closer. She had seemingly understood the urgency to leave and did not protest, but quietly and unquestioningly entrusted herself to him.
The events of the evening had put him in a daze, an endless fog from which he felt he was finally emerging. It had all seemed but a dream to him; the way she had appeared, miraculously manifested from some wistful fantasy and had come colliding into him. Sansa Stark could have been anywhere in the world and yet she was there with him, his arms wrapped tightly around her lest the Gods were cruel and wished to rouse him from this waking dream, leaving him once more lost and wandering. Of all of Westeros, of all the Free Cities, the entire bloody world, she could have been anywhere and I found her. Or maybe she found me...
A part of him wanted to know everything; what had happened to her after his departure from King's Landing, how she had escaped, who had helped her, who she was running from, and how it came to be that she was with him now. Indeed, a part of him wanted to know it all.
However, a greater part of him wanted to know nothing, to keep them in this moment; a moment where no questions needed to be asked or answered and they could disappear into the night, paying no mind to all those who wished to find them, wished to tear them apart.
Sandor pushed Stranger at a speeding pace until he was certain enough distance was between them and the village, the forest, and whatever phantasmal enemy they had left in the darkness behind them. Once their pace slowed to a steady trot, Sandor eyed the sky above them and allowed an eerie calm to pervade his being. The storm had lifted, but the stars were invisible behind a thick curtain of dark clouds that still sought to conquer the sky.
Through the sudden quietude, the fervid ghosts of his past began marching forth from the recessed shadows of his mind, willing themselves to be seen and to be heard. The memories were no stranger to Sandor and when they would emerge, he would respond by fighting them in earnest, staving them off one night at a time. But somehow Sansa's presence had breathed life into those memories, reawakening them to ravage his mind.
Helpless, Sandor yielded to the demons that afflicted him and let his mind succumb to the memories of the night of the Battle of the Blackwater; the night that his fear devoured and defeated him, the night he had come to her while water, sky, and land alike burned uncontrollably.
He had abandoned the fighting, certain that it was a losing battle. Even if victory had been assured, Sandor had all but made up his mind that he was no longer willing to lend his sword and risk his life for a Lannister or their barbaric causes. Stannis could have the city, he could have the king, and he could have all of Westeros, for all Sandor had cared. There was only one thing Sandor would not let Stannis have. And so he went to her, the only thing that mattered, the only thing he ever truly wanted.
When Sandor stumbled into her bedchamber, he was a finished man. If he was fortunate, the Lannisters would have sent him to the Wall to finish out his days freezing his balls off on a pile of ice and snow. More likely, they would have had his head; even he knew a dog that turns on its master had best be put down. He went to her with the desperate and drunken thought that he might be able to keep her, to set her free and that instead of flying away in fear, she would remain with him as his Little Bird.
He had not expected Sansa to come to her bedchamber that night, but she did. Breathlessly, she watched the sky as it burned, looking more like a woman in that moment than she ever had in all the time she had been in King's Landing. In the silent shadows, he watched her there; the green and orange hues of the raging fires painting her skin and illuminating the auburn of her hair while she muttered the name of her direwolf as if frantically clinging to any memory of home that fluttered in her mind.
Wordlessly, he snatched her by the wrist and covered her mouth before she could scream. As the fear flooded her face, he threatened her life. He told her that he had lost. Naively, she had asked what he lost. 'All'. I told her I lost all. If only she had known how true that was. If only I had known how much I still had left to lose.
He had told her he was leaving, heading north somewhere. He told her he would take her with him, he would keep her safe and that no one would ever hurt her again or he would kill them. Sandor had meant those words, and if there was ever anything he had ever told her, had ever wanted her to understand, wanted her to know the bitter truth of, it was those words. And yet she was petrified, trembling and desperately struggling to free herself of him. When he had pulled her closer, her eyes snapped shut as if willing him away. It had simultaneously enraged and destroyed him. He told her he lost all and it was not until that moment, with her eyes squeezed shut and her breath frantically heaving out of her chest, that he knew he truly had.
Sick with rage and wine and with an ache growing in his chest, Sandor had forced a song. With a knife to her throat, the promise of a steely death pressing against her skin while the night was alive with fire, Sansa sang to him. Not the song of lovers, but the song of mercy and gentleness. Sandor had forced the song, but wanted a kiss, a touch, any small comfort in the desperation and silent pleading of that moment. Seemingly, she had invaded his thoughts and besieged his heart, for she reached out and cupped his bloody and tear-stained cheek with her small, quivering hand. Through fear and pain, she had shown him a comfort and a kindness he had never known. She had given him everything, but truly he had lost all.
Silently and slowly, he tore himself away from the Little Bird, the only thing he had ever truly wanted to keep. But Sansa Stark wanted a knight; a beautiful, brave, and gallant knight. Sandor was none of those things. And so, tearing off his white cloak and letting it fall softly to the floor, he left her with the only thing that he had once thought could keep her safe; the white cloak of the Kingsguard, the symbol of protection he had tried so hard to give her while she was in King's Landing because it was all he had to offer. When Sandor solemnly retreated from her bedchamber, he was a broken man.
Sansa stirred slightly in the saddle, rescuing Sandor from the resurrection of those buried memories. It was the first time he had truly and completely allowed his mind to wander back to the night of the Battle of the Blackwater. On the Quiet Isle, Sandor was well aware that he if had chased after the genesis of his guilt, the source of that suffocating ache, it would unravel him. Instead, he kept the memory of that night sequestered to some remote recess of his mind, caged like a rabid beast.
Sansa's return to him had unleashed the memories to run wild through his mind, but the anticipated feelings of guilt were eclipsed by a sudden fear that he could not keep the Little Bird safe from harm, not anymore.
I threatened her life and took a song, a song she never wanted to give. And then I left her while the city burned and men died screaming. I left her to be married off to the fucking Imp. Left her to fall into the hands of Littlefinger. And yet she returns to me and I know not where we are headed or for how long I can keep her safe.
Sandor felt as though he might retch as the realization washed over him. He had no plan for where to take her, for where he could keep her safe from all who wished to find her. Frenzied, he had set out on the journey to find his lost Little Bird and here she was, tucked safely in his arms, yet he had not considered what he might do when he actually found her. In truth, he had half expected to never find her.
Angry with himself, Sandor became flushed with frustration, his mouth twitching and his hands balling tightly into fists. If there is one thing the Little Bird and I have in common, it is that we are both wanted in the Seven Kingdoms. Too many bloody people are all too eager to find the both of us.
Sandor shook his head to release the thought and pulled Sansa closer to him. As she let out a contented sigh, Sandor kissed her lightly on the top of her head, letting the auburn tresses of her hair dance about his face. I promised I would keep her safe. The Quiet Isle. We are already heading south. We can remain there until I figure out what to do.
While the night was moonless, Sandor gathered it must be midnight, the hour of the wolf. They would need to stop soon and rest, he knew. While the Vale was treacherous on horseback, its mountainous landscape was carved with crevices and caverns which could provide shelter. For that he was grateful.
Pulling slightly on the reins, Sandor led Stranger towards a steep slope a few paces to their right. While he eyed the safest path down the slope of rocks, Sansa turned over her shoulder.
"Where are we?," she inquired sleepily as Sandor swung from Stranger's back to lead the horse down what appeared to be the most sure-footed path to descend the slope.
"We are nowhere, Little Bird. We rest here for a bit. Then we head back south." Carefully, Sandor placed one foot in front of the other, slowly easing himself and Stranger down the slope. When they had reached the bottom, Sandor let out a sigh of relief and wiped away the sweat that was beading on his brow. Sweeping his eyes across the craggy length of the slope they had just descended, he spotted a large crevice in the rocks. As they approached, the crevice appeared to be larger than Sandor had originally estimated; its entrance giving way to a hollow cavern nestled in the side of the hill. While Stranger would have to be reined up outside, the cavern boasted more than enough room for him and Sansa.
"You said we are heading south. Where south?" The question was posed to him inquisitively and innocently enough. However, through frustration Sandor could not help wanting to avoid the topic lest she begin to understand the direness of their situation and that he had not pondered or planned their journey but rather was propelled into it by some fashion of fate.
"No more questions, girl."
Unbidden, his words came out brusque and curt. Wordlessly, she nodded her head, staring off into the stillness of the night.
Sansa had been lulled into a serene daze at the rhythmic galloping of Stranger and the warmth of Sandor's arms gently folded around her. She felt as though she was cast away into an ethereal dream, the lines of which edged closer to her waking consciousness and sought to deceive her. She feared the gossamer veil of this vision would be lifted and that any moment the man, who only a few hours earlier she believed dead, would be ripped away from her again, leaving an aching chasm in her chest where her heart should be. Sansa clutched his arm and pulled it closer to her at the thought.
Once they had ridden for what felt like at least several hours, Sandor had allowed Stranger's pace to slow slightly before swinging himself from the saddle and leading the horse with Sansa astride down a steep slope. Restively and reluctantly, the horse obliged Sandor's steady pull on the reins. Cautiously, he led Stranger down the slope and muttered curses whenever the horse's hooves slipped on loose rocks.
As they reached the bottom of the slope, Sansa and Sandor simultaneously breathed a sigh of relief. The bottom of the slope was cleverly hidden from the line of trees from which they had emerged. Any pursuer that had by chance spotted them and wished to come after them would have to brave the steep slope of slippery rocks and gnarling tree roots, just as Sansa and Sandor had. The thought provided a sliver of solace to Sansa's fretful mind. The Gods surely must be smiling upon us. I can only hope that that continues.
Suddenly, Sandor's hands were at her waist as he began to pull Sansa from the saddle. As he placed her gently on the ground, she felt her legs melt underneath her, sore with relentless riding and weakened by his tight grip still about her waist. As her knees buckled beneath her, Sansa was driven forward, stumbling over her own feet. She felt a tight grasp around her forearm, steadying her on her feet. Sansa let herself fall into his chest, despite his grasp on her arm. Timidly, her eyes came to meet his.
"Careful, girl." His voice was a low grumble as he let go of her and nodded his head towards a gaping slit in the rocks which opened up into a cave. "Stay in there while I rein up Stranger." His eyes swept across her body. "You're soaked. I can't promise I will find enough dry wood for a fire, but I'll try. I will be back shortly."
As he turned to leave, Sansa caught him by his muscled forearm, clasping her small fingers around it the best she could.
"What if someone comes?" She felt her eyes widen and her heart beat faster at the thought.
Sandor smiled softly while eying the slope they had just descended whilst shaking his head. "No one will come, Little Bird."
Gently, he pulled away from her and retreated off into the night.
Sitting at the mouth of the cave, Sansa pulled her knees to her chest, shivering against the chilly wind that made her wet cloak and clothes feel like sheets of ice against her skin. She pondered the sky which was devoid of stars and moon alike. This night, once bewitched, brought him to me. But from where?
Sansa had wanted to ask him, but had been afraid. Desperately, she wanted to tell him about everything; King's Landing, Ser Dontos and the missing amethyst of her hairnet, the Eyrie and Littlefinger, Lord Royce and his promises of Winterfell. A wild desire to bare it all to him, the man she had feared for so long, consumed her. Long moments passed as Sansa reflected on all that had happened to her since Sandor's departure from King's Landing.
Suddenly, his form grew from the horizon in front of her and when he came into the cave, he dropped an armful of assorted pieces of bark, branches, and twigs to the ground. Wordlessly, Sandor began stacking the larger pieces of bark and snapped branches into a pile for the fire, his hands working swiftly and deftly while a furrowed scowl adorned his face. Something vexes him.
Sansa had sensed his aggravation long before they stopped to rest. In the saddle, his body had stiffened and his grasp around her had tightened. His mind seemed a thousand leagues away.
A silence hung in the air as Sandor continued working and Sansa eyed him eagerly, willing him to look back at her and meet her steady gaze. Instead, Sandor began striking flint against stone, small sparks dancing away from him and into the wind. When the bundle of kindling refused to catch, he muttered curses into the night and Sansa could feel the frustration emanating from him, filling the void of silence. He's afraid of fire. I should be doing this, not him.
Slowly, she extended her hands out to reach his. "I can do that if you like."
He stopped momentarily and huffed a mocking laugh before silently shaking his head, all while keeping his focus on the flint and stone in his hands and avoiding her intent stare. His refusal stung, threatening to evoke frustrated and disheartened tears to spill forth from her eyes, the eyes which wanted him to see her.
"Look at me." Her voice was faint and timid, only barely above a whisper. His head turned slightly at her words. He most definitely heard, Sansa had gathered. However, he did not respond, but rather continued at his task; methodically striking flint against stone and flinching ever so slightly at each smatter of sparks.
We've been separated, torn apart to be brought together again. We've come so far and yet we are back to where we were. My frightened whispers and his seething fury.
The thought exasperated Sansa and she flew suddenly to her feet.
No longer am I afraid of this man. A recalcitrant resolve settled within her as she slowly, but intently paced towards where Sandor was kneeling over the humble stack of twigs and bark, still trying to catch the small bundle of kindling with the flint. For a long moment she stood there, eying him with a deliberate and fixed stare which he seemingly ignored.
"Look at me." This time the words echoed out of her chest, marked and unwavering with her eyes penetrating his form as his hands immediately stopped working.
Letting the flint and stone fall from his hands, Sandor inclined his head towards her with a strange smile playing about his lips, half mocking and half amused. Slowly, he rose to his feet, letting his grey eyes lock fiercely onto her steady gaze with his stare surpassing the intensity of hers. Sansa's heart raced and her breath caught in her chest. An urge to let her eyes flee and to shrink away from his oppressive stare coursed through her body. However, a stubborn determinedness challenged the instinct to melt under his penetrating leer.
When he finally came to stand in front of her, Sansa was beginning to tremble, her body shaking like a leaf in the autumn wind, clinging desperately to whatever fleeting courage she had left within her. Suddenly, Sandor reached out with both hands and grabbed her firmly by the waist. A slight gasp escaped Sansa's chest at the firmness and abruptness of his touch. His grasp was iron-tight as he held her there and let his stare lustily wander down her body.
Desire burned in his eyes and a slight, mischievous smile graced his half-burned lips as his eager gaze retreated from her eyes and moved down to her lips. There he let his eyes linger and tilted his head ever so slightly as he absorbed the sight of her. Still his stare moved lower, sweeping down her neck and settling momentarily on the steady rise and fall of her heaving chest. Letting his eyes roam down the soft sloping of her waist and hips, his breath escaped his chest as a deep, ragged groan.
A steady rush of heat engulfed Sansa's body and burned on her cheeks, which were undoubtedly a deep shade of crimson as she blushed hot and uncontrollably. Clearly, this did not escape Sandor as he lifted his eyes ever-so slightly while a sly half-smile spread about his lips and arousal engulfed his eyes. The same flush of wetness pooled between Sansa's legs, saturating her small clothes and making her breath come frantic from her chest and finally allowing her eyes to flee away from the intensity of Sandor's stare.
Suddenly, his grip on her hips tightened and he quickly yanked her forward so that her hips and chest were flush against his body. Sansa's heart pounded furiously and her knees felt as though they would buckle from underneath her as he gently brushed her hair from off her shoulder and softly let his lips graze the delicate flesh of her neck. As his lips brushed across her skin and moved up her neck, she relished the intoxicating sensation of his breath hot against her skin, moaning softly in response while he gently let his lips linger as he whispered in her ear, pulling her closer to him.
"You want me to look at you, girl? Is that the way of it?" Sansa gasped as Sandor gently pressed his lips to her neck and let his tongue lightly caress her skin while he softly kissed his way down her neck, soliciting a small moan as he pulled her tighter into him and let his lips fall across her collar bone. She felt as though she might burn alive at the heat that was surging through her body and making her heart beat frantic in her chest.
As he pulled his lips away from her, Sandor let his eyes fall upon her. Sansa timidly melted away from his stare, flustered and embarrassed for him to see how vehemently she was blushing.
With a bitter laugh, Sandor let go of her hips and retreated away from her and back to the pile of bark and sticks. "Aye, the Little Bird wants me to look at her yet she falls apart under my stare, under my touch. It seems that I should be asking you to look at me, not the other way around." His voice trailed off with defeat as he snatched the flint and stone from the ground. "Don't ask for what you don't want."
Her embarrassment and timid trepidation gave way to guilt. We've come so far and yet we are back to where we were. And it is my fault as much as his.
Slowly, she paced towards him and lowered herself to be seated next to him. Silently studying the pile of sticks and bark, Sandor let the flint and stone tumble from one hand to the other and then back. For many moments he did this, mindlessly letting them travel from one hand to the other with a far-off stare, his face stoic and impenetrable to any who dared try to read his thoughts. Sansa took the flint and stone gingerly from his hands and placed them carefully on the ground next to her feet. Gently, she reached out and took his rough and calloused hands into hers and turned her body towards his so that she could look upon his face.
Hesitantly, she began; yielding to her desire for him to know all that there was to know, all the secrets she had kept locked away in her mind.
"In King's Landing after you left and in the Eyrie, I dreamt terrible dreams. But you were always there, you were always-"
He snorted in derision and shook his head. "Always the monster in your nightmares. Aye, I know Little Bird. You don't have to tell me this." Abruptly, he tried pulling his hands from hers, but she replied by drawing them back, willing them to remain in hers until he finally relented.
"No, Sandor. No you were not." His head snapped around, his impassible eyes meeting her soft gaze. He was agape with astonishment at the sound of his name rolling sweetly off of her tongue.
"You were always there to protect me from the true monsters of my dreams. You saved me from them all; Joffrey and Cersei, Littlefinger and Lysa. It never mattered from whom. Always you came to me and kept me from harm, my protector." Slowly and steadily, his hands began to squeeze tightly around hers.
Sansa took a deep breath to steady the quivering of her voice as tears streamed down her face. "But always I would wake, alone and afraid, without you there. What I want is to know that this isn't all a dream and that I won't wake up again, alone and afraid, without you."
As Sansa's tears gently patted against her and Sandor's entwined hands, Sandor slowly shook his head. The crimson of anger that had colored his face had retreated, his pallor now akin to ivory as his frustration was seemingly washed away with her words.
"No, Little Bird. I'm not leaving you. Not ever again." His hands slid away from hers and cupped both of her cheeks. He kissed her gently on the top of her head before pulling her into his chest in a warm embrace.
Sandor rubbed her arms with his hands in an effort to generate warmth in her small, shivering frame. "You're freezing, Little Bird. I need to get this fire of yours started."
In the low tones of his voice, Sansa heard the trepid inflection of the word 'fire.' Wordlessly, she picked up the flint and stone at her feet before his hands could reach. While she had certainly never built a fire herself, she did not fear the flames which would expedite the process of catching the small bundle of kindling. After a handful of strikes of the flint against stone, a spark met the kindling and caught immediately.
As the fire grew to consume the pile of branches and sticks, Sansa sat in front of the dancing flames, entranced by their warmth. The cave was illuminated in a soft incandescent glow, the fire casting fickle silhouettes and fleeting shadows across the stone walls.
Sandor removed his damp cloak and draped it over a large rock that was bathed by the heat of the fire. Piece-by-piece, Sandor slowly began removing his armor and carefully placed it up against the wall of the cave. When he had finished, he was left in his woolen breeches and a white tunic which had remained somewhat dry, save for a handful of patches that were damp with wetness where rain seeped through cloak and armor.
Sansa's eyes were on him in a fixed gaze. In King's Landing, she had never seen him without his black scaled armor. That armor had seemingly entangled itself into his being, weaving itself as part of the formidable persona of the Hound; the armor a constant symbol of someone who was perpetually mistrustful and on guard.
As he stood before her, Sansa was seeing Sandor Clegane, not the Hound. She saw the only man who had ever offered her protection in King's Landing; the man who, against all the odds and obstacles the Gods had placed in their paths, found her in the bewitched twilight; the man who had somehow learned to quell the rage that had once burned uncontrollably within him.
Through the sheerness of his tunic, Sansa could see the contours of his heavily muscled arms and torso, the expanse of his broad shoulders, and the patches of hair covering his brawny chest. A familiar wave of heat hit her cheeks and emanated down her chest. She was powerless to pull her eyes away from him. She knew he would see her watching him. She knew what her mother or Septa Mordane would say if they were here to see Sansa eagerly drinking in the sight of this man.
In Winterfell, Septa Mordane's disapproving glare and or her mother's cautionary chiding was enough to deter her from anything that was considered inappropriate for a lady. But Sansa had been a child in Winterfell and neither Septa Mordane nor her mother was here to look on with disapproval. Besides, neither of them had thought to give her any forewarning about the ability of a man to elicit this sort of arousal from her, an arousal that was slowly devouring her body as she looked upon Sandor.
She had been a child in King's Landing as well and she felt that that was how Sandor viewed her then, a silly child, naïve and starry-eyed. However, something had changed; he was now looking at her like a man looks at woman and Sansa found herself enraptured by it.
I am a woman grown now. And something about the way he looks at me, the way he touches me, tells me he knows it as much as I do.
As Sandor peeled his armor off of his body, he thought back to her words.
'Look at me.'
The sound of her voice had echoed off the walls of the cave, her voice was fierce with determination as she eyed him unflinchingly. And then, like putty in his hands, she had melted under his touch, her body emanating heat and quivering as his eyes roamed her form and he pressed his lips to the softness of her neck.
'Look at me.'
The words tumbled through his mind, replaying at each turn, again and again. She did not understand what she was asking, not truly, but far be it for him to refuse her, especially considering the request. He had paced towards her, taking advantage of the opportunity to take her in. She had grown taller, that much he had already gathered when he came upon her during the storm, but what he hadn't fully noticed was how she had a woman's body now; her breasts were fuller, her waist curving lusciously into her hips, her lips retained much of their delicious poutiness, but were now full and sensuous.
'Look at me.'
The problem wasn't that Sandor could not look at her. The problem was that he couldn't stop looking at her. In King's Landing, her beauty had caught his attention, but her beauty was still that of a child then. Sansa was a woman grown now and was utterly breathtaking. Whether she knew it or not, she was taunting and teasing him by demanding that he look at her. He had obliged her request and was thoroughly surprised to find that she yielded to his touch, blushing a deep shade of crimson and gasping ever so slightly. Willingly, she had allowed his lips to brush across her skin which coaxed soft moans that had all but sent Sandor over the edge. He had pressed his lips against her neck and allowed his tongue to graze across her skin. It had taken every bit of self-control he possessed not to pull her to the ground and ravage her body and her lips in kisses.
Sandor felt a stiffness in his breeches as he reflected on all of it. Seven hells! Control yourself.
As he finished removing his armor and placed it gently against the wall of the cave, he caught sight of Sansa in the periphery of his vision. As she eyed him eagerly, the same shade of red flooded across her face.
With a smile spread across his lips, Sandor turned suddenly to face her and watched with playful amusement as she frantically let her eyes fall away, scandalized as if he caught her doing something she wasn't supposed to be doing. "See something you like, Little Bird?"
Her eyes darted about the floor of the cave, desperately and indiscreetly trying to seek out any excuse that came to mind. "I…um…Yes. NO! I mean…Well…" She let out an exasperated sigh before wrapping her arms tightly across her chest and bit her lip.
Sandor let out a hearty laugh which bellowed through the cave. Sansa looked up at him wide-eyed as if memorized by the sound of his laughter. Slowly, a small smile began playing about her lips. He relished the moment and fought to retain it; the sight of her blushing in front of him, the way she bit her lip, and the thought of her looking at him the same way he had looked at her, lustful and eager.
"Seven hells, girl. No need to get so worked up. You're a married woman, wedded and bedded. You can't tell me you still blush like a maiden at the sight of a man." Sandor snorted his contempt at the thought of a grotesque imp like Tyrion Lannister bedding a beautiful creature like Sansa Stark.
Sandor glanced up at Sansa and saw that the smile had melted from her face which was now tinged with uneasiness and hesitation, as if she was holding onto an uncomfortable secret. She shifted slightly in her seated position on the ground, swaying from left to right and letting her eyes fall away to her hands.
"I never wanted to married Tyrion. I didn't even know I was meant to marry him until Cersei led me to the sept."
While Sandor had guessed as much, he was still relieved. He had always despised the Imp. When Sandor heard that Sansa had been married to the half-man, it had felt akin to someone rubbing salt into a festering wound.
Sansa politely cleared her throat before continuing, her eyes still glued to the ground. "Besides… He never…On our wedding night, we never…" Her voice trailed off and an unpleasant silence hung in the air before Sansa brought her eyes up to meet Sandor's.
He nodded silently, lost in reverie and with elation coursing through his body. "I understand, Little Bird. It seems the bloody dwarf spared you that dishonor, at least."
As Sansa's relief matched his own, she let the tension in her body go and eased back to lean against the large boulder behind her, folding her hands gently in her lap. Sandor rummaged through the saddle bag and retrieved a heel of black bread, thankful to be unburdened from the topic of Sansa's wedding and bedding.
With the food in hand, he paced back towards Sansa and seated himself next to her while splitting the heel of black bread in half, handing her a portion of it. Softly, she took it from his hands and with small, nibbling bites began chewing slowly.
The mention of Tyrion had jarred Sandor's thoughts, reminding him that he still had many and more questions for Sansa. Now is as good of a time as any…
Sandor cleared his throat and set the bread aside, finding that his appetite had fled from him. "As much as I would like to believe you just fell from the sky, I know that's not how you came to me. You were running from someone. I need to know who, Little Bird." His voice was a low grumble.
With a furrowed brow, Sansa sighed deeply before shaking her head slightly, as if shuffling through the memories, puzzling over the important pieces.
"I left the Eyrie with Lord Yohn Royce. He said he would take me home; that he would gather his bannermen and win back Winterfell. We were traveling towards Runestone. As we neared the village, Ser Lothor Brune found us."
She stopped for a moment, seemingly befuddled by something as her face contorted in confusion which gave way to illumination at a sudden realization. "It was as if Lord Royce expected Ser Lothor to find us, as if he knew Ser Lothor was coming for us. Lord Royce pulled his sword, but was injured by Ser Lothor. That was the last I saw. Lord Royce told me to run so I did." Her eyes swept across his face until she met his stare with soft eyes. "And that is when you found me."
Sandor was well aware that Lothor Brune intended to find Sansa, but was troubled by how close the man had come to making good on that intent. However, Sandor had not anticipated Yohn Royce to be involved as well. He knew the Bronze Yohn; he had encountered him at various tourneys. The man was proud, to be sure. Boastfully, Yohn Royce would regale others of how the Royce's were blood of the First Men and how the runes inscribed on his armor had protected his ancestors from any who wished them harm. Sandor had come across his fair share of men like Bronze Yohn; highborn knights, self-righteous and vain. The Cleganes were not exactly common peasants, but it was no secret that the noble houses in the Westerlands and beyond looked down on a house that originated from Lannister kennelmasters.
Sandor was truly unconcerned with most of what Sansa told him. Lothor Brune and Yohn Royce were gnats; more of an annoyance than a real threat. However, there was one detail of that he was unwilling to overlook; a detail that was too transparent to merely gloss over.
"Yohn Royce told you that he would gather his bannermen and win back Winterfell? I suppose he left out the part where he marries you off to his son, Andar, ensuring Winterfell for the next generation of buggering rune-inscribed Royces." Sandor shook his head bitterly at the thought before continuing. "And the Eyrie. Littlefinger brought you there. What sort of bloody trickery did he use to manage that?"
Sansa eyed him with shock, apparently flustered and taken aback by his retort. "I gathered as much about Yohn Royce. Petyr passed me off as his natural daughter. Alayne Stone was my name. He had my hair dyed black." Mindlessly, she ran her fingers lightly through the long tresses of her darkened hair. "Petyr married my aunt Lysa. Shortly after their marriage, she appointed him Lord Protector of the Vale. She was deranged and jealous and thought I meant to seduce Littlefinger. She tried to push me through the Moon Door, but instead it was Littlefinger who pushed her through the Moon Door and then he framed her bard, Marillion. He bewitched the Lords Declarant when they came to question him and to take away Robert Arryn."
Sansa sighed deeply as relief swept across her face, obviously delighted to be purged of the information she had given him.
Sandor contemplated her words, letting them settle in his mind. Littlefinger was nothing if not clever, masterful at deception and scheming. Something was missing, a piece of the puzzle that was needed to form a whole picture. "He couldn't have thought to parade you around as his natural daughter forever. Surely he must have realized sooner or later you would be recognized."
She nodded silently before beginning again, her voice soft and hesitant. "He knew that. He planned to marry me to Harrold Hardyng, Harry the Heir, and reveal my identity on the day of the wedding."
"Aye. The Young Falcon. A gallant knight I hear, just like you've always wanted. I imagine you were beside yourself with happiness at the news."
Sandor did little to hide the acridity in his voice. He felt his blood run hot through his body. True enough, he had overheard the men at the inn speaking of Littlefinger's plans for Sansa. However, the prior knowledge did little to assuage the aggravation he felt growing within him. His thoughts were interrupted as Sansa let out a repulsed laugh, which matched the bitterness Sandor felt.
"No, I certainly was not. In truth, I'm quite sick of being told who I am to marry."
She shifted slightly and bit her lip as if biting back a shameful secret. Quietly she began again, her cheeks blushing a becoming shade of pink.
"I hit Littlefinger." She let her eyes fall to the ground. "I hit him with a shard of flagon and cut his cheek open. I left that same night." Her words were solemn and tentative, as if anticipating his disapproval.
Sandor eyed Sansa with pride and amusement as she sat blushing with either embarrassment or shame at her self-perceived impolite act. "You hit him? Little Bird has claws. What I'd give to have seen that." His hearty laughter echoed off the walls of the cave.
Sandor was in disbelief at what he was hearing. Sansa Stark had been immaculately trained by her septa and was a vision of what a highborn woman should be; courteous, soft-spoken, submissive, and dutiful. However, Sandor was well aware that despite all of her training, she was also a Stark and had the blood of the wolf in her.
His mind drifted back to King's Landing when Joffrey had forced her to look at her father's head upon a spike. Boldly, she had spoken out against Joffrey, telling him she would gift her brother Robb with Joffrey's head. Sandor had been in awe of the way Sansa snapped at Joffrey, speaking with the fearlessness and strength he never thought that she could possess. Sandor often thought back to that day, the day he came to realize, with certainty, that he had been underestimating Sansa Stark.
His thoughts were interrupted as she turned to look at him. "The night of the Battle of the Blackwater, after you left where did you go?"
"I traveled north from King's Landing, through the Riverlands. I came across the bloody Lightning Lord and his collection of broken men before I ended up with the silent brothers on the Quiet Isle, near the Bay of Crabs." Sandor's voice trailed off at the sudden thought of Sansa's sister, Arya. The girl had been lost, just as Sansa had been and all the rest of the Starks. Their family had been scattered, torn apart by murderers and traitors. She doesn't think her sister is alive. She has no idea.
"Sansa." Her gaze flew up to meet his, roused by her name spilling softly off of his lips. "Your sister. Arya. I came across her in the Riverlands. She was with Beric Dondarrion and his men. I stole her away and meant to take her to your brother and mother. I heard of Edmure Tully's wedding at the Twins and thought to bring her there."
With a sudden gasp, Sansa was wordlessly shaking her head, obviously fearing the worse with tears glistening in her eyes. "Arya." Her voice was something between a whisper and a whimper.
"Your sister is alive, Little Bird. We never made it to the Red Wedding. We traveled up the Trident, heading for the Saltpans. I had been injured in a brawl at an inn. Arya left me on the Trident and from there I don't know where she went."
A sudden and painful ache reverberated through Sandor. The heartbreaking sight of Sansa, her body heaving from sobs and the way her face contorted with anguish, left him feeling helpless. It both infuriated and destroyed him that there was nothing he could do to ease her pain.
Quietly, he retrieved his cloak from the rock and paced towards Sansa, pulling her damp cloak from her shoulders and replacing it with his warm, dry cloak which consumed her small frame. Delicately, he pulled her into his arms and cradled her against his chest, holding her there as she struggled to gain her breath. Pulling away slightly, Sandor cupped both of Sansa's cheeks, his eyes meeting hers which were red from crying.
"Listen to me. Arya is a fighter, a survivor. She is alive somewhere. I promise you we will find her."
With a somber calm washing over her, Sansa silently nodded her head in agreement before meeting Sandor's eyes with a fire that raged fierce in her eyes. "I want my sister. I want to go home to Winterfell. And I want to watch as those who have betrayed my family burn and bleed."
The river of tears that had flooded her face quieted steadily before finally retreating, leaving Sansa adrift in her thoughts. In King's Landing and the Eyrie, she had resigned herself to a painful and quiet understanding that her sister was more than likely dead. Sansa had spent long and sleepless nights haunted by the guilt she felt for not cherishing her sister when she had the chance. The childish taunting and bickering between her and Arya had culminated while on the journey from Winterfell to King's Landing. Arya saw Joffrey for what he was. If only I would have listened. If only I would have left with Sandor the night Stannis tried to capture King's Landing. Arya and I might be together again.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the soft ripping sound as Sandor tore off a strip of fabric from the bottom of his tunic and paced over to a shallow puddle of water at the front of the cave, saturating the fabric in the water before wringing it out.
Kneeling in front of her, Sandor gently brushed her hair from away from her face. "I need to take care of your wound, Little Bird. It needs to be cleaned."
Sansa nodded in compliance and winced in pain as loose strands of hair were torn away from the dried blood of her wound. Gently, he pulled her closer and placed one hand on the side of her face. With delicate strokes, he began wiping away at the blood. The pain of the gash hadn't truly bothered her and it wasn't until he had started cleaning the wound that she felt a sharp, stinging pain reverberate across her forehead.
Sansa felt the pace of her breathing quicken at each stroke of the fabric; the warmth of his hand on her cheek, the gentleness and delicacy with which he wiped away the blood, the attentiveness as he scrutinized the gash with determined focus gleaming in his eyes.
Her mind flurried back to King's Landing and the day Joffrey had forced her to look at her father's head upon a spike. Foolishly, she had spoken out against Joffrey, telling him she would gift her brother Robb with Joffrey's head. Her foolishness was paid back with Ser Meryn's mailed fist striking across her face. Calmly, Sandor had pulled out a handkerchief and, with a gentleness she never knew he could possess, wiped away the blood trickling from her lip. Sansa often thought back to that day, the day she came to realize, with certainty, that she had been misjudging Sandor Clegane.
Sansa let her eyes wander from her hands folded in her lap and up to Sandor, taking the opportunity to truly study his face. His eyes, which she once considered cruel, were a pale grey, the color of stone and steel. On the burned side of his face, the gnarled mass of scars was covered with long strands of his raven-colored hair. As Sansa took in the sight, the realization came that his scars were not as fearsome as she once thought they were.
The unburned side of his face was handsome; not in the graceful way highborn knights were often handsome, with slender and refined features. Sandor's handsomeness was rugged in a purely masculine way; the rough stubble of his unshaven face, the way his lips curled into a knowing smile, the intensity settling within his eyes. How is it that I am just now noticing how handsome he is?
Sansa was transfixed to the sight of Sandor kneeling in front of her and found herself remembering the way he had kissed her the night he came to her during the Battle of the Blackwater. She had felt the tears combine with the stickiness of blood upon his cheek. Slowly, he had pressed his lips against hers, eagerly running his tongue across her bottom lip until her mouth parted ever so slightly to let his tongue mingle with hers. She had tasted the saltiness of the tears and the metallic sweetness of blood, relishing the comfort of the weight of his body on top of hers.
Aching with desire, Sansa wished he would kiss her like that again; that he would take her in his arms and that she could feel the warmth of his lips burning against hers. She wanted to melt into him, wanted to let herself go and yield happily and helplessly to her yearning.
Sandor pulled his hands away from face and settled back to a seated position in front of her, studying his work. As the focus in his eyes relaxed and retreated, he caught her stare, locking his eyes onto hers. Sansa's breath caught in her chest.
A smile spread about his lips, that same knowing smile which beckoned her heart to beat out of her chest and butterflies to fill her stomach. "What is it, girl? Why are you looking at me like that?"
She wanted to tell him, to tell him how much she longed for his kiss and to be wrapped safe and warm in his arms. More than that, she wished she could show him. Instead, she let her eyes dart down to the ground and muttered the first thing that came to her mind.
"The night has grown chilly. Aren't you cold?"
Sandor chuckled mirthfully and shook his head while lifting himself to his feet. "No, Little Bird. When a man despises fire as much as I do, he becomes accustomed to being cold."
As he retreated away towards the side of the cave to retrieve the saddle bag, Sansa pulled his cloak tightly around her. "You said you were on the Quiet Isle, but how is it that you ended up in the Vale?"
With a low rumble, Sandor cleared his throat as he tossed the saddlebag to the ground in front of him and well away from the fire, his eyes refusing to meet hers. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, fidgeting under Sansa's gaze, seemingly uncomfortable by the question. A long silence filled the air as Sandor mindlessly stared at the saddlebag in front of him.
"I left the Quiet Isle to seek work in one of the Free Cities as a sell sword. Braavos or Lorath perhaps." Without another word, he sat down on the ground before lying down, bringing his hands to cradle the back of his head which was propped up on the saddlebag.
Something about his answer to her question troubled her. She let the disquiet wash over her, seeking out its source before feeling ridiculous at the realization she was disappointed by his answer. In truth, she had the fantastical and undoubtedly naïve notion that he had come to the Vale to find her, to take her away from Littlefinger, Lothor Brune, Lyn Corbray, Yohn Royce, and anyone else who wished her harm.
Sansa sat silently in a trance as she watched the embers of the fire die down, sacrificing the last of their warmth as the cool darkness of the night crept into the cave, causing her body to be tremble in response.
Suddenly, she became aware that he was watching her, pondering her shivering form and waiting patiently for her to lift her eyes to meet his. Slowly, she complied and let her eyes sweep up to meet his gaze.
"Come here, girl." His voice was a soft, but low rasp.
Unyielding, he eyed her intently, desire heavy in his eyes. Her heart began to beat faster at the sound of his voice, his beckoning for her to come to him. Entranced, her body responded, her legs lifted her to stand and her feet carried her swiftly to his side. As she stood over him, she found she was shaking, electrified by his hands reaching out to take hers. She no longer felt the blistering chill in the air, but rather found that she was burning under her skin, the heat unbound and radiating from her body.
Slowly, he pulled her down so that she was kneeling next to him, his rough hands clasped reassuringly around her trembling hands. Pulling his hands away from hers, he sat up and let his eyes sweep over her face. Reaching out with one hand, Sandor cupped her cheek before slowly letting his fingers interlace with the strands of her hair. For many moments, he gazed longingly at her and she thought he meant to kiss her, somehow reading her thoughts and desires.
However, his other arm reached out until it was firmly hooked around her waist, pulling her until she was flush up against him. He lowered himself to lay back down with Sansa in his arms and pulled his cloak over them. With one of her arms draped over his chest, Sansa settled her head underneath his chin and her body pressed up against his. She sighed softly and contentedly as Sandor wrapped one arm around her shoulder and the other around her waist and drew her closer to him with their legs intertwined.
Sansa savored the way his arms felt wrapped around her and the way she seemingly fit perfectly within his large frame; his strong arms matching the curve of her waist, her head settling easily within the space under his chin, their bodies matching pieces of the same mold. She thought back to the lonely nights in the Eyrie and King's Landing; all those nights she had desperately wished he was there, a desire which manifested and played out in her dreams.
She wanted to ask if she haunted him, the way he had haunted her, if he had yearned for her, the way she yearned for him. For many moments, Sansa fought with herself to ask him these questions, but fear of what his answers may be had stopped her. Finally, the fear gave way to curiosity.
"Sandor?" Her voice came softly from her chest, timid and hesitant.
"Hm?" His voice was a low grumble, roused from the precipice of slumber.
She had half a mind to let him fall back towards sleep, but instead continued on, asking the only question she had the courage to ask.
"Sandor, did you dream of me while you were away, like I dreamt of you?"
A long silence filled the air, making her blood run cold through her veins and desperation to take back the question run frantic through her mind. He heard her, she knew. She could feel his breathing come quicker and his arms around her stiffen. Long moments passed and unbidden tears were forming in her eyes before Sansa felt him breathe in deep, his chest expanding as his lungs drank in the night's air, before releasing his breath with a husky sigh.
"Aye, Little Bird. I dreamt of you while I was away. I dreamt of you long before I ever left King's Landing. I imagine I will dream of you tonight and perhaps the night after this. Now quit your chirping, girl, and get some rest. We have a long way ahead of us."
With her heart soaring and a perpetual smile invading her face, Sansa found that sleep came easily that night with Sandor's arms entwined tightly around her, the steady rise and fall of his chest easing her towards slumber, and the serendipitous thought of a man like Sandor Clegane dreaming of her, a thought which sung her into a sweet sleep.