Sandor

Sandor gazed at her intently form across the fire, his eyes never once leaving her angelic face. She had not looked at him since he had taken her under the large oak tree and he could scarcely tell if it was anger or just girlish embarrassment. He found himself bitterly thinking it should be the latter. She had clung to him while he fucked her, letting out beautiful little notes for his ears to catch, panting and crying out in pleasure. But as he bit into the hard rabbit flesh he fought back a scowl.

He wandered if she was afraid of him now. When he heard the beginnings of the word 'dog' on her lips he had seen red. Not her too, not his little bird. Though it had been his intention, the thought of her hating him tugged at his insides uncomfortably. That was why he kept staring at her. He wanted her to look at him so he could see the look in her eyes when she did. That would be all he needed to know. But it would not make the decision he found himself faced with any easier.

If she looked at him and he saw only hatred, fear, or disgust then he could return her to her family without a thought, take the gold she was worth, and never look back. He could spend his time fucking redheaded whores until he forgot about her. But if she hated him already then refusing to return her would hardly make him less of a scoundrel in her eyes. Keeping her with him, to talk to him, and sing to him, and fuck him, it would not make him any less abominable. But he knew he could not cause her pain. He could not keep her from her family. And what would he do, find a little cabin to lock her away in, force her to play wife for the remainder of their days. Could he take the hatred he would see glistening in her eyes when he took her to bed?

And if he saw shyness, affection, or curiosity? He did not know what he would do if he saw that. Maybe jump through the flames and take her again at once. She had not put up a fight earlier, though he had expected her too. His intentions had been to frighten her, but when he heard the soft little breathy moan escape from her parted lips, and felt her small delicate fingers tighten around his arm, he had lost his way. Had she breathed out the word no, put the slightest pressure on his chest he would have backed away, he would have stopped. He had not thought it would even escalate to touching.

"You see, little bird," he would have said to her when she refused to look at his charred flesh. "You cannot even bear the sight of me."

He would have moved away and lit their fire, caught their dinner, and said nothing the rest of the night. Afterward, when he stalked back into the woods to look for some easy game or some good pieces of fire wood he wracked his memory. She had looked so terrified when he got off of her that he was unsure for a moment if she had told him to stop, if she had tried to push him away. Had he imagined the little song she was singing? The thought had made him sick, but when he remembered the juices dripping down her thighs he calmed some.

When he had returned she was clearing a little patch of dirt of rocks and twigs to lay her cloak down on. Sandor grabbed a log to use as a bench and began cooking the rabbit. Neither said a word. He had tried to avoid looking at her most of the night, but as the sun set and the air got colder he heard her shiver. He looked up at her and had not looked away since. Her pale skin glowed bright in the fire light, her auburn hair even redder in the orange glow.

"You should put on the cloak," he finally said, his raspy voice cutting through the silent night air and earning a little gasp of surprise from his little bird. She looked up at him, her wide green eyes full of confusion and fear. He clenched his jaw.

"I will get dirty," she replied and brushed at the hem of her dress.

"You'll get sick if you don't put on the damned cloak," he told her.

"I am a lady still," she replied and edged closer to the fire. "I should do what I can not to get dirty."

She looked into the flames, wrapping her arms around herself. He shook his head and looked back into the flames himself, but his eyes once again moved to her face. He was suddenly angry with her though he did not know why. He was sure if the Knight of the flowers was here she would be gazing at him, smiling and singing her pretty words for him. She might even strip her dress off and climb into his lap, but not for him, not for the dog. He ripped at what remained of his portion of the rabbit with his fingers and bit into it savagely. He sensed her glance up at him, but she once again looked back into the flames. He watched her shiver and once again moved closer.

"Stop," he rasped abruptly and she looked up.

"Stop what?" she asked softly, glancing up over the hot licking flames at him. Her green eyes were swimming with emotion, but he did not see disgust or hatred.

"No closer to the flames," he said simply. "I won't put you out if you set yourself on fire."

"Yes you would," was her simple reply and she looked back to the flames. Sandor said nothing but held the last of the rabbit meat in his fingers. He turned it over in his hands, looking at it and then back to his little bird. She did not as much as flinch when he leaned forward, holding out his hand, and extending the last of their food to her.

"Eat it," he said.

"No, ser, I already ate my share –"

"I had a bigger share," he replied, his hand still up between them.

"You are a bigger person," she replied and his hand fell a fraction of an inch.

"You are still hungry," he said simply. He knew it was true. The girl, as small as she was, was used to grander meals than this.

"You are not?"

"I'm a man. I'm always hungry," he replied and she smiled softly. She reached out and took the last of the meat from him. He watched as she daintily pulled it apart and slipped it between her pink lips. He wished he had a cloak to drape around her shoulders, since the little bird was too foolish to simply put on her own, but both his white cloak and his surcoat were miles away. He might remove his armor and give her his shirt for extra warmth, but the exercise would make him look foolish and so he remained still.

The fire was not enough to keep her warm without the cloak and he watched as her breath left her lungs in plumes. He had kept the fire small on purpose. Not only did he mislike large fires, as fire was something he knew could not be controlled, he did not want to risk detection. He had debated even lighting a fire, but he knew he could protect them against the little band of outlaws running about. It would be another day or two before anyone at King's Landing put together that they were together, and they did not even know who had won. So Sandor felt relatively safe with the small fire.

She murmured a soft goodnight as she lay down on her cloak, using the hood as a little makeshift pillow. He watched her lean in close to the fire for warmth, and every time she did her heart leapt. He envisioned a stand of hair falling too close to the flames, a piece of her dress catching a spark, and his heart was in his throat. He ground his teeth together in tense anger as he watched her. He looked around the black night beyond their camp and listened for sound but heard nothing but the sound of his little bird's chattering teeth. He sighed and stood, grabbing his sword from where it rested next to him.

She tensed when he kneeled down on her cloak and lowered himself to the ground behind her. He wrapped an arm around her slender waist and pulled her toward him, way from the dangerous flames and closer to his own safer warmth. She may have thought to fight, but his warmth seemed welcomed and her shivering stopped almost immediately. She was so small he easily blocked her from the cold, and she was safe between the warm fire and his hot body. He wished he could have removed his armor, to have her soft body against his own, but if men were to come in the night he would be at too large a disadvantage.

"I will wake you near midnight little bird, to watch while I sleep," he told her as he stared into the flames. As long as his eyes were on the flames he knew they would not jump out at him. "You can sleep in the saddle while we ride tomorrow."

"Yes, ser," she murmured, but he knew she was well on her way to sleep.

"I'm no ser," he rasped, flames glittering in his dark eyes. He might have had no love for knights, but he knew what she thought they were, what they should be. He thought of her earlier, on her back, her dress up around her waist, his seed dripping from her thighs. "No ser at all."

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Sandor cursed when he awoke the next morning to find the fire dead and little Sansa Stark still comfortably asleep in his arms. He slid his arm out from under head, which his little bird had been using as a pillow and got to his feet. She jumped awake as her head his the ground and looked around frantically.

"You fell asleep," he said accusingly and set about destroying the evidence of their fire. She collected her cloak off the ground and jumped to the side as bits of ash and wood began flying by her feet as he kicked at the black coals.

"I was tired and you were so warm –"

"Yes, and when Joffrey's men find us I am sure they will say 'No, let's not kill the dog and take the Stark girl back to be beaten, tortured, and raped, he's so warm," he said cruelly. He watched her white cheeks turn pink a moment before bending down. He was a great fighter, but was never very good at covering his tracks, though he thought he had done a fairly good job with this fire. One might know a traveler had stopped here, but not that it was just the night before. In a few days, it would like they had left months ago. Once he was finished he grabbed the reigns of his horse and motioned for his bird.

"Stop pouting," he scolded as she walked toward him, pulling her cloak more tightly around her shoulders.

"I'm not pouting," she pouted and he grabbed her by the hips and gently raised her up. She winced as he did so, but not because his grip was too tight.

"Depending on how far we get today, I will try and find an inn tonight," he said and gazed up at the sky. It was already late into the morning. Perhaps if she had done as she was told, and stayed awake and roused him at sunrise, that would be more in the cards.

"My sister would be better at this kind of thing than me," she mumbled after an hour of silence on the horse.

"You are doing just fine," he told her.

"You were angry with me this morning," she reminded him.

"It is you that will suffer the most if we are overcome," he told her gravely. "No one will save you from the king's wrath now."

"You do not even know who won," she said, her voice small.

"It is better to assume the worst."

"I disagree," she said softly. "In most cases that is…"

"If your father had assumed the worst he might still be alive," Sandor said a little too sharply. He felt her tense against him but she made no reply.

"I do not want you to touch me anymore," she said after another long stretch of silence.

"Oh? Would you like to get down and walk then?" he asked her and she bristled.

"I mean like last night," she said. "No more of that."

"Fine then, I'll let you freeze," he replied coldly.

"I mean no… no sex," she said lamely, a blush coating her cheeks. "You mean to ransom me and I am already returning to my family damaged. I will not be made into your whore."

"You will if I want you to," his voice was rasping ice as it left his pinched lips.

"No, I won't," she replied. "You won't hurt me."

He said nothing and she spoke again, more confidently than before, hardness in her usually soft voice.

"You won't hurt me."

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