Sansa

True to his word the Hound found the river again and they stopped to make camp when it began to get dark. The place they stopped was a tiny clearing twenty yards or so from the water's edge, and surrounded by thick brush. It was only found because Sansa needed to relieve herself and stumbled upon it. Rather than using it for privacy she returned to where she had left the Hound and told him of it.

She was proud when he appraised it favorably and could not keep the smile from her face. The Hound's lips twitched when he looked back to her, but he said nothing in return. The Hound tied up the horse and went to collect water for them. Sansa set about finding wood for a fire but the Hound shook his head as he returned.

"No fire tonight," he told her as he handed her a flask he had filled with water for her. Apparently he had stolen it from a man at the inn the night before. The flagon he had gotten from the inn still had a little wine left in it, and Sansa did not think he would be willing to fill that up with water until he had drained what was left of the wine.

"No one found us the night before," Sansa argued, terrified of a long cold night on the hard ground. "And we are better secluded here…"

"And now we have gold cloaks after us, men from that tavern that would no doubt take advantage of the reward they would get for you…" he explained and reached into his saddle back. He fed a crab apple to the horse.

"How long until we can go to another inn?" she asked and he shrugged.

"Don't right know. I was lucky no one recognized me last night. Might not be so lucky next time. I'd say we stay off the road and away from inns until we reach the river lands."

"The river lands!" Sansa cried.

"We are right between Casterly Rock and King's Landing. Dangerous places to be for both of us," he rasped.

"But if we use fake names no one will recognize us…" she trailed off when he turned to look at her. She bowed her head in embarrassment and shame. The Hound was well known in these parts, and one did not need to have seen him previously to know what he looked like. "I'm sorry, ser –"

"For the last bloody time, girl, don't call me ser," he grumbled, though he sounded more annoyed than angry.

"What should I call you…?" she asked and he gave her a wry smile.

"My name?" he offered sarcastically. "Dog or Hound do just fine as well."

"I would feel odd calling you by your Gods name," she said, struggling to leave off the Ser. "It would feel too… familiar…"

"Have we not bridged the river of familiar, little bird?" he asked and turned his back to her.

"Very well, Sandor…" she said. The name felt odd on her lips. "Then you will call me Sansa."

"Little bird suits me just fine," he replied and she flushed with anger. If he refused to be called Ser than why would she not refuse to be called bird? It was a cruel taunting name he had bestowed upon her while he was drunk. He did it to remind her how much power she lacked, or weak her will was. She hated it more than anything, but she did not have the courage to tell him that. Though the Hound, Sandor, hated the arrogance of the Knighthood, he seemed just as proud.

"I am going to bathe," she said curtly and stood, heading toward the river. The air was getting colder each day it seemed, and with the sun about to disappear over the distant horizon, she wanted to avoid losing all the warmth. She stepped through the brush, trying to stamp down the anger she felt at the Hound, Sandor, right now. He was a drunk and a killer, rude, unfeeling, cruel, smug, arrogant… and following her.

She whirled around to face him, her cheeks pink with anger. He stopped before her, looking down his nose at her with a furrowed brow. His burnt flesh was hidden from her view by his thin hair, though she could see the pink and black flesh peaking through from beneath.

"What are you doing?" she asked after a pause.

"Going to the river," he replied.

"Why?"

"You said you wished to bathe," he responded simply. She watched the way his mouth moved, the taught flesh making the left side of his mouth move awkwardly.

"You promised we would do so separately," her voice was tight as she spoke, anger bubbling up within her. His intentions were clear enough. He meant to try to seduce her again, and when that failed he would taunt her and say cruel hurtful things.

"And we shall, though I desire to be close by, should we be overcome while you are in such a vulnerable state," he rasped and she suddenly felt guilty. She turned away from him without a word and continued back toward the river. She listened to his footsteps behind her, breaking and cracking sticks and dead leaves as he went.

When they approached the riverbed Sansa glanced around to see if there were any signs of anyone nearby. When she was satisfied she glanced to the Hound. Sandor.

He was looking around as well, but nodding slowly. When his eyes landed back on Sansa he motioned to a large tree.

"I'll just be standing over here," he told her. "Make it quick."

She checked three times that he was not looking before sliding her dress off over her head and stepping into the cold water. She yelped, but that urged her on faster, frightened that her cry would alert the Hound. Luckily he did not seem to move from his spot behind the tree. She slowly removed the fabric from around her knuckles and dipped the sore skin into the freezing water. It stung, but that was immediately followed with a soothing sensation.

She did not dally long, taking only as much time was needed to wipe the dirt and grime of the past few days from her body and wet her hair. She vaguely know that wetting her hair would make her colder in the night, but it was so greasy and dirty that she did not care. She was a lady after all, and she needed to be clean.

Leaving the river was the hard part. Goosebumps erupted over her wet skin and her nipples hardened against the cool hair. She wrung out her hair so it would not get her dress too wet before pulling the fabric up over her head. She was for the first time thankful that the dress for a peasant. Peasants dressed for warmth and practicality, not beauty.

"I'm done," she told Sandor. She was shaking badly when he came around the corner, but felt her face turn hot when she saw him remove his tunic. His armor had been removed and he was wearing only his breeches now. His body rippled with lean muscle, his arms powerful and well defined. There was a fine smattering of black hair across his chest, but it tapered as it moved lower and eventually vanished underneath his breeches.

"Take this," he said placed his tunic over her shoulders. It was not big enough to make a huge difference, but with the heat from his body still clinging to it it helped warm her some. She looked at him with wide eyes as he walked toward the river, the muscles in his back taut. She felt her face turn brighter, but she could not look away. It was the first time she had seen a shirtless man save her little brothers and Rob, and this was very different. His body was mature and masculine, rippled with muscle and powerful. He turned to face her again and she could not help but follow the trail of fine chest hair downward, blushing when she found the faint outline of his manhood underneath his breeches.

"I didn't get to watch you, little bird," his voice broke her from her staring. She could find no words, her mouth to dry to speak and instead moved to the tree he had been standing behind. There she found his discarded boots, armor, sword, and daggers. She chewed her bottom lip hard, overcome with curiosity. She wandered what he looked like from the waist down. She had felt him, he'd been inside her, but she did not even know what he looked like.

She continued to chew on her bottom lip. Very slowly she leaned over, putting her weight on her hands and peered around the tree. Her face turned red as she did so, mentally preparing herself for what she might see. Her stomach flip flopped in her stomach as she peered at the water, searching for him. Still he was nowhere to be found. She frowned deeply and leaned over further.

"Peeping, little bird?"

She jumped and let out a little cry. Standing to her left was the Hound, water dripping down over his pale skin, his hair wet and pushed back to reveal his entire face. His mouth was twisted into an amused grin and he had a knowing twinkle in his eyes. She could not help but dart her eyes lower, but he had put his breeches back on by this point. It seemed he bathed must faster than she did.

"Naughty, naughty, little bird. What would your Septa say?"

"My Septa's dead," she snapped. She was not so much angry at him, as she was embarrassed. It was easier to be angry with him than to admit to her rude and embarrassing behavior.

"So that makes it OK?" he asked and took his tunic from her.

"I wasn't…"

"Wasn't what?" he asked. She could not deny what she was doing without admitting it at the same time. Anything she said would virtually be an admission. He laughed when she jumped to her feet and stormed off toward their camp. When she arrived she went about setting up a fire, regardless of what he had told her. Her face burned with anger and humiliation as she stacked the wood. She was rummaging through his saddle bag, looking for the two rocks she had seen him strike together to start the fire two nights before, when the Hound returned.

"What are you doing?" he asked and looked toward the wood. The sun was now set, but some light still made it over the horizon.

"I'm starting a fire," she told him imperiously.

"Seven hells you are," he replied and approached her.

"It's cold," she said just before he grabbed onto her wrists and pulled them from his bags.

"I'll keep you warm," he rasped and she tried to hit him again like she did before. Too many emotions were bombarding her. She was confused, scared, in pain, and cold. She missed her mother, and her brothers and her sister. She wanted her father to be alive. She wanted her Septa to be there to tell her what to do. She wanted a real knight to have rescued her, like in the stories, not the Hound. He was rude. He was course. He was ugly.

"No more," he told her but she continued to strike out.

But he had saved her. He kept her warm at night and made sure she had food. She remembered how gently he had taken her hands in his after she had finished striking him. How his fingers moved over the bruised skin so softly, the look in his eyes, sad and searching. She didn't know which Hound was real. When the man would come forward, and when the dog would.

"Enough," he rasped softly when she tried to hit him again, this time in his ugly face. She struggled but he managed to spin her around, pressed her back to his chest and pinned her arms to her body with his own. She wept as he lowered them down to the ground by the horse's feet. He stomped but did nothing else. Sandor's arms stayed wrapped around her firmly, holding her body to his protectively. Her arms relaxed and he let her turn in his lap.

"Now, now, little bird, you're all right," he told her. His voice brought her comfort. She liked that voice she realized. She liked it when he spoke. She moved closer to him, pressing her face into his neck, wanting to feel the warmth of his skin.

"I'm sorry, Sandor," she cried into his neck. She felt one of his big hands touched her back and press her closer.

"For what, little bird?" he asked, his hand rubbing little circles on her back.

"You have been ill treated by me," she told him between hiccups.

"Is that what you call it? Ill treatment." he asked and she felt his chest rise and fall as he laughed.

"You are a truer knight than any of them were," she shuddered.

"Knights belong in fairy tales, little bird. They are nothing but men with imagined titles."

"It's supposed to mean something though… the title," she said, bringing her hands up to rub her eyes. She sniffled and leaned into him, enjoying his warmth.

"In the songs it does. We don't live in songs, Sansa," he rasped in her ear. She nodded, her eyes growing heavy. She felt him lift her and move a little further away from the horse. He settled them back down against a tree. The sun had gone down and the sky was black, stars peering down at them.

"Sandor?"

"Yes?"

"I won't fall asleep on my watch this time," she told him. He said nothing and she ran her finger over one of the metal studs on his armor.

"Sleep, little bird," he ordered. With a little nod, she obeyed. As she fell off to sleep, she realized she didn't dislike the name 'little bird' anymore.

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