Sorry it took so long! I should be back to writing now.

(Spoiler)

I just finished book four, so there wasn't any Sandor (or not a lot depending on how you read Brienne's story on the Quiet Isle, because I refuse to believe that he died), and so my muses weren't really spending much time with me.

(End of spoiler)

So I should be writing more again. Hope you guys like it. Please review! It really does inspire me.

Enjoy!

Sandor

The band of thieves and outlaws were nothing but a bunch of fools. Sandor hardly had to drop back more than a few hundred feet to stay undetected. It was easy alone, especially under the cover of darkness, but even in the light it was hardly any more difficult. He could see movement through the trees, but he only had to have Stranger lay down and rest when they stopped moving. No fires, no noise. It was no different than when you were in battle, and although Sandor was a large man he had always been big, even as a boy. He knew how to control his height. It was not uncomfortable for him, he had never been gawky. He moved quietly and swiftly, and Stranger was much like him in this way.

Once he had hobbled Stranger and then crawled up toward their camp, hoping to get a glimpse of his little bird and making sure she was in good health. He got a quick glance as her pretty auburn hair as she went sat around a fire, but the moment his eyes landed on her she pulled the hood of her cloak up around her shoulders. She was hunched over slightly, her arms around her, and sitting next to her sister. He counted the men there, considering going in and cutting through them all, but decided against it. There were simply too many men. He had crawled back instead, biding his time.

When they stopped at another town he surveyed the area from afar. He had hoped he could see if Sansa was put somewhere separate, in a room he could get into possibly. But he was far too away to get a good look. He sat against a tree that night, trying to ignore that agony of the disgusting flesh of his arm. He closed his eyes, remembered the feel of his little bird's soft hands on his face as he cried, the pain so great. But it was not the pain that brought him to tears. It was not the memory of his eight year old self sprawled out on the floor as his face fell off. He was burned again, scarred again. It was another scar, but not the scars beautiful maiden's like his little bird thought handsome and valiant. Not the type of scar that one would be proud of when they gazed at them on their wedding night. It was ugly.

But his little bird had comforted him so sweetly. She had spoken to him so softly. It was as if she knew what it was he was crying for. 'They don't matter," she told him touching his burned face. "The pain will pass and they won't matter."

He stood and grabbed his sword belt. He wanted to see her, just get a quick glimpse of her so he knew she was alright. It was unsettling, not having her in his arms at night, not being able to look across their fire and see her beautiful face. When he returned her to her mother and brother it would be different. He would be able to leave then because he would know she would be safe. The only reason he cared this time was because she was with men he did not trust.

As he walked into town no one was there to see him and so he walked to the loudest building in the little block of buildings. The tavern was lit up and inside he heard singing and laughing. That idiot with the harp was playing a song and singing a love ballad of sorts. It was a terrible song, one of those songs his little bird would enjoy, though in truth it was nothing more than empty words and fluffy thoughts. He would have none of it. He stepped into the tavern, his eyes scanning for his little bird. First he saw the harp player, then he found his bird, a little smile on her teary face.

He felt nearly sick with anger as he saw her little smile and for a moment he forgot that people were beginning to notice and recognize him. Instead he waited for her to look at him before looking for Dondarrion. He found him standing toward the center of the room, a deep frown on his face. He had seen Sansa's face light up when she saw him, and it gave him hope that it was just the song she was enjoying, not the company of people she was with.

"What do you want here, Clegane?" Dondarrion asked.

"I want my gold," he said, not wanting to tip his hand that he still wanted Sansa back. "You can keep the girl, but give me my gold."

He watched Sansa's lips turn downward and her eyes squint slightly.

"We gave you a note for the gold," Dondarrion said and Sandor bit out a harsh laugh, jarring everyone but his little bird, who had grown used to it.

"I wiped my arse with that note, pay me when the wars over," he spit out. "Do you think I'm a bloody idiot?"

"We took the gold, Clegane. It's ours now and you won't be getting it back. We already sent it south, to buy wheat and food for the peasants."

"Just what I was going to do with it," Sandor replied with a sour grin.

"Liar," the boy standing behind Arya Stark snapped. Arya was glowering at him but Sansa was on her feet now, looking to him with wide, worried eyes. He looked at her and nodded slowly, his eyes moving back to Dondarrion.

"I could take it from you," he said, placing a hand on his sword.

"Then be prepared to meet your gods," Dondarrion said and a freckled boy raised a crossbow.

"Cowards weapon," Sandor spat. "I won the trial. Your god proved me innocent, now return my things to me and let me go."

"This is your last chance, Clegane, or you lose your life as well as your gold."

Sandor glanced at Sansa, enjoying the fear he saw in her eyes. The fear was for him he knew. He turned to leave with one last scowl at them.

"Ser!" he heard his little bird call out and he looked back at her. She blushed. "Sandor, is your arm alright?"

"Just fine, little bird," he told her. She offered him a little smile and he turned to walk away.

"It doesn't hurt too badly?" she called and when he glanced back over his shoulder he saw her try and take another step toward him. The idiot with the harp grabbed onto her arm to stop her and she glanced toward him in surprise. When her eyes went back to Sandor her eyes were full with concern.

"Not at all," he lied and she smiled sweetly at him.

"Good," she responded and he turned to leave. He knew he was being watched as he left, and he knew that Dondarrion would have him followed to make sure that he stopped following them. By the time he knew they had turned back and he got back to the village they were all mostly sleeping, and he was unable to get a glimpse at Sansa. Instead he waited patiently until he heard them all breaking up camp to continue moving. When he did he moved toward them again, hiding in the underbrush on his stomach, eyeing the mass of scattering people.

It was not difficult to find his little bird. She was with her sister, but while the little spit fire was speaking to the large black smith boy next to her, Sansa was looking absolutely miserable. Her eyes scanned the tree line anxiously. He silently cursed her. If they thought he was gone, her constant looking for him would no doubt keep them on guard. Still, he could not find himself getting too angry with her. If he was reading her actions correctly it was because she wanted to be with him. These outlaws were bringing her to the same place he himself was going to be bringing her. The difference was him.

He watched a scowl cover her pretty face and she snapped something at her sister. He was no stranger to hating a sibling, but these two had no reason to hold on to their anger for each other in such circumstances. They hated each other for simple sisterly annoyances from their girlhood, and in days of war, death, and suffering, he thought it foolish to hold on to such things.

He nearly jumped up to run to her when he saw Arya lash out and grab her by her pretty red locks, but reminded himself he would only serve in getting himself murdered. Sansa cried out, and it took the blacksmith, and two other outlaws to pull the wildcat away from his little bird. When they did, Arya had a little handful of red hair and Sansa was weeping.

It was not until night fall of the following day that he had his break. It was dark and Sandor was having trouble seeing, but he heard the barking of dogs and the sound of men shouting. He jumped up from the ground and moved toward the camp in a crouched position. The camp was scattering and Sandor cursed himself for not paying enough attention. He circled the camp, hoping the chaos would give him the opportunity to snatch away his little bird, but she was nowhere in sight. Only three men remained in the camp, armed, ready to protect their supplies.

He cursed her silently. If she run she had just made things infinitely more difficult for him. Had she stayed put he would have cut through these men and escaped with her amongst the chaos. They would not know of their disappearance till sunrise. He moved away from camp when he saw no sign of her. He killed a few of the outlaws so they could not alert the others to his presence, but paused when he realized he had the blacksmith boy by the throat, his sword pressed to his jaw.

"Where's the girl?" he barked, not really caring what spurred on the event. He could ask the little bird later when they were safe in some tavern and he had her naked in bed, underneath him, his cock buried deeply inside of her.

"What girl?" he asked and Sandor tightened the grip on his throat, nearly crushing his windpipe. "I don't know!"

He released the tightened grip and he coughed and sputtered, holding his throat.

"Arya ran off. She's angry with me for staying and just got bad news or something, I don't know," he told him and Sandor scowled.

"Where's the other one. Sansa, the girl with auburn hair?" he barked holding up his sword again.

"I- I don't know… they went in opposite directions. I went after Arya," he sputtered.

"Then which direction did the wolf girl go in?"

"This way," he said pointing. Sandor raised his hand and knocked him solidly upside the head. The boy fell to the ground and Sandor began moving, circling around the outline of the camp where the less men were and then cut back into the forest. He was careful not to yell and when he was quiet he was able to slip past everyone unnoticed. The problem was if Sansa was hiding or running, she would not know to come to him. She would mistake him for any other member of the brotherhood. He cursed under his breath as he walked, looking for a small dark shadow in the darkness.

"Come now, little bird," he breathed. "Sing me a song."

He cut back toward the camp when he got too far. If she ran straight ahead she might have gotten further, but he doubted it. She would have grown tired and paused, and when the outlaws closed in on her she would have hid. He grabbed a torch from a man he killed and held it up, hoping she might see his face and come to him. It was no doubt a frightening sight in the dark, flickering torch light, but it might alert Sansa to his presence… as well as everyone else. He kept the torch a good distance from his face, but he could still feel the heat on his skin.

He turned when he felt a hand grip his elbow, poised to strike. He stopped when he saw wide blue eyes staring up at him from a smooth, white face. Her hair was ruffled and she had some dirt smudged on her cheek, but other than that she was unharmed. He said nothing but tossed the torch to the side, away from any dry brush. He grabbed her hand and nearly yanked her arm right out of her socket as he pulled her away from the camp. When she started dragged and little cries of pain left her he turned, hunched, and grabbed her around the waist. He heaved her over his shoulder and began moving once again. He got her back to stranger and they rode all night.

By the time the sun rose they were a safe distance from the still scattered outlaws and Sandor had a warm bed and wet spread legs on his mind.