Author's Notes: I once again express my gratitude to Wildsky, my patient beta… I know this story is proceeding somewhat slower than I am used to, but *mumble mumble, many reasons…* I thank all of you for your patience!

Summary: "Even as he lay there, his cock buried in the sweet cunt of Sansa Stark and through the haze of his pleasure, he couldn't help wondering what price she demanded of him. Protection? She had it already. For him to fight her battles? That too, she already had. He had no coin nor power nor anything that a high-born lady could need. So what was it that she wanted?"

Sandor

Sandor wanted to give her a lesson, that's all. To teach her that she shouldn't trust anyone, not even himself. That she should be on her guard and not be deceived by the apparent kindness of strangers, not even himself. That's how the Lannisters had trapped her in the first place all those years ago, pretending to care about her and luring her to trust them - the despicable lion's spawn! He had tried to tell her that in King's Landing, frustrated beyond measure at seeing her naivety and lack of skill in the game that was played.

He expected her to draw back. Not in horror, as long gone were the days when she had shrunk from the sight of his face. Yet to draw back nonetheless, disgusted by how a man who now overtly encroached on her privacy more than was decent - and who already had defiled her - dared to approach her again. Sandor knew that she regretted what had taken place between them. He could detect it from the way she stiffened when he accidentally touched her, and from the way she averted her eyes when he was too close.

Let her! Part of Sandor was amused and enjoyed the sense of power it gave him over her, especially after he had found her so changed. She was a woman grown, matured not only in body but also in mind. Yet sometimes, like earlier that evening when he had seen her relaxed and comfortable in his company, to his chagrin Sandor discovered that he enjoyed that even more. Not many people had ever been at ease in his presence. As odd it had been at first, he had noticed that in those moments he too could let his own facade slip.

The girl surprised him though. Instead of pulling away and telling him with her most regal voice to back away, she challenged him with her question about women who chose to lie next to men like him. And she stayed still, only the rapid rise and fall of her chest giving away her unease. Or was that the reason? Maybe she…

Then she pulled him to her.

Is this a jest? Is she paying me back with my own coin? The thought flashed through Sandor's mind before his lips met her heated skin. She didn't resist his touch and he absorbed its softness against his cracked lips, clumsily kissing his way across her face towards the plump lips he had eyed so often when she hadn't noticed. His hand travelled down her body and despite an urge to grab her forcefully, Sandor stopped. Is she leading me on, only to pull away laughing, knowing that I will not harm her? He cursed his own softness. Seven hells, had the Quiet Isle made him a pup, taking all the Hound's ferocity away?

And then she uttered the most unthinkable word. Please. Sandor's eyes widened at that soft sigh, released from her sweet mouth so close to his that he could practically taste the word in his own. He cursed and yanked Sansa onto her back, her fingers caressing his bare stomach lighting a fire that burned as hot as all seven hells put together.

Gods, it felt good! It was different to that desperate night, when he had longed for the last flash of immortality and ecstasy only a good fuck could give, not caring much about with whom he was about to achieve it. Although if he was totally honest, even then the thought of bedding the unattainable beauty previously so far beyond his reach had spurred him on more than the lust for the act itself.

Now everything was different. Sansa had become a person, not an object. Dimly, somewhere at the back of his feverish mind, Sandor also recognised that he was in her service now - and no good would come from fucking this chance up if he wanted to stay in Westeros. He swallowed a dry laugh. Fucking up, indeed!

He pressed her down hard, so hard that Sansa had to untangle her hand from the folds of his tunic. As soon as she did it he missed the feel of her fingers on his skin. She didn't resist him but yielded, moulding herself against his form, her arms wrapped around his broad back, her legs trembling under his thighs.

Sandor was an inexperienced kisser, had never cared much about it. Nonetheless he felt that it was expected of him so he nibbled Sansa's lips, brushed his tongue against her lower lip and to his surprise, felt her mouth opening and welcoming him.

She tasted sweet. As much as he felt his cock twitching in his breeches, yearning to experience her tight cunt around it, to his own amazement kissing gave Sandor something he had never thought it could. He wanted more of her, he wanted to get inside her secret recesses and invade her soft body…and this was it. Momentarily forgetting his other needs, Sandor found a new world full of heady delights as he delved deeper, tasting, sucking and drinking her, teasing her tongue with his own.

Eventually he had to pull back, to take in some air if nothing else. He braced himself for her refusal, for Sansa to have realised that she didn't want this after all and that her attempt to act like a woman of the world had backfired on her. He eyed her as she lay there, her hair spread against the pillow and a deep flush suffusing her face and neck. He could see her redness even in the dim light of the room.

"Had enough of danger? Proven to yourself that you can face it?" he growled menacingly. He stopped himself from asking her if he should let her go – if she said yes, he wasn't sure he could; if she said no, he wasn't sure he could do whatever it was that she expected of him. Fuck!

"No," she sighed. "Sandor, I want…" She never finished her sentence - she didn't have to. The tone of her voice told Sandor all he needed to know. Who knew how long this would last? Who knew what was going on in that pretty head of hers? It hadn't made any sense to him earlier and even less now, but gods, he was not going to be the one questioning it!

Sandor shifted his body lower, sliding down over hers. His fingers – he cursed silently when he noticed them trembling – tugged at the neckline of her blouse, pulling it down. It occurred to him that now was his chance to get an eyeful of her – all that he had missed that night and regretted ever since.

Pulling up and rolling out of the bed, he hurried to the fireplace and impatiently threw more wood into its glowing mouth. If this was to be his only chance, he wanted to see all of her, not only shadows. He was clumsy in his eagerness, hoping that the break in their contact wouldn't make Sansa regain her senses and put an end to this…whatever this was. He turned back towards the bed and saw her lying where he had left her, her eyes glittering in the firelight as she observed him.

Forcing his steps to be slow and measured, he advanced on the bed and knelt on it as before. Sansa didn't move and Sandor placed himself astride her, putting most of his weight on his bent knees. She felt so small and fragile under him, but she looked him in the eye, her pupils dilated and gaze steady.

Sandor returned to the task at hand and started to unlace the top of her dress. Sansa was dressed in a garment of the common folk consisting of two separate pieces, which allowed a worn top to be replaced with a new one while the skirt was still usable. A mischievous thought crossed his mind.

"Did you have a peek, little bird? Did you spy on me when I bathed? I would have, had our positions been reversed."

Sansa gulped and made as if to turn her head, but then stopped. Something akin to shame crossed her face and she whispered, "If I did, what of it? You already had all I had to give. What was the harm in me just looking?"

The thought of her spying on him made Sandor even harder. It also emboldened him.

"It is only right then that I have a look at you, wouldn't you say? I have seen none of your loveliness, you can hardly call that fair." All the while his fingers worked and finally succeeded in releasing all the knots. Pulling the fabric aside and revealing her bare breasts, Sandor took a deep breath. They were just as beautiful as he had imagined; full and yet not overly so, her nipples standing erect as if inviting him to them… He lowered his head and this time he didn't stop to wait for her go-ahead. Gods, she had had many opportunities to call this off and if she hadn't utilised any of them, he sure as hells wasn't going to ask anymore.

Sandor's mouth found a nipple and latched onto it eagerly, nibbling and sucking it. Sansa shifted and sighed, stretching her arms above her head. A moan escaped her lips.

As focussed as Sandor was on the feel of that hard bud in his mouth, Sansa's satisfied sigh stopped him in his tracks. He understood that to be a sign of her contentment, and instead of that elating him, it raised his dread.

He had never made an effort to satisfy wenches. He had never wanted to hurt them either – he was not the kind of man who gained his satisfaction from the suffering of others, least of all defenceless women making their meagre living by selling their bodies. Still he had always known that they were no more interested in his satisfaction than he was theirs, only wanting to make him come so they could collect their coin and send him on his way. A mutually beneficial arrangement where both parties were looking after their own interests. Making a woman squirm from pleasure under him had never been part of that.

Before his thoughts ran away with him, Sansa opened her eyes and tugged at the hem of his tunic.

"Do you want to…would you like to…take this off?" Without waiting for his answer she rose up and, taking a better grip, started to pull. Sandor raised his arms obediently, helping where she couldn't reach and tossed the garment aside. In return he took the opportunity and teased the remaining fabric down over her shoulders, sliding it away easily and soon her top followed his, landing in a heap on the floor.

Sansa was still sitting up and now pressed her hands on his chest. Giving into her unarticulated but yet unmistakable command more than her force, Sandor soon found himself on his back, Sansa hovering above him.

"May I?"

Her hands swept down his chest, playing with the curls, her knuckles brushing against his nipples. Sandor tried to suppress the shivers travelling up his spine but failed miserably. The feather-light touches crept further down to the leather twines of his breeches and not stopping, swiftly unlaced them.

"May I?"

Sandor had no words and only nodded his silent agreement, observing in wonder how Sansa deftly pulled down his breeches. When they got stuck beneath him, he took charge, removing them in a few deft movements and kicking them away together with his smallclothes. Sandor was now as naked as on his nameday while Sansa still wore her skirts. The situation unnerved him and he wanted nothing more than to take the upper hand again. When he tried, her hand on his chest pressed against him and for reasons he couldn't quite fathom, he stayed down.

"What the hells?" he started but a low shushing sound from her lips stopped his protestations. That, and her fingers touching him softly; sliding down his sides, stopping at the groove of his groin, splaying flat against his abdomen, making him breathe in sharply and clench his stomach. Sandor felt helpless - this was not the way it was supposed to be! Yet he was caught in a trance from which he couldn't break away; nailed to the spot by her bright eyes, darting from his face to his torso to his manhood. Aye, he had been hard as iron from the moment he had first held her, and he could see Sansa's eyes fixed on his hardness, her lips parting and her pink tongue darting between them.

Helplessness such as he had never felt held Sandor in its grip – and yet it didn't terrify him. He was a strong man and had learned to stand up for himself from a young age. Being held down and subjected to the scrutiny and touch of another human being should by all accounts have raised his hackles. Yet knowing that it was her, and that she did this of her own accord, raised strange sensations in him. Vulnerability – hells yeah! – and at the same time a feeling of trust that she wouldn't harm him.

Sandor snorted. Of course he knew that whenever he wanted, he could reverse their situation and gain control of the proceedings. Suddenly, as her eyes raked across his prone form, a completely new thought startled him. His body – always capable and honed to battle readiness - had never caused him concerns besides battle injuries. Before this.

All of a sudden Sandor became conscious of all the welts and scars that criss-crossed his arms and torso, the dark hair that covered his frame like an animal's, his calloused hands and thick neck. Not a pretty sight to a fair maiden, even without the added insult of his hideous face. At least that she had seen every day and had seemingly gotten used to, but the ugliness of the rest of him was all new. And his manhood – thick and swollen, jutting upwards from the thicket of curly hair. Surely an affront to a young maid sheltered from the ugliness of men like him?

Not being able to stay still anymore, Sandor rose onto his elbows and despite her protestations pushed her down instead. She didn't resist too much though, settling on her back and pulling Sandor's head against her chest. He resisted, smirking at her and repeating her own words back to her.

"May I?"

The firm tug at the waistband of her skirt didn't leave doubts as to what he was suggesting, and hearing no objections he pulled it down, gathering her smallclothes along the way.

Finally! Sandor feasted his eyes on her; her slender legs and the swell of her hips, the thatch of red hair at the juncture her thighs, the curve of her belly and her breasts. He drank in the sight for a moment, the flicker of firelight dancing on her skin making her (if possible) even more alluring. He heard Sansa whispering something, almost as if to herself. Strike me with your paws, again, it sounded, but it didn't make any sense to him.

Sandor leaned down. "What is it, little bird?"

Sansa opened her eyes and Sandor drowned in their depths. She said the same words as she had voiced before in a similar situation.

"Do it." This time her voice was soft, her words encouraging and enticing, lacking the sharpness they had held previously.

Sandor's reaction was different too. Gods, he wanted to fuck her as much as before if not more, but instead of letting himself loose and grabbing the opportunity, he was suddenly paralysed. He wanted to give her pleasure, she deserved it. But how the fuck was he supposed to know how to do that?

Gingerly he placed his hand against Sansa's lower belly, just below her navel. The silken feel of it reminded him of the time after the Greyjoy rebellion when Lord Tywin had rewarded his most accomplished soldiers with a night in the finest brothel in King's Landing. The women there had been clad in silks and velvets, and the one he had chosen had worn a purple shift of the finest and softest material he had ever touched. His hardened fingertips had drawn notches among its threads but still he had marvelled at the sensation. Not for long though, so eager he had been to pull it away to get into her cunt.

Yet that had been then, in his past life. Now he wanted to savour the unusual softness, to let it travel from the tips of his fingers to his head, there to be stored in a secret corner of his mind he would dip into someday when she was gone and he was on his own again.

The sight of his broad hand, covered with coarse hair up to his first knuckles, against her pale skin was brutal and sacrilegious. It was also oddly fascinating, especially when he sensed the subtle quiver of her belly under it and saw the heaving rise and fall of her chest as she exhaled. Time stood still.

Slowly, very slowly he explored the landscape of her body, feeling like an explorer of faraway uncharted lands. Mayhap he was. Supple breasts with firm pink buds. Collarbones so fine and fragile he could have snapped them like twigs if he wanted. Round shoulders, the shell of an ear, a graceful jaw line. All the time Sansa's eyes followed his face, big and blue and guileless.

A tentative lick at her nipple was met with a reaction that seemed disproportionate to the act; Sansa arched her back and let out a whimpering noise. Encouraged by it Sandor licked it again - and again and again. His teeth grazed the hard bud and a new jolt ran through Sansa. Sandor felt something building inside him, the uncertainty giving way to raw unbridled desire. Abruptly he wanted more; more of everything. More of her skin, her taste, her breasts, her belly, what she was hiding between her long legs that he hadn't even dared to touch.

Seven save me! Kneading her breasts with both hands, he slid further down, leaving a wet trail from his tongue across her ribs and stomach and lower belly, all the way to her soft curls. Sandor stopped only to pull her legs apart, overcoming her weak resistance. It was clearly more an instinctive reaction on her part than a real refusal, judging by the eagerness with which she soon cleaved to him.

Sandor had never tasted anything like her cunt; sweet and musky and intoxicating. He got drunk off it, and from the reactions he elicited in her. As he slid his tongue along her folds - pink and slightly wrinkled and opening under his onslaught like the petals of a glorious flower in bloom - Sansa's whimpers grew louder and louder and her hands grabbed his head and tugged his hair almost painfully at times. He was drunk on the sensation that she was reacting like that because of him - that he was the man who could make her sing like that. Sing for me.

The thought made him absurdly proud and at the back of his mind Sandor heard the echoes of his own words from the past. One day I'll have a song from you, whether you will it or no. When he had said that, he hadn't truly expected that such a day would ever come. And yet here he was, having found an especially tender spot above her opening, a small knot which nibbling and sucking made her chime the most arousing notes - for his ears only. Every sigh and every moan was a new badge of honour for him.

For the next good while Sandor lost himself between Sansa's slender thighs, all his attention on her making him nearly forget his own needs. Nearly. The building pressure in his cock and balls called for release and almost reluctantly he eventually pulled his mouth away from his feast and knelt between her legs. Sansa had turned her cheek against the pillow and had covered her eyes with her arm - earlier he had seen her tossing her head from side to side, her hands alternately gripping his hair or flailing aimlessly in the air as if she hadn't known what to do with them.

Realising that Sandor had moved away she gasped loudly, then turned her head in his direction and lifted the arm covering it. Gods, if she wasn't the most beautiful thing he had ever seen! Messy hair, burning cheeks, skin glowing in the firelight, half-lidded eyes gazing at him dazedly.

"Little bird," Sandor growled low in his throat. "Are you ready for me?"

Sansa bit her lower lip and to Sandor's amazement, smiled. Not a polite demure smile - the situation hardly warranted it - but a flashing, brilliant smile revealing her teeth and melting away years of discipline and restraint in one glorious second.

She shimmied on top of the mattress to a better position and reached towards him, taking a surprisingly firm grip on his hips.

"Never been more ready," she whispered, and if Sandor hadn't known better, he could have sworn she was grinning.

Grabbing her almost roughly by the waist, Sandor positioned her right under him, nudged the knees she had instinctively closed apart again and shifted until he could feel the tip of his manhood right at her entrance. A slight nudge and almost without guidance, helped by her slickness, he found his way in.

There was something perverse in the way Sandor fought against his instincts to ram his cock all the way in - how he stopped after having entered only a small distance. There was no maiden's veil hampering him this time, and true to her word, Sansa was ready and willing and recklessly pushed her hips against him. No, this was all his own doing, the agonisingly slow thrust, absorbing each and every sensation of the journey of his cock pushing through her tightness. And that she was, tight as a glove, but her walls gave in as he entered and the pressure squeezing his member was so intense that for a moment he was afraid of losing it right then and there.

Sandor closed his eyes. All this was disturbingly new to him. If their last coupling had been Sansa's first, now it seemed like this was his. Aye, he had fucked many women - he had no idea how many but he hadn't exactly been chaste. He could have fucked many more had he been so inclined, but after the novelty of the act had worn off in his youth he had realised that it was a bodily act just like pissing and shitting - except it was not as necessary. The relief it had given had always been temporary and more often than not he had settled for his own hand rather than endure the ignominy of finding a whore. Or even worse, going with one of the misguided wenches who after his rapid rise to the position of the prince's - later the king's - trusted man, had tried to entice him without expectation of coin. However, he knew those women better. If not coin, they expected something else - and he had never been ready to provide it, whatever it was.

Even as he lay there, his cock buried in the sweet cunt of Sansa Stark and through the haze of his pleasure, he couldn't help wondering what price she demanded of him. Protection? She had it already. For him to fight her battles? That too, she already had. He had no coin nor power nor anything that a high-born lady could need. So what was it that she wanted?

All his doubts were momentarily swept away as he finally reached the limit of the push, his balls pressing against her cheeks. As blood rushed in his ears and little rivulets of sweat beaded on his brow and made their way to sting him in the eyes, he gradually started to increase his tempo. Inevitably, soon it was as if the floodgates had opened and he let go of all his restraint, thrusting in and out with abandon, grabbing her hips with both hands, grunting at his every jerky movement. Sansa responded keenly to his guidance and soon they reached a steady rhythm, the timeless dance of lust and pleasure. It felt fucking amazing, the pressure mounting along his hard length and the bliss radiating along his groin, his spine, his whole body. Sandor groaned, hissed and ground his teeth together, fleetingly lost to everything but his quest to thrust deeper, harder and more forcefully into her slickness. Sansa didn't hold back either; gone was the shy maid, lost the haughty noblewoman, replaced by the wanton wench who begged for more. As it happened, Sandor was more than happy to give it to her. Fuck the price!

He panted and his growls joined Sansa's delicious little cries of pleasure and much too soon he hit another limit, the point of no return - beyond even the iron-clad control he usually exerted over his own reactions. As he felt his balls tightening and the inevitable release approaching, there was nothing he wanted more than to shoot his load inside her. Yet his sensible side won as getting her pregnant would have been beyond stupid. Pulling away and stroking his shaft to finish off, his climax was more powerful than he could ever remember experiencing. With a grunt and a sob he spilled his seed on top of Sansa's soft belly, every last drop squeezed out in agonisingly slow waves of convulsion travelling the length of his cock. The feel of the warm stickiness between their bodies gave him an additional sense of satisfaction. If not in her, at least on her.

As the last shudders of his peak subsided, Sandor fell down on top of Sansa, yet he was careful not to crush her under his bulk.

Her hands travelled up and down his back, their restlessness in stark contrast with his own dazedness. That she continued touching him - whether she was aware of it or not - was yet one more novel experience to Sandor. He absorbed those caresses, which were not butterfly soft anymore but raking him, the reason for which he did not at first comprehend. Instead of Sansa pulling herself away, or pushing him away as he was used to, she continued to squirm and sigh, her hips bucking against his groin and already softening member.

Finally Sandor realised that although he had found his release, the little bird might not have. What little he had heard of those matters, women apparently needed more attention to come. What could it be? he lazily wondered. It was not as if they had cocks to stroke.

Then he remembered the little bud near her cunt that had given her so much pleasure when he had nibbled at it. Again he surprised himself by rolling to her side and reaching down to touch it again. That she wanted him to was obvious from the moment his hand landed between her thighs; she whimpered and pushed herself forcefully against it. Sandor found that firm bud soon enough, and the combined wetness of her cunt and his seed helped him to establish a steady, fluid motion around it with his thumb. Sansa's teats bounced as she writhed under his onslaught and he latched onto them again, sucking and biting, careful not to maul her too hard.

"Tell me what to do," he mumbled against her breast. "Whatever it is, I'll do it. I don't know how to please you but by gods I will if you just show me how."

"Just...continue...don't stop..." Sansa's voice was muffled and tense.

"Is it there where you touch yourself?" he murmured, blowing a breath of air against her nipple, the thought bringing an almost unbearable flash of images into his mind. The little bird, all alone in her room, stroking her cunt...and now he could do that for her.

Applying his earlier reasoning about cocks and buds, Sandor continued his steady rhythm, stroking it at an increasing pace and never stopping, until he could see Sansa arch her back once more, higher than ever before, taking in a deep shuddering breath and then freezing completely. Some strange instinct made Sandor thrust two of his fingers inside her at that very moment and he was rewarded by a high-pitched wail and the feel of her cunt contracting around them, over and over again.

All the seven devils in all the seven hells! The excitement of seeing her so unravelled almost competed with his own. Fuck, I never knew!

If Sansa had been beautiful before just lying naked against the covers, the way she looked now was beyond this world, Sandor thought. A fine sheen of sweat covering her body glistening faintly, her thighs were still trembling in the aftermath of her climax, her shoulders had pulled back and were pushing her breasts higher, and her arms raised above her head, framing her flushed face and silken hair like a fine portrait... Her eyes were tightly squeezed shut, but even as Sandor scrutinised her she opened them and without missing a beat, speared him with her gaze.

The naked need he had seen in them earlier was gone, replaced with solemnity and peace. Sandor felt an urge to look away. The honesty he saw in them was, if possible, even more intimate than what they had just done and he felt like an intruder in her world. Yet he fixed his eyes with hers and kept them locked with a determination he knew was only a front. Inside he was unsure and hesitant, both being feelings he hadn't associated with himself since...never.

Then Sansa sighed and the moment passed. As if suddenly realising how wanton her pose was she pulled the corner of the sheet up for her cover, but at the same time turned onto her side and burrowed her face against Sandor's chest. A little shifting and arranging of her long legs, some squirming as she tried to find where to put her hands and her head, all the while Sandor lay still and allowed her to find her position and move him this way or that. He was in awe that it was what she wanted to do. To snuggle closer to him, not further away.

As she finally stilled, she took a deep breath and sleepily hummed against his skin, "That was not so dangerous after all, was it?"

While Sandor's stunned mind was still trying to find a suitable riposte, her breathing slowed down to a steady pace indicating that she was asleep. Sandor was left to stare at the canopy of the bed, trying to understand what had just happened and why - all the while knowing that none of it did make any sense.

Something was not quite right. Sandor's usual alertness had deserted him; the instinct of a man who had been woken up too many times by a kick in the shin or worse, by a barked command from an angry commander, or by the nausea and head pain caused by too much drink. Neither was this morning marked by a rustle of leaves, softly falling drops of an early morning rain nor a chill rising up from the cold ground.

No, when he came to, he felt a soft mattress under his frame and something warm and supple against his side. Fine wisps of hair tickled his throat and a weight that was hardly noticeable pressed against his chest. Slowly, very slowly he opened his eyes only to catch a sight of an auburn-brown cascade flowing under his chin and sensing Sansa bloody Stark's curvy body moulded against his own.

Fucking hells! Sandor closed his eyes again and hissed silently. The images of the previous night flooded through his mind; her slim figure, her tightly scrunched eyes and contorted face as she let herself go – had she really climaxed in his arms? He had heard of women releasing as men did – in their own way – but he had never seen it and to be honest, had thought that to be only an idle boast by useless wankers who thought their dicks to be some fucking magical wands.

And he remembered her smell. And her taste.

Sandor wanted to linger longer in those memories, but the practical, cool side of his mind demanded his attention be focussed on other things. From the angle of the sunlight streaming through the dirty window he assessed the morning to be well advanced. If they wanted to move along as quickly as planned, they had already wasted enough precious time.

Sandor glanced at Sansa again. Her head rested in the crook of his arm and by lifting his head very carefully he could observe her without waking her up. In the relaxed state of sleep she looked young and vulnerable – almost like the girl-child he had first encountered in Winterfell. Her mouth was slightly ajar and as Sandor studied her face, her eyelashes fluttered as she chased after a dream. The days riding outdoors had woken dormant freckles on her skin and there was something utterly fascinating that Sandor couldn't explain in those tiny red-brown spots. He knew that ladies of the court used all kinds of remedies to bleach their skin and rid themselves of blemishes like that – but for the death of him he couldn't understand why.

Sandor shifted, pondering if he should wake her up. Maybe lower his hand - already wrapped around her shoulder, his fingers resting temptingly close to her side only a small distance away from the curve of her bare breast…

Fuck! His lady had been a bit tipsy, having shared two flagons of wine with him – although admittedly he had taken the lion's share of both. Had she been simply drunk and hence initiated something even the full force of Mad King Aerys's noble Kingsguard couldn't have stopped? What if she woke up now and realised her folly? Would she shimmy away from him, politely as ever, but press that sweet mouth of hers into a thin line and refuse to meet his eyes?

Sandor swallowed, although his dry throat made it only an empty gesture. Suddenly the thought of seeing the unabashed and wild woman, who had thrashed in his arms, as a disciplined noble lady again tasted like ash in his mouth. She had hardened, that much had been clear from their very first meeting in the mountains. Maybe even as much as to take her privileges – and her pleasures – as she saw fit. She had yielded to him twice – no, there Sandor had to stop and consider. No, she hadn't yielded to him, she had commanded him.

Suddenly the slender arms resting on his chest and down his side felt suffocating. Sandor moved carefully, lifting Sansa's arms and head to rest against the hastily scooped pillows and covers, and to his relief her breathing continued as steady and deep as before, indicating her slumber. He shuffled to the edge of the bed and slid down.

Sandor had already checked on Stranger, collected fresh supplies of food and packed it all into the saddle bags, and was sitting in the common room gulping down a serving of hot cakes when Sansa came down. She had dressed in her travelling gear and her hair – so free and dishevelled during the night – was neatly combed and bound in a tight coil.

"Finally figured that the inn is not travelling to where we are going?" Sandor's dry words were met with a silence. Weakly Sansa called for the serving maid for some food. Sandor tried to assess her condition as she sat there, staring at the table. The last thing he needed was her vomiting all over him and Stranger, but she seemed fit enough. Not even the greasy stench of bacon, brought steaming hot to the table, raised a reaction in her.

Nor did she react to him. No smile, no recognition that the previous night had been any different from the many they had shared.

Sandor finished earlier and waited for Sansa in front of the inn. He swept his gaze across the yard, wary of anyone who might stare at them for too long or of the men who had tried to take Sansa the previous day. To his satisfaction everything was peaceful; only a few scrawny dogs chasing each other, a stable hand carting a pile of hay to the stables, a serving wench scurrying from the other side of the square back into the inn. She glanced furtively at Sandor as she passed and he recognised her as one of those who had helped them with the bath the previous evening and served them breakfast in the morning. He didn't care - he was used to wenches gawking at his appearance and hastening away from him.

Finally Sansa emerged. Staring at her approach, he tried to figure out what he had expected – if anything. A smile? A bloody kiss? An expression of horror? Regret? She gave nothing away, behaving as if their heated embraces had never happened. As if her cunt had not clenched around his cock. As if he hadn't stuck his tongue into the deep recesses of her womanhood. As if…

Sandor shook himself violently, squaring his broad shoulders and forcing his mind away from the dangerous track. Broodingly he helped Sansa into the saddle in front of him and guided Stranger away from the muddy yard, towards the woods.

Outwardly there was nothing different in that day to many before. Just steady riding, a few decisions made about which route to take, obligatory scouting whenever the road forked to see what was ahead. The midday break for respite and a bite. Sandor got increasingly agitated as the day wore on and the monotony of the path lulled him into a state of boredom.

Aye, his lady's curvy ass so temptingly close to his groin had been a concern before. It had been manageable though. Whatever madness had taken place in the mountains had been just that, madness, and it was not as if he hadn't ever had to contain his desires before. As he had risen higher in the king's service, he had not been as free to roam as before and sometimes he had been forced to chasten his cock and put his lust aside until there had been a better time to satisfy it.

Yet somehow this was different. It was not only about him anymore - for once there was another person to consider. A woman – a woman who stayed with him, instead of disappearing as soon as their rutting was over.

And not just any woman. Sansa Stark. The little bird who had grown talons.

She had been sitting rigidly all day, holding her head up high, exchanging only a few necessary sentences with him. It had started to irritate Sandor. Aye, of course it had been a mistake. No reason to be so high and mighty though. Dog only does as his master commands, and if the master orders improperly, is it the dog's fault?

He shifted in the saddle a bit closer so he could be sure that Sansa felt the press of his thighs.

"Well, what is it to be?" he grunted.

Sansa almost jumped in surprise and half-turned her head. "What?"

"What shall I tell my cock? Down boy? Do I have to find a campsite near a stream so I can sit in ice-cold water and cool my balls?"

Sansa turned to stare at the path ahead. Sandor hadn't truly expected her to respond and continued.

"Twice you have let me between your legs. Once mayhap an accident. Twice - what the fuck is that? Carelessness?" He could see her neck reddening and could imagine how her whole face must have turned pink. Sandor let her stew in her embarrassment, almost enjoying the situation.

For a long time she stayed quiet. Finally she muttered in a low voice. "It is complicated."

"The fuck it is. It's the simplest thing there is. But don't worry, my lady. I am at your service. I do as you bid. Day and night," he added mischievously.

She didn't respond. Not then, nor during the rest of the ride.

The evening was also a quiet affair, both of them cocooned deep in their own thoughts. After Sandor secured the fire and prepared their bedrolls, Sansa slipped silently onto her own side, followed by Sandor falling heavily onto his own.

After everything was quiet and Sandor had started to fall into a deep well of unconsciousness, he felt a soft hand sliding down his ribs and slipping under his tunic.

"It is complicated," Sansa whispered as she pressed her body against him and guided his hand under her skirt and along her thigh, her lips brushing against his.

Sandor was a dog, raised to follow commands. He obeyed.