Author's Notes: This story seems to have ran away with me – the original intention was to build a quick happy ending for these two, but it seems that the way ahead is not yet quite as smooth as one might wish for…so please bear with me for a bit longer!

Summary: "And then Sandor Clegane truly and sincerely surprised Sansa Stark."

Sansa

Sansa had been kissed before, of course. Petyr's fatherly attentions, which had bordered on indecent, were foremost in her mind but she also remembered a young squire in the Vale, blond and comely in an affable and homely way. He had surprised her one evening as she had walked down the corridor and pressed his chapped lips on Sansa's before she had had time to react and pull away. She had done just that, naturally, as despite being cast as a bastard daughter she knew her true worth better. Yet unlike Petyr's advances which had made her shudder, the young man's lips had been soft and his eyes had twinkled and he had grinned and let her go in good cheer. Later Sansa had thought of that kiss often and concluded that she had much preferred that to Petyr's.

All that paled in comparison to what she felt when Sandor's lips claimed hers and his tongue swept across her mouth. She didn't think – no, this was not a time for cool consideration – when she opened up for him. It felt like the right thing to do, and when he claimed her fully, all reason left her and that felt like the only thing to do.

Never in her life had she imagined that being so grossly invaded by another could be so… exhilarating. Sansa had never conceived how kissing could be an act of mutual sharing, where neither party was the receiver or the giver, but both gave as good as they got. She was surprised by her own eagerness to tease the tongue that clashed with her own, and how utterly she melted under Sandor's onslaught. And although her concentration was focussed on the meeting of their mouths, somehow the sensations travelled down her body and manifested themselves in the tingling sensation in the bottom of her belly and the wetness between her legs.

When Sandor pulled away and snarled at her she wasn't quite sure whether he had been only teasing her. Could he have been so cruel as to just taunt her? Even if that was the case, she couldn't deny her needs. Whatever he thought of her shameless behaviour, Sansa had gone past caring; she needed more. She had let the beast loose and she had to own up to it.

Whether the beast was the Hound or the wolf within herself, she wasn't sure.

"Sandor, I want…"

Hardly had she uttered those words when Sandor took up her meaning and acted. The momentary loss of contact startled her, but when she realised Sandor's intentions she welcomed them – both excited about the opportunity to see better what she had only witnessed from behind the curtains, but at the same time conscious of how he too, likely expected her to reveal herself to his eyes. Her innate honesty made her confess her transgression when he questioned it, feebly trying to make excuses she knew to be weak even before they left her lips.

"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." Sandor chuckled and his expression was that of a man who could not be gainsaid, as benevolent as he appeared. Not that Sansa wanted to. Even as his fingers clumsily tugged at her laces she could feel a hot flush traveling from her face to her chest and the delicious anticipation that froze her on the spot.

Sansa gasped in surprise when he pressed his face to her breasts and took her nipple into his mouth. Dear Mother and Maiden! she mouthed, although her words ended up as only incoherent hums and moans. Nonetheless, hardly had she recovered from the initial assault when Sandor pulled away as abruptly as he had descended. Panting hard, Sansa wanted him to continue, but she also wanted to feel his skin against her own instead of the coarse cloth. She tugged helplessly at his tunic and to her relief he was not averse to her wishes.

Not knowing where she gathered her courage she pushed against him and despite her strength being as insignificant as the flap of a butterfly's wing against the full force of a howling storm, to her astonishment Sandor yielded to her.

Let me see you. Let me look upon the monster I have unleashed. The time for Sansa to be a passive recipient of other's attentions and actions was gone. That it was partly due to the lessons she had learned from this very same man, who was lying prone under her hands, didn't escape her notice. Sandor's broad chest moved in rhythm with clearly visible intakes of his breath, the pure force and strength he possessed simmering under the constrained façade. Sansa didn't entertain any notions that she truly had the upper hand - and hence the fact that he submitted to be held by her made her tilt her head in wonderment.

As she had anticipated, to see Sandor's honed body up close was altogether different and a much more tantalising experience than seeing him from afar. Sansa marvelled at him as he lay still, his powerful upper body tense and his dark eyes following her every movement. The dark fur covering his chest and belly drew her towards it and she wanted to get lost in that dense forest.

"May I?" She was still a lady and she hadn't forgotten her courtesies.

Following the path of curly hair from where it gained a consistency of its own from the coarse bristles of his beard, she brushed against his nipples. They were peaked and firm and it felt altogether wicked and exciting to feel them under her knuckles. Momentarily Sansa was distracted by the notion of following his example and testing how they would feel under her lips, but in the end her courage deserted her.

Reaching the bindings of his breeches, her resolve returned as on this matter she was sure he wouldn't deny her.

"May I?"

Sandor's half-lidded eyes had not let go of her throughout her exploration and he nodded his head in silent acquiescence. Sansa knew that this was not something she should truly worry about - if he wanted her, he would unlace himself. Yet she wanted to make sure that this time he acknowledged the situation in full. This was not going to be a quick fumble with lowered breeches and uplifted skirts, a hasty rummage and haphazard affair. She had heard of those from Myranda and her first time had been one such situation. Long ago she had concluded that hurried encounters like them were not worthy of her friend and surely not worthy of her. If she was going to give herself to him – again - she wanted that to be true and proper.

She could see and feel the uneasiness with which Sandor received her attentions. Again she was perplexed by his acquiescence. Wasn't he the Hound, the fiercest warrior of Westeros? The man who allowed nothing and no-one to defeat him? And yet here he was, letting a lithe girl play with him like he was a lapdog to be patted. Somehow the realisation that he allowed her this because he trusted her raised a lump in Sansa's throat.

When Sandor's nakedness was fully exposed, Sansa couldn't tear her eyes away from his manhood. It was thick and heavy and almost possessed life of its own, the way it extended from his groin towards his navel, twitching as she observed it. If she had thought it difficult to believe that it had ever been able to fit into her when she had seen it after his bath, what she witnessed now was almost too much to comprehend.

She found herself falling into an old bad habit that her mother had often chastised her for; chewing her lip when she wasn't sure of what she should do. Before she had made up her mind Sandor rose and overtook her, reversing their positions, however his expression was not that of anger or frustration but of something else. If it had been anyone else Sansa would have recognised that as uncertainty, but surely that couldn't be?

So it was Sansa's turn to be held and scrutinised by him, and after he removed her last remaining clothes she closed her eyes and prepared for what was to follow. She could sense goosebumps on her skin despite the warmth of the room, the delicious expectation of something desirable. Again she felt she was on the brink of an attack by an untamed animal, wild from the forest, which had never been domesticated. Nonetheless, Sandor didn't make a move but only hovered above her. His gaze on her body was heavy and it burned - it cleansed and made her feel dirty at the same time. Dirty – and she loved it.

"Strike me with your paws…again." She didn't realise she had said it out loud before Sandor leaned closer.

"What is it, little bird?" His voice was hoarse but almost tender.

The tone of his voice brought tears to her eyes. A man. A true knight. She opened her eyes and met his, staring into her without anger, sarcasm or mirth – only an exposed need and open desire.

"Do it," she mouthed, trying to smile although she couldn't be sure if she had been able to muster her expression well enough for that. What she really and truly wanted was for him to take her gently and kindly, but how could she state such things to him? She entertained no foolish notions of being in a position to tell him what to do. All she could do was ask.

If Sansa had thought to have been indecently possessed by the hands and mouth that had explored her body earlier, what followed was something she couldn't have imagined even in her most feverish dreams. It felt so wrong – and so right – and she squirmed and writhed and tried to anchor herself to the only thing in the world which was solid and real in the sea of sensations she was being tossed in. Sandor.

The thought of Sandor between her legs felt so shameful, so crude and yet so exciting… Sansa truly felt that she had entered a new world she knew nothing about and was being guided there by someone who was familiar with the landscape. She knew she shouldn't be doing any of this; that she shouldn't have encouraged a man in her service to take such liberties. She knew she was playing with fire that felt enticingly hot for now, but could as easily turn around and scorch to her cinder and ash.

Yet she couldn't stop.

When Sandor asked her if she was ready, Sansa had already made her peace with the doubts that had plagued her earlier. Not that she registered it as such. The shocks that had reverberated through her whole body from her core, instigated by Sandor's administrations, had made her forget everything and everyone – nothing else mattered but her need to have it all. Have him.

Sandor towered above her intimidatingly, his need obvious and rubbing against her thigh. The anticipation of what was to follow alarmed and thrilled Sansa and she found herself laughing giddily. She wanted him and she wanted him now! Boldly she grabbed Sandor's hips and tried to position him better, only to be shifted anew by him. She felt like a ragdoll, her limbs and body twisted this way and that, but she yielded, only craving that he would…that she could…

Gods! Once again Sansa felt her core torn asunder as he entered, but only for a moment – when he stopped she soon yearned for more. It didn't hurt this time, quite the contrary; it felt good…and it only got better and better as she adjusted to the strange and hypnotic rhythm of their bodies rocking against each other – faster! harder! deeper! Eventually the build-up of a force she recognised from her tentative explorations in the Eyrie started to grow stronger than ever before. She wanted…she needed…she was almost there…

Then Sandor pulled out and left her gasping on the brink of something elusive. Sansa felt as if she had been poised mid-plunge into the pond in Winterfell's Godswood, never reaching the warm embrace of those deep waters. Her whole body was tense and ready – but she was left suspended in motion.

She heard Sandor's ragged breathing and low grunt as he spilled his seed, the warm and sticky substance landing on her belly. She registered it hazily, part of her still trying to find her way out of the void he had left in his wake.

This is it. It is all over now. As inexperienced as she was, even she knew that once a man had spilled his seed, the act was over – Myranda had told her so many times. Disappointment made her squeeze him harder than she had intended, and to run her nails across his back and push her hips against his thick thigh, not caring what he thought of her wantonness.

And then Sandor Clegane truly and sincerely surprised Sansa Stark.

Afterwards, Sansa tried to catch her breath and recover from the most amazing sensation she had ever experienced. That a man like him cared enough to secure that for her… Sansa wasn't quite sure what to think of it. She had guessed that Sandor wanted her – he was a man after all, and men only wanted one thing, both Myranda and Petyr had lectured her, each in their own way.

But he had reached his own peak already. He didn't need my satisfaction to complete his own. The more Sansa turned it around her head, the more confused she became. She held Sandor's gaze as if that offered a way to peek inside his head and read his mind, but despite recognition of something new, openness and sincerity, she didn't find the answers she was looking for in the depths of those grey pools.

Mother and Maiden! Sansa suddenly became conscious of what an indecent sight she presented, sprawling on the bed like that. She nudged the sheet for her cover but what she really wanted was to bury herself into the crook of his arm, nuzzle against his broad chest and hide there. It was an old saying that the best spot to hide was right in the shadow of the predator – except he was not that, nor was she prey. Their earlier discussion of dangers felt silly now.

"That was not so dangerous after all, was it?" she couldn't help chuckling into the dense hair tickling her face, holding on tight lest he tried to push her away. He didn't, and after finding a comfortable position in his arms Sansa felt fatigue engulfing her. She felt so safe and secure that she easily gave in to it.

So, being surrounded by Sandor's arms and inhaling his scent, she drifted away.

When Sansa woke up, she was alone. The bed was still in disarray and crumpled and she was still resting on one side of it, but a quick glance across the room told her that Sandor had indeed left. Their saddle bags were still where they were set down, so he wasn't gone completely – she hoped.

She stretched like a cat, trying to fathom what it meant. Hadn't he wanted to wake up with her? The languidness of her body and the ghosts of the feel of his vast bulk on top of it made her blush. She ran her hands across her belly and felt the dry crust covering it – and her blush intensified. His seed on her… such an indecent and debauched notion.

Sansa got up and found a piece of cloth and the water basin and cleaned herself with them. The cold touch of the wet rag made her shiver and she slid her hand across her belly and scrutinised her thighs. This time she bore no bruises or welts but that didn't make the past events any more unreal. Standing naked in the middle of the room alone made her feel wicked and nervous. What if he should walk in? Would she cover her body or let his gaze roam freely all over her? What then?

She shook her head. Don't think about it now. Her head was spinning as it was, all that had happened during the previous day and night crowding it, tugging for attention, demanding to be digested, needing to be managed and controlled somehow.

Even more so, as she was rubbing her skin a scary thought crossed her mind that cut through everything else in one clean sweep. What if she became pregnant?

Sandor had pulled away, yes, but Myranda had once casually mentioned that it was no guarantee; she had known a girl who had relied on that and carried a bastard as a consequence. Myranda had drunk moon tea, not only to ensure that no such thing could happen to her, but also to allow her to enjoy her pleasures without undue interruptions. She had told Sansa how to use it and had even offered it to her in case she decided to bestow her favours on a young man, but she had declined, scandalised that such a thing was even suggested. Now, however, she was glad of the things she had learned.

Sansa felt a cold band tightening around her chest. She couldn't afford that mistake. Why did you lay with him then? a voice inside her head whispered, but she ignored it - too late to cry over spilled milk. Yet she simply couldn't carry a babe, not now, not in these circumstances. She had be to absolutely sure that it wouldn't happen. She needed to find some moon tea.

Deep in her thoughts, Sansa stepped out of the room and almost ran into the serving girl who had attended to them the previous evening. A serving wench, in an inn. Intuitively she grabbed the girl's hand and stopped her.

"What is your name, love?"

The girl looked at her, surprised, but answered, "Hella, miss."

"Hella, can I ask you a question?" Sansa extended her vowels and clipped the ends of her sentences in a way she had heard small folk in these regions do. Without waiting for the other to acknowledge her question, she continued.

"I would like to get moon tea. My man and I…" she didn't want to claim Sandor as her husband, as why would a married woman ask after moon tea? She finished quickly, "…we just don't need a babe to complicate things. I am sure you understand. Is there a wise woman in the village who could help me?"

Hella smiled – this was a matter that was common to all women who took up with men who were not their husbands.

"Aye, there is a woman who helps in such matters. Her hut is at the end of the village, just before…"

Sansa interrupted her. "Could you possibly visit her and get me some, and a cup where I could stew it? I'd pay you for your troubles."

The girl rocked back and forth on her heels for a moment and glanced uncertainly across the corridor, undoubtedly thinking of all the chores she was supposed to do.

"I'll pay you well if you go now," added Sansa. "My man wants us to leave soon and he is not fond of waiting."

That sealed the deal. A bit of carrot and stick seemed to work better than carrot alone, and Sansa had no compunctions about using Sandor's scary looks as a stick. Hella nodded and took the coin Sansa retrieved from her pouch, and ran down the hall.

As she descended the stairs to the common room, Sansa's thoughts returned to Sandor's behaviour. He could have woken her up at least. How could he have left as if nothing had happened?

Seeing him behind the table, so intimidating and yet so casually stuffing food down his mouth, stopped Sansa in her tracks. What should she say? Should she refer to what had happened?

His mocking greeting hurt her although she tried her best to hide it. Coolly she sat down and asked for food. She was famished and at least eating offered her something else to concentrate on instead of Sandor. He tapped the table impatiently and remembering where those long fingers had been just a few scant hours ago raised unbidden thoughts in Sansa, but she willed herself not to blush. If Sandor preferred to pretend that nothing unusual had happened – well, she could play that game too. She raised her head and chewed on a piece of bread while studiously avoiding looking at her companion.

Soon he rose and muttered about going to collect their things to get them ready for the journey.

"You stay here, you hear. No wandering about. Eat your meal and then come to the yard." Sandor scrutinised the common room but seeing that it was occupied only by the innkeeper and a young boy sweeping the floor, he apparently thought it safe to leave Sansa out of his sight for a moment.

Forlornly, Sansa gulped down the mild ale and forced some bacon down her throat although it made her slightly queasy. He truly doesn't care. She finished her plate and pushed it away. What did you expect? He had already been kinder to her than many other men in his position would have. Or maybe it was not kindness, but…duty? For some reason the thought soured her mood.

She knew that Sandor was waiting for her as she had seen him stomping down the stairs and out of the front door. The serving maid had not returned, and the thought of leaving without the moon tea unnerved her. She knew she hadn't become pregnant from the first time as she had bled since then, but last night…it had been so intense and he had expelled himself so soon after pulling away… Sansa didn't know all the intricacies surrounding those matters but she wasn't ready to bet her good name and her future on a chance.

A small nagging thought at the back of her mind – just a tiny whisper – questioned whether she was doing this because she thought she might need it again. Nonetheless, she refused to acknowledge it. No, this was all about the previous night's moment of insanity and about minimising the damage.

At last the maid rushed in, pale and panting but she had the herbs and the cup that was all that mattered. Sansa hid them in the deep pockets of her skirt and hastened outside.

From the moment Sansa mounted in front of Sandor she knew that she was in trouble. Not because of him – Sandor was brooding and his foul mood surrounded him like a cloud but he behaved civilly enough. If she had been afraid of him taking liberties or behaving untowardly because of what had taken place, the reality was exactly the opposite. The easy coexistence she had already gotten used to as his companion seemed to have vanished, leaving in its wake only two strangers who had nothing to say to each other.

Worse than that; with every step she felt his hard body against her back and the tensing of his thighs when he guided Stranger with subtle commands only the horse could understand. By now Sansa had learned to relax on horseback, but that required her to lean into him and let the motions rock her back and forth. She couldn't do that now as every time their bodies touched it reminded her anew how he had felt under her hands, against her and on top of her.

Sansa had never known the coupling of a man and a woman could truly be like that - she had been sure that Myranda had exaggerated. That men put such store in it and women risked everything for it started to make more sense now. Maybe her best friend hadn't been as utterly illogical as she had thought?

As usual, Sandor had collected the reins in one hand and rested it against his thigh, his closed fist dangerously close to Sansa's lap. It didn't take a big leap of imagination for her to picture him touching her there… Sansa could feel wetness spreading between her legs and, horrified, she shifted in her seat to chase it away. By doing that she only succeeded in rubbing her behind against his groin and was rewarded with a muffled curse.

The further they rode the more uncomfortable Sansa felt. She racked her brains to find something to say to diffuse the tension but nothing came to her. She couldn't start discussing the weather, for Sandor didn't care about such things if they were not directly related to their travel plans. She made a few weak enquires about the route they were taking but Sandor replied in clipped sentences and clearly didn't care to make conversation.

The midday break was just as bad, Sandor wandering into the woods for heavens knew what business leaving Sansa to stand where he had set her down, a respectable distance away from his bad-tempered stallion. When he came back the journey continued under the same dark shadow.

Hence his question, when it finally came, took Sansa completely by surprise. Oh why did he have to be so crude?

"Twice you have let me between your legs. Once mayhap an accident. Twice - what the fuck is that? Carelessness?" Sandor's voice was low and menacing – it had been a long time since he had spoken to her so. What new beast have I awakened? ran through Sansa's mind as she tried to think of a reply. The truth was that she had no answer. The first time had been defiance, a lesson for herself, but how could she ever admit that to him? That she had used him to face her own demons of the past?

The previous night… had it been only curiosity? Some strange urge to feast on something of which she had only had a taste before, just enough to wake her appetite? Sansa blushed. She didn't want to think of it in those terms; it was not seemly. She was a lady, born and bred to know her duty and what was expected of her. Lying with a man in her service had not been part of her mother and septa's teachings and should they know what she had done they would roll in their desecrated graves. She couldn't even justify her actions as a necessary means to an end, as Sandor had already vowed to help her in her quest.

"It is complicated," was the only thing she could mutter, as that was the honest truth.

"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."

Gods! Did he have to imply that was all it had been? A service? Suddenly remembering her fleeting thoughts about how Sandor was not her equal and wouldn't tell anyone about her indiscretions, and how some noble women indeed formed indecent alliances with their servants, Sansa felt deeply ashamed. She wanted to protest but once again she found no words in her defence.

Besides, Sandor didn't seem to be expecting any, as he had withdrawn and sat as far away from her in the saddle as possible. So she stayed quiet.

By the time they made the evening camp, Sansa was resigned to accept the new state of affairs. They hadn't been exactly friends when they had started their journey together and they had managed. If Sandor wanted to be aloof and distant – so be it.

While Sandor was feeding Stranger, Sansa pulled her new provisions out of her pockets and heated a mugful of water from a skin directly on top of the fire, then poured some tea leaves into it and let it stew. By the time Sandor was back she was done and nursed the hot mug in her hands, waiting for it to stew and cool. She noticed the sideways look he gave her but as he didn't comment on it, she felt no reason to explain.

Sansa was clean for a change, her clothes freshly laundered, she had a belly full of proper food and she had slept in a real bed – so why did she feel so miserable? The further the evening progressed the unhappier she became. She wanted…she wasn't quite sure what she wanted. The camaraderie and companionship to return, perhaps? She wanted to jape with Sandor, to hear the low growl of his voice when he refuted her silly notions or challenged her reasoning. She wanted to see him smile his twisted smile that tightened the corner of his mouth and stretched his scars.

To her relief Sandor arranged their bedrolls as before. It seemed that at least she wouldn't have freeze. She slipped under the covers and observed Sandor as he secured the fire, laid his sword next to his spot in case of nightly emergencies and finally fell down heavily next to her. Without a word he pulled the blanket under his chin and closed his eyes. A few deep sighs and he seemed to be lost to the world.

To distract herself Sansa tried to imagine that she was travelling with Toki, as she had originally planned. Would she be looking forward to his counsel or smiles? And – she held her breath when she contemplated this – would she have offered him a place in her bed at the inn? He might have preferred it also over a hard floor. And she saw clearly that no, never in a million years would she have asked him. Only Sandor.

Suddenly Sansa realised what she truly wanted. The recognition scared her– but it also elated her. It is so very simple after all. He was right. He usually is.

She turned and studied Sandor's face in the flickering light and tried to fathom what he was dreaming of. Did he think of the previous night at all? Had it been just another casual encounter for him, something he could take or leave? She found it hard to believe. He had been so… good for her. He had wanted her. As much as she had wanted him.

Sansa was nervous and uneasy but she forced herself to go ahead. The worst he could do was to say no, maybe turn his back on her, perhaps laugh or curse. She could endure that. What she couldn't endure was to lie quietly by his side feeling his overwhelming presence and suffering the agony of her want.

Slowly, very slowly she slipped her hand under the covers to his side, finding her way down to the hem of his tunic, hovering there for a moment before ducking under the coarse fabric. She had to weave her way through the undertunic and its many folds but finally she reached his bare skin and the flat plane of his stomach. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the feel of him, both fearful of his reaction and at the same time wanting to rouse him.

Sandor tensed but before he had a chance to say anything, Sansa grabbed his hand that was resting against his chest and pulled it down, lifting her skirts with her other hand and pressing his palm against her thigh. The act was daringly provocative, as she had meant it – she didn't want there to be doubts about what she wanted.

"It is complicated," she whispered against the stubble of his jawline as if it was an excuse, although in her heart she had already accepted that it was, as a matter of fact, quite simple. She wanted him, she needed him – and the devils may care about the rest.

To her relief, Sandor's resistance was only momentary and soon she found his strong arms around her again, exactly where she wanted them to be.