Notes: Apologies for a longish break again – but this writing same events from two different POVs is getting harder and harder…It is starting to do my head in, as a matter of fact! J What is too much repetition, what is skipping too much? What when I realise writing the second version that I omitted something crucial form the first? How come a simple event takes twice the time and words to go through and progress the story? This has been very interesting experience but…never again, I suspect!

Summary: Still they didn't put into words what it was between them. Sometimes when they lay together Sandor caught her looking at him thoughtfully, tilting her head and opening her mouth as if to say something, but he always made her swallow her words by kissing her fiercely. Why he did so he couldn't say but somehow he was afraid that whatever she might want to say would only spoil things between them.

Sandor

Once again Sandor woke up with Sansa Stark pressing against his side. She had curled her body around him, her thigh lying on top of his and her head resting against his chest. His own arm was bent protectively around her shoulder, his other hand resting on her leg. They couldn't have been more entwined had they tried, but the reality was that they had ended that way quite spontaneously during the small hours of the night.

It took him a moment to consider why it felt so odd. Pleasant but odd. Then he understood; this was only the second time he had ever woken up next to a woman.

He looked at Sansa and noticed the same vulnerability he had seen the previous morning. Suddenly he had an urge to wake her up and see her reaction close up. It was not as if he had a choice to leave her alone anyway, with only a small clearing as their hovel for the night.

"Little bird?"

"Ummm…" Sansa shifted and stretched herself, rubbing against him in the process. They were fully clothed again – the night's activities had seen them peeling away only as much clothing as necessary, and after it was over breeches were pulled back on, skirts lowered and tops buttoned.

"Time to wake up and move on."

"Oh really…?" Sansa lifted her head, her hand patting Sandor distractedly while she squinted her eyes and adjusted them to the early morning light. She looked up and seeing Sandor's keen stare she smiled. No haughtiness or uncertainty clouded her features. Sandor took a deep breath.

"Aye, really. We still have a way to go."

"Yes, I see that. Yet…" She stretched again, fidgeting on the spot. Nonetheless, she gave no indication of getting up or moving away, and being trapped under her limbs Sandor couldn't shift without pushing her – and for some reason he didn't want to do that. They were not in that much of a hurry, so he decided to lie still and wait.

For a while neither of them spoke. Sansa's fingers played vaguely with the cords of his tunic under the covers as she remained nuzzled in the crook of Sandor's arm. He in turn pressed his jaw against the crown of her head and tightened his hold on her. Birds of the forest had started their singing and it ebbed and flowed without interruption. Stranger was nibbling on small patches of green grass a short distance away, every now and then snorting softly. The sun was still low on the horizon and the air was cool and clear.

"You were right – as you usually are," Sansa finally whispered with a voice so low he hardly heard her.

"About what?"

"That this is very simple after all."

"Told you so," Sandor grunted although in his mind he started to wonder if that truly was the truth of the matter. He questioned whether this was going to be simple at all. It is complicated. Aye, the girl had had it right the first time, but he wasn't going to let her know that, was he?

"So why were you so aloof all day yesterday?"

"Me? It was you who was the high and mighty lady, do I have to remind you about that?"

"I? I was quiet only because you seemed like you wanted nothing to do with me."

"Bloody hells, girl! How in the seven hells am I supposed to know what to do and say to a noble lady after I have fucked her to seven kingdoms come. Don't have much experience with that."

"Sandor!" Sansa sounded scandalised but his name from her mouth was surprisingly agreeable.

"No haughtiness today then, eh?"

"No grumpiness today, then?"

Bloody hells, the girl was starting to answer back. Sandor swallowed a smile that threatened to escape and arranged his features into seriousness.

"Time to get up, in any case."

This time Sansa got up easily enough and soon they were both busy with their morning routines.

"The Kingsroad is right there, behind those hillocks. It is time we decide whether we risk riding on it or continue through the woods." Sandor stopped Stranger and pointed into the distance with the hand that didn't hold the reins. Sansa followed his gesture.

"Is it safe?"

"Buggered if I know. We haven't heard much about what's happening in the realm; those gnats at the inn were useless and knew nothing."

"What's the difference? Will we still find our way to Greywater Watch?" Sansa turned in the saddle and looked at him with a worried expression.

"Of course we will. Do you think me a fool? It will only take a bit longer."

For a while Sansa seemed to consider, her brow furrowed deep in thought. "I think it would be better to be safe than sorry. Greywater Watch is still going to be there whether we take a day or two longer. Yes, I say we take the woods." She looked challengingly up at Sandor.

Their journey had been very different from the previous day's morose progress. Neither had brought up what had happened between them, but this time it was not because of any tension but rather because there was no need to discuss it. Sandor had concluded that the little bird had simply grown bolder and was learning about the world and its pleasures. He didn't entertain any notions about her really caring about him, but concluded that at least he had been lucky enough to be there when her curiosity about men had awakened. If she was bold enough to take her pleasures with him, who was he to gainsay her?

Sandor didn't want to read too much into her choice of prolonging the journey, but it meant that they were going to have a few more shared nights. After they caught up with the crannogmen and House Reed, they would have to fall back into the roles of a noble lady and a man in her service. She would ride with others, reach Lord Stannis and whatever the outcome of the meeting was, he sure as hells wasn't going to get near her anymore. Aye, he might as well enjoy this as long as it lasted.

Already his mind drifted towards the evening... would she feign indifference again until the last minute before she would turn to him? What if he was the one to reach for her first, would she let him? Even Sansa's soft body rocking against him with every step was not much of an agony but rather a delicious tease and taste of what was to come – he hoped.

Sandor closed his eyes and imagined her as she had been last night. Darkness had obscured her from his view, but he had felt her curves and slick, secret places, he had kissed her bare skin everywhere he had been able to reach… Having learned from before he had helped her to her peak even before he had reached his own climax. It had been a much more complicated affair with all the clothes and darkness, but strangely at the same time much more relaxed and languid. Gods! He felt himself harden and he knew that Sansa felt it too. Yet she didn't move away but only kept on pressing against his groin. Aye, tonight was going to be good.

Sandor was testing the small game birds on a stick to be sure they were cooked when Sansa brushed past him carrying the same tin mug he had seen her nursing the previous evening. On impulse he grabbed her and pulled her to sit between his legs, her back to him. If she minded the wholly inappropriate way he handled her, she didn't let it show but only let out a small surprised yelp and settled down without a fuss.

"What's with the mug?"

Sansa balanced it carefully in both hands to avoid it spilling. Hot steam rose from it and Sandor saw green herbs floating in it.

"It is moon tea. The serving maid at the inn got it for me."

Sandor was surprised. "Moon tea?"

"Yes, moon tea. Surely you have heard of that before?"

Of course Sandor had, but to hear Sansa talking about it so matter-of-factly was another revelation indicating how much the innocent young girl he had once known had changed. He remembered the serving wench from the inn and couldn't help being impressed by how swiftly and decisively Sansa had acted.

"Don't think I was born yesterday. Just didn't think that you knew about it, that's all."

"Bastard daughters learn things noble maids don't," Sansa replied dryly and sipped the contents of her cup.

"Why did you think you needed it? I pulled away, didn't I?"

"My friend told me it is not always enough. I couldn't risk arriving in Winterfell with a babe in my belly when the whole realm knows that my husband hasn't been seen for years."

Sandor pulled one of the birds into his hands, tossing it in the air because it was still burning hot. "You could have always said that he visited you in secrecy."

"And alert the Lannisters that I know his whereabouts? I don't think so. Besides, it wouldn't be a good time for a babe anyway."

"I can see that. Wolves are not meant to breed with mere dogs."

Sansa tensed, the mug hovering in mid-air on its way to her lips. "I didn't mean that."

Sandor wrenched the bird into pieces and offered one to Sansa, who took it and started nibbling it daintily. He let the matter slide, he wasn't in the mood for teasing her. Clever girl she was. And…had she prepared for the future as well? Suddenly the thought of her letting him finish inside her jumped into the forefront of his mind and he felt his blood rising. Soon I'll find out.

That night Sansa gave herself willingly and Sandor took what was offered - and hissed his thanks to Sansa's quick thinking and the moon tea.

Three days.

Three glorious days and three incredible nights they journeyed. Sandor tried to keep himself in check. Aye, Sansa yielded to him every night in the sweetest possible way and demanded his body and attentions in return, and they were the best fucks he had had in his whole miserable life. If he sometimes held her tight even after the act; if he found himself wishing that they would never reach the North… Sandor was a pragmatic man and he knew he should not look a gift horse in the mouth. He had her now but he would lose her soon and that was all there was to it.

Sandor caught himself trying to memorise the way she looked, felt and smelled. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to remember it so he could look back on it in years to come – remember the only time in his life when a woman had willingly taken what he had to offer. Or maybe he would do the opposite and try to drown every last vestige of those heated nights into drink? He wasn't ready to decide which way it was going to be, so he prepared for both eventualities.

That Sansa could look him straight in the eye while he fucked her and kiss his face, even the ruinous side of his marred flesh, left him baffled. He was grateful, a notion he detested when he first realised what it was, but that didn't stop him trying to pay her back her with his eagerness, his caresses and his meticulous attention to her pleasures. Every time she clenched, shuddered and wailed in his arms he felt proud for having been able to do that for her.

Still they didn't put into words what it was between them. Sometimes when they lay together Sandor caught her looking at him thoughtfully, tilting her head and opening her mouth as if to say something, but he always made her swallow her words by kissing her fiercely. Why he did so he couldn't say but somehow he was afraid that whatever she might want to say would only spoil things between them. After a few attempts Sansa gave in and only smiled at him, a smile close to the one he had first seen on her face on the Kingsroad on their way to the capital, but had never seen it again after her father had been arrested. For some reason that made his chest constrict and a lump rise in his throat. When that happened he cleared it by coughing, pushed the memories from the past away and paid her back with the only currency he recognised; with his servitude.

"This is it, then. We are now officially in the swamplands of the Neck. We'd better be careful about our steps."

Sandor halted Stranger by pulling the reins. Even though they were on a well-marked path seemingly firm under their feet, he didn't like the feel of it. He had made them dismount a while back, reasoning that the three of them walking separately was better than all of them together.

Sansa followed in his footsteps as he had advised her. Her nervousness had reached new heights since they had encountered the first bogs and seen the old trees covered in dense fungus. Sandor wanted to reach back and take her hand but he couldn't. In the morning, when they had packed up to start the day's journey he had told her that since they were now in the realms of the frogmen, they couldn't risk being seen behaving untowardly towards each other. They couldn't know who was watching.

Sansa had listened to his words and said nothing. Of course. She was no simpleton and had known all along that the time for their illicit affair to end was coming. When Sandor had helped her into the saddle as usual, he had slid his rough hand down from her knee, then slipped it under her skirt and caressed her supple ankle and calf for one last time. It is over.

"This is it then, my lady. You'd better try to keep your grubby little hands off me from now on. We can't let loyal Stark bannermen see their precious Stark princess be groped by – or grope – some lowly dog, can we?" he growled, not feeling quite as bold as he pretended.

"I'll try," came the feeble reply. Sansa had bowed her head so her face was covered with a curtain of brown-red hair making it impossible for Sandor to see her expression.

"Aye, we had some good times. You were the best fuck I have ever had, don't mind saying that. Yet I'd like to think you also had something in return. But it's all over now. Thank you kindly for the memories and all that."

As if knowing that it was the last time – and how could she not, when they discussed their progress and strategies daily - Sansa had surprised him once again with her passion that night. Take me, she had whispered and trapped him between her thighs, pressed hot kisses down his jawline and neck and pushed her hips shamelessly against him.

How he had not tired of her after so many times together Sandor didn't know. He had never had a regular wench and he hadn't cared to have one either. Women could be so tedious, he had surmised. Yet the more he learned to read her reactions and got to know her body – and the more she learned about him – the more he wanted her. And that was just fucking stupid.

They walked in silence. After half a day Sandor started to wonder whether their plan was so sound after all. Maybe things had been different back before the War of Five Kings? Mayhap there were not enough frogmen to patrol all the lands anymore?

"So how deep do you suggest we enter these godsforsaken bogs? If those bannermen of yours don't show up soon we'll make a wrong step eventually and the swamp will swallow us. What then?"

"They'll come. Maybe we should stop and wait for a while. I could use some rest." Sansa was calm and collected and seemingly not too worried. Sandor acquiesced and examined the sides of the path for a firm footing, soon finding a small clearance where he guided their small trio.

Hardly had they sat down and shared a water skin between them when Sandor's trained ear heard rustling in the woods. "They are here – or somebody is," he whispered to Sansa, not looking towards the noise. Sansa startled and reflectively glanced into the woods.

"Anyone there? Please, we come in peace!" she called, this time not pretending to speak as a peasant. Hers was the voice of a castle-born and bred lady.

"Nobody comes here for peace nor war. You know you can drown in these bogs, don't you? Are you stupid or what?" A young man stepped out of the woods holding a bow with an arrow nocked in it, his stare darting between the two of them. More men came after him, a troop of half a dozen men all armed with bows or spears. Sandor was still confident about his chances to defeat them, but as things stood, he was happy to let Sansa play out the scene.

"Bannermen of House Reed?" She looked at the man who had spoken first, presumably their leader.

"We are – but who are you two and why do you want to know?"

Sansa took a deep breath. "As it happens…"

Howland Reed was as Sandor had imagined; small and wiry and somehow ageless despite his grey hair and beard. He received them with all the courtesy a minor lord might owe to the representative of his liege lord – but there was something else too. He seemed genuinely happy to see Sansa and during their talks his gaze hardly left her. Once Sansa had given him a brief account of her adventures the old man leaned forward, took her hand and squeezed it strongly.

"So much Ned's daughter, I see it clearly. You are like your aunt Lyanna too, beautiful and strong. I am so sorry for all the troubles you have gone through, but it gladdens my heart to see you alive and well and on your way to the North." The older man's voice almost broke as he spoke and Sandor wondered what it was with the Starks that raised such faith and loyalty in their retainers. If Lord Tywin had been decapitated instead of Lord Eddard, Lannister retainers would have cared about it only as much as it had affected their own fortunes.

When Sansa started to ask about the political situation and tell more about her plans, Lord Howland threw a meaningful look in Sandor's direction. Sansa reacted immediately.

"Oh, he has to stay! He knows as much and more as I do, and he is faithful to my cause. Sandor has given me good counsel and I need him." Sandor didn't miss Howland's surprise but he hid it well, agreeing to Sansa's wishes in good grace.

They stayed up late talking, but when Sansa started yawning Howland was alerted to his duties as the host. Sandor was shown a small room on the ground floor in that sprawling, floating castle, the like of which he had never seen or imagined, whereas Sansa was led to the upper levels as the honoured guest she was. Better get used to it, dog.

They stayed in Greywater Watch for a good while, crannogmen coming and going all the while according to quietly stated orders by their lord. Sansa was feted in a modest manner, the best food and drink carried to the table each evening and toasts raised for the return and success of House Stark. Sandor saw and heard people coming from far-away dwellings to witness this with their own eyes, and attested Sansa greeting everyone with unfailing courtesy. She accepted condolences for her losses with poise, kissed babies that were handed to her and complimented strapping lads for their bravery in the impromptu mock battles that were arranged to show their fighting skills. Every man, old and young, vowed to bear arms for House Stark should they be called.

All throughout that Sansa never stopped smiling, the brief moments of joy Sandor had witnessed earlier merging into true happiness. She was almost home and among her own people and it was as if it fed both her confidence and her happiness.

Sandor observed it all from a distance, despite Sansa insisting that he accompany her in some of her rounds. He noticed how people around him were wary of him – and he couldn't really blame them. His reputation had preceded him as always, and despite Sansa's faith in him the others were not as trusting. Not that he cared. He had good food, good ale and even some wine to drink on those festive dinners. His place at the feast was below the salt in Howland's hall but he hadn't expected anything else. Aye, life was back to normal and he knew his place.

After a sennight it was time for them to move again. They were provided with an escort of three men – Howland offered more but Sandor reasoned with him that one man or ten wouldn't make any difference to their reception at Winterfell, nor make them any more secure, and a smaller group could better travel unnoticed. That made sense to all and so it was that only five riders – Sansa on her own horse – set out one glorious morning.

They had decided to approach Winterfell carefully and announce Sansa's presence only after they were sure about her safety. Stannis was still holding the keep and knowing him to be honourable to a fault, Sandor didn't doubt that he would accept Sansa and her claim – but it was better to be cautious.

It felt strange to be back on the road when things between him and Sansa had changed. Sandor missed the feel of her in front of him, but of course it was a temptation he hardly needed when he was doing his best to erase their shared experiences from his mind. Even drink couldn't help him as he had to stay alert, so the best he could do was simply try not to think about it.

Sansa seemed to do well enough, the veil of courtesy hiding her emotions. She rode in the front with the leader of their small group, a middle-aged man called Jarman, and interacted amicably with the other two. Sandor was left to lead the tail of their procession and he accepted his role without complaint. For nights they had a small tent for Sansa, the men sleeping on their bedrolls.

The crannogmen were quiet and well-behaved and treated Sansa with utmost respect and politeness. It amused Sandor to think what they would say if they knew how Sansa had cried her ecstasy in his arms, how she had opened her legs for him and trembled in the aftermath of their coupling. He chewed thoughtfully on a piece of straw and stared into the dark night sky and its million blinking stars. They knew what had happened as they had witnessed it all. Nothing could take away from him the knowledge that Sansa Stark had begged for his cock and kissed him as he had never been kissed before. He glanced in Sansa's direction and saw her turning her head studiously away. Had she been staring at him? For some reason it bothered Sandor. Their exchanges had been amiable enough albeit less frequent than before. As they should be, he being just one of many in her service, nothing more.

Once Sansa had reached for him at the end of one such discussion, when their companions had turned their attention to set up their camp. Her hand had rested on his forearm and Sandor had stared at it, so slender and delicate.

"When we get to Winterfell, what will you do? Will you stay?" Her eyes hadn't let go of his, and Sandor had to look away to give himself some time to think.

"Mayhap. At least until you pay me the coin you owe me for my services." He hadn't meant to incorporate any hidden meanings into that statement but when he had looked back at Sansa she had been blushing. He had chuckled in his mind but hadn't let it show. Had I ever imagined myself being paid for fucking…

"I will need loyal men there whatever happens. I wish you would consider staying, that's all. I'd pay you well and you would be well treated."

"I'll think about it," he had muttered mainly to finish the conversation. In truth he had already given it some thought but hadn't come to any conclusion. A sellsword's life across the sea didn't seem as appealing now as it had been only a short while ago – but would life in Winterfell be any better? With her? Or rather, without her?

Bloody hells! He had shaken Sansa's hand lose and stormed away.

"We may want to avoid Moat Cailin – the Boltons have lost it, but who holds the real power now is uncertain. I doubt Stannis Baratheon would have men to spare to look after it," Jarman announced at the end of their midday break, addressing Sansa but his words were meant for all of them.

"I see, it makes sense," she replied but glanced questioningly at Sandor. It made him ridiculously proud that she should still seek his opinion above all the others, and he replied gruffly.

"Fair enough. But if you are not sure who holds the power, shouldn't you find out? That might help our lady here when she meets Stannis."

Jarman nodded. "Quite true. Yet we can't risk Lady Stark for such a mission, it would be too dangerous."

"It doesn't have to be she who goes to do some snooping. You crannogmen come and go as you please anyway, what difference would a few more make in Moat Caitlin? You could enter and make discreet enquiries to find out the lay of the land while Lady Stark and I stay here." Sandor spat on the ground, not disrespectfully but to make his point nonetheless. In truth he didn't mind the man or the youngsters traveling with them. Sensible heads on their shoulders, the lot of them.

Jarman still looked worried. "I'd hate to leave Lady Sansa like that…" but he was interrupted by a chiming voice.

"I travelled with Sandor Clegane for weeks before we arrived in your lands. I am sure he can look after my safety one more time while you find out this important information."

Sandor smirked. Their leader nodded his head thoughtfully. "It is true. My apologies, I am not trying to avoid this task, only thinking of what is best for you, my lady. But you are right, you will be safe here with your trusted man."

With that he stood up and, wasting no time, called for his companions to mount again. Turning one more time in his saddle, he called to Sandor. "We will be back before nightfall. We might as well camp here for the night, then. I leave our lady under your protection, Clegane."

Acknowledging his words with a nod, Sandor saw them galloping away leaving only a cloud of dust on the road in their wake.

Waiting was harder than he had anticipated. With nothing else to do, Sandor brushed Stranger thoroughly with a brush picked up from the stables of Greywater Watch. With long, even strokes he went over his magnificent warhorse one limb at a time; his sides and hips and loins, stroke after stroke until his black hide shone lustrously in the daylight. Sandor even brushed his mane, untangling the many knots in it.

All the while he was doing that, he felt Sansa's presence near him. She had settled down into a comfortable spot among the gnarled roots of a big tree. Even without looking at her Sandor knew that she was watching him, but he ignored her. After a long while she got up, took her saddle bags and emptied them on the ground and started organising their contents.

Extra skirts and tops and other garments, a good dress that the ladies of House Reed had given her, little pouches and boxes full of gods only knew what women's trinkets. Meticulously she went through all of them, arranging them into neat piles, folding clothes and even going through the little pouches.

Throwing her a sideways look, Sandor observed her actions: her long fingers as they smoothed over a piece of clothing or handled her scarce possessions gently but purposefully. The same way she had touched him – what seemed like a thousand years ago.

Sandor saw the small bag of moon tea Sansa had dipped into on many evenings, and how her hands hovered over it for a moment. She had moved some items aside, a broken comb, a torn handkerchief – was she considering putting the herbs away as well? In the end she didn't, but moved them into the pile of items she was obviously intent on keeping. Doing that she glanced up, noticed his scrutiny and dropped her gaze again. No words were exchanged. Was she still drinking the brew, he wondered? He hadn't seen it, but it was not as if she was spending her every waking moment with him anymore. Yet even more, why should she use it still? Unless she was already entertaining another man or planning to, once they arrived at Winterfell…

Sandor knew he was being unreasonable and ridiculous, but just the thought of her with somebody else twisted his innards in the worst imaginable way. Being realistic he accepted that it was nonetheless likely to happen. She was not going to marry again, that much she had made clear to him – she planned to enjoy her role as the respectable but estranged wife of Tyrion Lannister and use that as a means to keep away all the men wanting to court her and Winterfell. She had told him that often enough for him to believe that she meant it. Yet she had tasted the pleasures of the flesh and from her reactions had enjoyed it – enjoyed it very much indeed. How long her bed would stay empty was anyone's guess.

Sandor had a bad taste in his mouth. Not your concern what she does. She is not yours, never was.

The invisible curtain had once again fallen between them, stifling any openness or spontaneity. It had been there when they had first met in the Vale, but even then the recognition of their shared, painful past had soon poked some holes into it. Later it had been pushed aside even more when their days of travel and the growing feeling of camaraderie had made it possible. And finally, the nights they had lain in each other's arms had stripped it all away, together with all the signs of class, privilege or servitude, leaving behind only a man and a woman.

Yet all that had changed when they had reached Greywater Watch. The curtain had descended once again, leaving them on the opposite sides. And despite there being only two of them now in that little clearing, the partition was clear and seemingly there was no way to breach it.

Sandor was done with Stranger and for lack of better things to do he laid himself on the ground. Might as well rest when he had a chance. He noticed Sansa had likewise finished her task and returned back to her cosy little nest next to the tree.

Sandor stretched his long limbs, let out an exaggerated yawn and closed his eyes. Yet his rest was not easy. Every now and then he peeked through his lids and more often than not caught Sansa watching him outright or just turning her head away.

The tension was becoming unbearable. Seven hells! Yet Sandor couldn't prevent himself from doing the very same thing, peeping at her when he thought that she wouldn't notice – although those opportunities were becoming scarcer and scarcer.

Once again he closed his eyes and willed himself to let go of all the troublesome thoughts of what had been, what might be, and what could never be.