Summary: Suddenly Sansa wanted to hear him address her by her real name; only her family and friends had used it freely, bar Joffrey, but even that sour memory could not sully the closeness it conveyed.

Eventually she felt it even as she heard it; movement of his lips against her cheek, coarse one side, smooth the other, as he breathed: "Sansa."

Sansa

Sansa had experienced feverish and lust-filled nights with Sandor, nights that made her blush in the light of day, and she had thought she had already shed the cloak of a meek maiden. Yet when Sandor pressed her against the tree, hitched her skirts up and thrust into her with a raw ferocity, she reached yet a new level of rapture – or a lower level of depravity, depending on the point of view. She let herself be swept away and ground shamelessly against Sandor's bucking groin, arched her back and let out keening noises she hadn't known she was even able to make.

Her release, when it came, was explosive and she rode it for an excruciatingly long time, wave after wave, long after Sandor's jerky movements had stilled and he panted against her, his huge body still shuddering from the aftermath of his own peak.

Nonetheless, she had roused enough from her exultation to protest against Sandor's crude words, which so scathingly demeaned what had been happening to them ever since the night at the inn. Whatever it was, Sansa couldn't believe that only base urges were pulling them together, like two animals driven by instincts ingrained into them over thousands of years.

Sandor was a man who revealed his true self through actions, not words, she had learned, and his deeds had always spoken louder than his curses or resentful denials. When he held her after their frenzied coupling for much longer than was necessary, Sansa's hesitant suspicions grew into a firm conviction. A man like him wouldn't do that, not without a reason. There had to be more than lust. She felt it, she sensed it, only Sandor's obstinacy prevented it becoming a reality. She listened to Sandor's laboured breath against her ear and detected how he inhaled her realisation made her giddy and she wanted to stay as they were a while longer, weightless and engulfed by his big body – but the tree bark was hard and itchy against her back and her legs started to cramp from the strain. She tried to find a better position but as soon as she stirred, Sandor released his grip and lowered her ever so gently onto the ground.

Sansa didn't let go of him, though. She hated the thought of him assuming that she was only after her own gratification.

"It is not only that," she muttered to his chest, uneasy about raising the topic again but at the same time determined to correct any misunderstandings.

The exchange of sharp words that followed was not what she had hoped for, but at least she seemed to get her point across, based on the dumbfounded expression on Sandor's face. More than that, she gained additional satisfaction from learning that he had not seen any other women, and from the looks of it hadn't even considered it. Sansa left him feeling victorious and bold, finally having responded to him with his own language and having held her ground so successfully. She smiled but concealed it well; there was power in words and she was discovering that power just as she was gradually starting to understand the other forms of influence she had over him.

For the next several days Sansa contemplated the situation and marvelled how it could be so. Yet there was no mistaking it; Sandor had done for her so much more than what their bargain, sealed with a promise of coin, warranted. She couldn't believe him to be a man who could be made to fuck a woman for a fee. If he was only after that, he wouldn't have spent so much time and effort in making sure that she, too, found her pleasure. If his own satisfaction was all that mattered, he wouldn't have stayed so close to her on so many nights and held her so tight. If she didn't matter to him, he wouldn't follow her now with a gaze so intense that it burned her skin and made her squirm.

Part of Sansa chastised her own behaviour but part of her enjoyed the almost indiscernible shift in power between them. Not the kind arising from position of birth or riches of land, not even from influence or political clout. More than that, after the events near Moat Caitlin she was sure that their liaison was far from over. It was not a question of if they would lay together again, but when. So as soon as the next opportunity presented itself near Castle Cerwyn she didn't hesitate to take it.

"Jarman, I think it might be prudent to do some reconnaissance again at Castle Cerwyn, don't you think?" Her question was innocent enough and not without its own merits. Anything she could learn about how things stood in the North would be useful. Her escorts were only too happy to oblige.

"Clegane can set up the camp while you are gone, I am sure," she said glancing at Sandor. He was unreadable as always but bowed his head slightly to indicate his acquiescence.

"We'll be back before sundown, my lady," Jarman announced from the side of his sturdy horse, ready to mount.

"Take your time, I beseech you. It is more important that I have all the information I need than that I arrive in Winterfell a day or two earlier," were her parting words to her small party.

As before, Sandor toiled efficiently and in silence, but Sansa didn't mind. The heady feeling of anticipation was already building inside her and she had to restrain herself not to be too eager and go to him before everything that needed to be done had been completed.

"Go on, get inside. No point in you freezing your ass off here. The furs and the fire will warm you soon enough." His harsh words roused Sansa from her thoughts and she stood up. Now is the time. Her palms were sweating despite the cold and she wiped them on her skirt. The rough cloth grated on her fingertips and the earthiness of the sensation gave her the courage to proceed. She took a deep breath, confident in her trust that he would not decline her – but her heart thumped loudly in her ears just the same.

"Won't you…join me?"

Had she been more brazen she would have laughed at the way Sandor blinked his eyes, surprised by her words. She settled on smiling instead, and making room for him on her bedroll, allowing his big form to settle down first and then following him under the covers. It was so different from the previous time and it seemed that both of them knew that without a need to state it. Their companions were going to be away for several hours and they had all that time to themselves – there was no need to hurry.

And hurry they didn't, only lying there fully clothed against each other under the heavy furs, their breath misting and mingling together in the cool air as they stared at the crude weave of the tent ceiling. Sansa was glad – she hadn't really expected a repetition of earlier, but somehow having Sandor only resting peacefully by her side was more intimate than any heated embrace could have been.

Eventually Sansa took his right hand into hers and pulled it closer and he allowed it. Her fingers wound between Sandor's calloused thumb and forefinger, feeling the hard ridges formed by the grip of his sword and countless hours of practice. She knew that those fingers, as rough as they were, could touch her surprisingly gently, and the desire to feel them on her bare body seized her. Slowly she untangled her grip, and while loosening the laces of her top she drew his hand higher and slipped it under the warm wool. Sandor neither resisted nor rushed ahead of her, only following her lead at the pace she set. His eyes didn't leave hers for a moment though and only when Sansa shuddered at the chill remaining on his fingertips and momentarily closed her eyes did he move. Even then he let his hand rest where it was, still in Sansa's clasp, and only nudged a little higher and pressed his nose against her cheek. They continued to lay still, Sansa enjoying the way his touch gradually heated up and his warmth blended with hers. Slowly, very slowly, Sandor started to graze just the tips of his fingers against her skin, hardly touching. That caress, almost there but then disappearing again, teased Sansa with its feather light touch and unpredictability and she found herself tensing and instinctively pushing against it.

"Look me in the eye and tell me that you want from me only what any woman can give," she whispered and looked at Sandor, whose eyes were as dark as coal in the shadows of the tent. He didn't turn away but his mouth opened slightly and his brow furrowed. Sansa had learned to read his expressions and knew that he was uncertain, trying to cover it behind bluster and cynicism.

Ignoring that, she extended her own hand and slipped it under the hem of his tunic. The feel of his hard stomach excited her, especially when Sandor took a deep breath and tensed his muscles so they felt as hard as rock. The strength this large man possessed never ceased to amaze her – deadly against the enemy and yet so controlled and measured when he lay with her. It made Sansa feel small and delicate and protected and she cherished the feeling more than she could remember cherishing anything for a long, long time.

"And what about you, little bird? Not any man, is that what you are telling me?" His voice was hoarse but low. The voice that could boom across vast distances, could grate and seethe, was now husky and intimate so close to the shell of her ear.

"No, not any man. Not any man but you." Sansa was done with games. Not that she had played any with him – he would have seen through them. After all the ambiguities, after resisting the pull that had drawn her to this man, then accepting it but trying to justify it with superficial and ridiculous notions from another world, she had to be honest.

"You sure? If the Knight of Flowers showed up here, how quickly would you push me out of your bedroll?"

Sansa didn't rise to the bait, recognising it for what it was; his way of trying to deflect anything that made him uncomfortable. She only pinched the skin above Sandor's ribcage with her thumb and forefinger and was elated to see him flinch.

"If the Knight of Flowers showed up I would politely ask him to step aside and leave us alone."

"Why?"

"Because."

"That is not an answer. Quit playing with me, girl."

It was Sansa's turn to hesitate. What was the right answer? What could she say that wouldn't sound contrived or false? Only one thing came to her.

"Sansa. My name is Sansa. You know it, why don't you use it?"

Sandor stayed motionless for a while, even his hand, still fluttering above her left breast, stopped moving.

"I know your name."

"It is not 'little bird', it is not 'girl', it is not 'woman'. Try it. Say 'Sansa'."

He had called her by her name, of course, many times. On the road when he needed to get her attention or when they discussed practical matters over a camp fire - but never when they lay together; then he called her by one of the other monikers. As fond as Sansa had become of 'the little bird', it made her feel as if they were still not meeting on an equal ground, and as if she were still just a pretty but useless girl. Suddenly Sansa wanted to hear him address her by her real name; only her family and friends had used it freely, bar Joffrey, but even that sour memory could not sully the closeness it conveyed.

Eventually she felt it even as she heard it; movement of his lips against her cheek, coarse on one side, smooth the other, as he breathed: "Sansa."

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut and savoured the sound, the touch, the closeness – all of it. Sandor's acknowledgment broke any last remaining vestiges of tension between them and unhurriedly they started to undress each other. She wriggled her smallclothes down her legs and pushed them aside, taking the opportunity to pull Sandor's breeches and smallclothes down his long legs. Next he helped her to unlace her top and the waist of her skirt, struggling amidst the many folds of the fabric to remove them. She giggled and instead of helping, only hindered his efforts by tugging at his tunic at the same time, but with some patience and a bit more time they finally succeeded. Sansa shivered and pulled him closer, enjoying the feel of his naked skin against hers once again.

The feeling of something otherworldly didn't leave her throughout the encounter, so unlike many times before. It was not slow caresses that made the difference – they had exchanged those in the past. It was not tender kisses, not languid, almost effortless thrusts, not the silence punctuated only by sighs and grunts and the rustle of fresh pines under their weight.

No, it was the eyes.

His didn't leave her face, only flicking from her eyes to her mouth and back. Hers met his and for the very first time Sansa felt she could really see inside his troubled mind into the depths of his soul, barriers he had cultivated so long that they had become an integral part of him finally having been dropped.

"Not any other," she sighed.

"No other," he echoed her words. Sansa lifted her head to look at him. Is he saying that only because he thinks I need to hear it? Sandor's eyes were closed and there was a rare look of resignation on his face.

"Not just…"

"…just a cock and a cunt." Sandor groaned.

Sansa waited for him to continue but he seemed to have said his piece and fell silent for so long that she concluded that it was all he was going to say about the matter. She stared outside from the opening of the tent and twirled her fingers in his long hair, when Sandor eventually broke the silence.

"But what does it matter? Tell me, Sansa. Are you going to be any less beholden to the lords of the North and the legacy of your house? Am I any more knightly or is my house any nobler? Am I going to be any more welcome in Winterfell?" His questions were cynical but there was no rage in his voice, only weariness. Sansa couldn't help flinching from the truth of his words.

She had no answers for him but Sandor didn't seem to expect any, as he cursed and pulled her closer. "Seven save me, but it was better when things were simpler." Sansa didn't miss the past tense; were simpler. They are not simple anymore, are they? If they ever were.

She had no response so instead of talking she pressed her head against his chest and listened to the reassuring sound of his heart beating, trying to ignore what he had just said. It still mattered to her, even if it didn't change anything.

It mattered.

The sight of her home's ageless grey walls lifted Sansa's spirits but at the same time served as a sad reminder of better, bygone times. Of the young innocent girl who had ridden out of this very same gate all those years ago, eyes on the glittering lights which later turned out to be nothing but ash and soot. Yet she couldn't find it in her heart to judge her younger self too harshly. She had been but a child, shoved into the middle of political turmoil with no warning or training.

She looked back and saw Sandor guiding Stranger past the ancient columns. He is the only one from that day who is still with me. It made her feel a bit better although she didn't miss the irony of the situation then and now. No good comes from looking into the past. She squared her shoulders defiantly in preparation of her official homecoming.

They found Stannis in the practice yard where he was overseeing the training of his troops. Sansa dismounted and approached him cautiously, conscious of the importance of showing deference to his position as the king, notwithstanding that only a few areas in Westeros recognised him as such. She had heard a lot about him from Sandor and had surmised Stannis to be one of those men who were extremely particular about their position, but who as long as they were not slighted, could also be magnanimous and generous.

"Your Grace," she curtsied in the finest courtly manner she had learned in the Red Keep. That she was still clad in her simple travelling clothes undoubtedly heightened the effect she made.

The king turned and stared at her, his face contorted in a frown that was a permanent fixture on his face according to Sandor. Sansa was glad having heard that, as it lessened the impact it might have otherwise had on her. Slowly she straightened up from the curtsy and faced his scrutiny.

"King Stannis, I am Lady Sansa Stark and I have returned home," she simply said, letting her words sink in. For a while nothing happened and she couldn't help wondering what was going on behind those dark blue eyes. Then Stannis bowed his head slightly.

"Lady Sansa. An unexpected delight, but a pleasure indeed. Welcome to Winterfell." He looked away and for a moment his self-assurance seemed to waver. "I am sorry for your loss. Your father was an honourable man and House Stark has suffered a lot. Please accept my condolences."

Sansa acknowledged his words with a nod. Always a man of action, Stannis gestured at the men by her side and sent them away with a few terse commands.

He was just as efficient as his reputation suggested, wasting no time to get Sansa and her companions settled. Seeing Sandor he frowned even more than usual, but Sansa gave him the speech she had prepared and practised many times in her head in anticipation of exactly such an event, and to her relief Stannis left it at that. She wondered how many times she needed to defend her decision to trust Sandor. Probably more times than I care to count, she sighed, not the least bit deferred. She would fight to keep Sandor by her side – the idea of separating from him was simply unthinkable.

The next few days flew by in a flurry; so many faces and names, so many bannermen of House Stark and House Baratheon, so many household members she had to meet and greet and get to know. So many condolences, each more heartfelt than the last. To see so few faces she recognised from the past made her heart heavy, but seeing even some of her father's faithful retainers lessened the pain.

She dearly wanted to share her moments of joy, frustration and sorrow with someone during those first days, but there was only one person she wanted, and she had to keep her distance from him.

As Sandor had warned, her bannermen wanted to throw him out altogether.

"Lannister dog, my lady, Lannister Hound!" Greatjon Umber bellowed, his thickset arms firmly crossed over his chest.

"I am quite aware of his past affiliations," Sansa replied dryly. She and a group of Northern lords and retainers were gathered in the Great Hall of Winterfell. The discussion had continued for much longer than she thought necessary and she was getting tired of the same arguments being brought forward over and over again. The Lannister man, the famous Hound, the remorseless killer, the deserter and the coward. The shouts about the Butcher of Saltpans had died quickly enough after the irrefutable evidence Sansa was able to lay down on that matter, but resistance against her companion was still fierce.

Sansa closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It was time for her to assert herself. Bizarrely, she was almost glad that her first challenge was about something that was of utmost significance to her. Had it been about anything less important she would have been tempted to give in and yield to the advice of her elders; men who had served her father and her brother loyally and knew much and more about the affairs of the North than she did. However, in this matter she could not give in.

She stood up from the large chair she was seated in and walked into the middle of the room. All the eyes followed her as she turned to face the assembly. Her throat was dry and she swallowed nervously. These men were experienced and every one of them much older than she. They only looked to her because of who she was, not because they had any real trust in her ability to manage the affairs of a noble house. Well, I had better start somewhere. She remembered Sandor's words about how a pack of men were like a pack of hounds; they needed a leader and someone to tell them what to do, and that gave her courage.

"My lords, we have talked over this matter since the early evening and seemingly have not moved any closer to an amicable conclusion. I suggested this meeting out of the respect I have for you, the honoured members of my father's and brothers' council and inner circle."

The room around her fell completely silent.

"You have told me your views and I have listened. Now it is time for me to say the last word, as is my right as the lady of the keep. That word is that Sandor Clegane will stay in Winterfell for as long as he wishes, and will continue to serve me as loyally and faithfully as he has done thus far."

The murmurs increased but before they got much louder she raised her hand.

"Do note that this is the last time I will entertain any discussion about this matter. This case is closed once and for all. Thank you, my lords, for your time."

Without further ado she walked to the back of the hall and threw the heavy wooden doors open and stepped outside. In reality her knees were trembling as she walked away but she held her head up high and let none of her uncertainty show. She caught a glimpse of Sandor, who had been standing in the outer hall, and wished she could have run to him for strength and succour. Alas, that was not to be. Not yet.

Finally she found it! Literally the key to success, the one that opened the door to the small corridor Sansa had remembered soon after her return. She had searched through hell and high water for it; had gone through all her father's remaining belongings and scoured the master-of-arms' cupboards and shelves. Finally she had found an old ring full of rusty keys and after painstakingly trying each and every one of them she was eventually met with success.

During the many hours of her quest she had tried to decipher what drove her and why was she so desperate to try to find a way to resume their relationship. The memory of their last time stayed in her mind and she knew that something had irrevocably changed then. As Sansa methodically went through coffer after a coffer, shelf after a shelf, her mind was free to wander and on one such occasion a sense of clarity hit her so powerfully that she had to stop in her tracks and clutch her throat.

I love him!

Love, which she had dreamt of throughout her girlhood years and which she had painted in her mind to be something glorious and noble. Love, which she had thought she had lost for good when her naivety had been trampled into the ground in the harsh, ugly world. Love, which had sneaked up on her almost unnoticed, focusing around the most unlikely person she would have ever imagined.

I love him.

Hiding the key in her pouch, she could hardly wait to find Sandor. She knew she couldn't tell him what she had just discovered – it was too soon, he was not ready. Maybe he was never going to be. Despite having finally admitted that their relationship was more than lust, Sansa was well aware that Sandor didn't see how it could in practice ever be anything else. She had to tread carefully with him, that much was obvious. She hadn't even told him about her hunt for the key, not that she had had many chances at any rate, so rarely they saw each other these days. In the company of others, yes, under the observant eyes of her bannermen and servants, but only once or twice since their arrival had she been bold enough to lay her hand on his arm or against his back in surety that they were not seen.

"We'll be together again soon, I promise," she had whispered to him late one evening when they had unexpectedly found themselves alone in the corridors leading to the kitchens. Her cautiousness had given way to recklessness and she had touched his scarred cheek and had been rewarded with the rare sight of Sandor closing his eyes and leaning into her touch.

Sansa rushed through the keep, fighting against the overwhelming urge to run but walking briskly instead, like a lady with a thousand and one things on her mind could be expected to. People saw her and moved out of her way bowing their heads, smiling at her and muttering words of greeting, and she responded to every one of them with a nod, a smile, a soft word. Yet as soon as she reached the Great Hall her eyes impatiently swept over it, finally focussing on the dark man sitting in a secluded corner leaning over his task.

He was still larger than anyone else in the hall, towering over even Greatjon Umber. Some of the dark shadows under his eyes had disappeared and as he had promised, he had acquired a new set of clothes. Good wool of dark grey and dun brown, simple and utilitarian as was the fashion in the North where practicality was valued more than looks. Sansa's breath seized as she took in the sight of him and the familiar tingle started to travel down her spine. She slowed her pace and walked towards him, serenely as was appropriate.

"May I request your assistance in a task, Clegane?"

The nights that followed were so much better than those on the road. Both of them were clean and warm, for one thing, and their bellies were full and not grumbling after a meagre meal of dried bread and a piece of salted pork fat like on some evenings when Sandor's hunting had not been successful.

All of that was nonetheless superficial. The real value for Sansa was in the knowledge that they were safe, she was finally at home where she belonged, Sandor was by her side and he had stopped fighting against the connection between them. He still had his doubts, as their discussion one evening proved. That after all they had gone through he should still ask her why she wanted him, an old dog, in her bed, exasperated Sansa. Because I love you. Because you have treated me better than anyone outside my family. Because you are a better man than you give yourself credit for.

Sansa held her tongue, though, but couldn't completely hide her frustration when Sandor turned the talk to other men. She gained a twisted pleasure from seeing him squirm on the spot where she had put him, asking why he kept on coming to her.

He likes me. Sandor's response almost amused Sansa. He cares about me, and he likes to fuck me. Had she taken his words at face value they would have hurt her, but the way Sandor's eyes darted away, the way he licked his lips before he spoke and the way his shoulders slumped, told her all she needed to know; he was lying. He was otherwise always true to his words about dogs not lying, so when he did, Sansa knew it. Hence she let it go – for the time being.

"Why do you have to go? You don't even know these woods nor these people. There are many others better suited to join the mission," Sansa argued another evening when Sandor had announced earlier in the day his decision to join the hunt for the outlaws. 'With my lady's permission', he had grunted, and with everyone's eyes on Sansa she had had no choice other than grant it to him. Internally she had seethed and now let Sandor know her thoughts on the matter.

"Those are exactly the reasons why I have to go." Sandor moved across the room with surprising grace for such a big man, shedding his clothing as he went, diverting via a side table to grasp a flagon of wine and a goblet and carrying them to the bed where Sansa was already waiting for him. Unloading his cargo he poured deep red liquid into the vessel and offered it to Sansa, who shook her head, not caring about wine when there were more important things to focus on. Shrugging his shoulders, Sandor took a deep gulp and sat on the edge of the bed.

He had started to wear his hair in the way of some Northerners from the woods, braided into a long plait hanging against his back. From the first Sansa had found it intriguing and somehow exotic and wild, and over time she had started to cherish the opportunity to let it loose when it was just she and Sandor. The intimacy it conveyed delighted her and often she wondered if it was the same for him, when he asked her to let her hair loose and combed his big hands through her tresses. Maybe it was.

Nonetheless, this time even the sight of Sandor sliding the leather cord from his hair didn't sway her. "The mission doesn't necessarily need you, there are already enough men to set things right. I need you here."

Sandor groaned and swiped his brow. "My place is where men fight and defend your people and lands, little bird. Not hiding behind your skirts."

"But… it can be dangerous. What if you get hurt?"

A flash of strong white teeth and the Hound was back. Sandor grinned. "Don't you believe that I can still take care of myself? Do you think I have gone soft?"

"No, of course not! It is just that…" Sansa swallowed the rest of her words. She realised she had nothing but the fluttering of her heart when she thought about Sandor leaving and fighting again as her sole argument and reasoning. Many other men were undertaking the same mission, many men would die or be maimed, and it was her duty to encourage them, let them go and when and if they returned, thank them for their faithful service. Why should she treat Sandor any differently?

She had kept her silence the last occasion they had touched upon the ties that bound them together, but was now the time for her to tell him how she felt? I love you, don't leave me.

Seeing how Sandor flexed his arms, rotated his shoulders and cracked his knuckles, the personification of brute power and skill, a man honed to be a weapon as much as his magnificent horse was, she realised that she couldn't tie him down. Not with love, not with duty, not with command of any kind but his own choice.

So Sansa kept her silence and watched him ride out of the keep with the others, cold dread pouring over her. She ran to the battlements and followed him as long as she was able to; a black beast and its monstrous rider. If she whispered words of longing and pleaded for him to return to her, nobody heard it.

One whole moon! Endless nights of tossing and turning, of twirling her sheets into a tangled bundle and then unravelling them again, of forcing her mind to go anywhere else but where it most wanted to travel; to Sandor's side somewhere deep in the northern woods, to some unnamed campsite, to a skirmish that could be fought any day – or maybe it had already been fought? Maybe there had been many clashes? Maybe Winterfell's troops had been under attack by a cunning enemy. Maybe Sandor had fought, maybe he was wounded, maybe he was… There were neither ravens nor messengers to bring in the news and all she could do was to wait. And suffer in silence.

Sansa's appetite waned and she had to force herself to pay attention to the goings on of the keep. Her new maids started to eye her warily, bringing her extra morsels of food and maester's potions without her asking, mild drops to help her to sleep. None of them dared to ask what was troubling her, still being so new in her service.

Sansa accepted their help with a wan smile and pretended that all that was ailing her was a mild ague, brought upon her by the cold weather to which she had grown unaccustomed after her many years in the South.

The day when the troops returned, she didn't care about what people might think when she ran to the battlements, to the same spot she had seen Sandor off so many days ago. Her heart in her throat she scanned the column of riders; the red and black of House Baratheon and grey of House Stark. Man after man, some tired, some jubilant, some nursing wounds on their arms or their head wrapped in rags. Stretchers dragged by rugged northern ponies brought back those who couldn't walk or ride, and although afraid to look at them Sansa nonetheless forced her eyes to sweep over the covered forms lying on them. None were as big as Sandor and a sigh of minor relief swept over her. Yet if he was not wounded, and he was not riding in the column, where could he be?

Just as her knees started to weaken under her weight and she had to support herself against the cold stone, she caught sight of a tall man on a black horse emerging from the woods, almost at the back of the procession. He is alive! She had to lean on the sturdy wall then for sure lest she toppled down on the spot, so overpowering was her relief.

By the time of the welcoming feast she had collected herself and fallen into the role of the gracious lady again. She heard many tales of bravery and cunning and assurances that whatever was left of the deserters terrorising the countryside was too weak and disorganised to cause any real disturbance any more. She smiled and cocked her head, widened her eyes when it seemed a suitable reaction, praised the men and their bravery, promised that appropriate rewards would be doled to those who were deemed worthy. She resisted bringing up Sandor's name, but even without her prompting one of the Baratheon captains informed her about the battle prowess and major role the old Lannister hound had shown in the field. From the nods of agreement from the other men, including those of House Stark, she concluded that Sandor had been right – this had been what he had needed to do to in order to earn the respect of her people.

Sansa saw Sandor sitting at a table further away on his own, dark and gloomy. She itched to be with him to assure herself that he was real, he had truly returned, to ask him to come to her that very night. Nonetheless, as always she had to curb her behaviour and hope that the encouraging look she had given him earlier at the courtyard had told him what she had wanted to convey. How much she needed him.

When Sansa eventually threw her arms around Sandor's neck and felt his solidity under her own hands as the final testimony of her love having returned, she couldn't contain herself any longer. Tears of relief and joy streamed down her face and after cupping his cheek and looking into his grey eyes she hid her face in the crook of his neck and breathed into his ear. Words tumbled out of her mouth in an unstoppable stream, words that for so long had demanded to be said aloud.

"I missed you so. I love you."

Sandor's arms, which had curled around her waist and squeezed her tightly, slackened. Sansa noticed it and immediately regretted her eagerness. Sandor had just spent a month away from her; maybe he had discovered that he was not suited to the role of a secret lover after all?

Then she felt his hold tighten again and the suffocating press forced air from her lungs to escape in a sudden gust – and she knew.