Author's Notes: Apologies for the long delay, but here it finally is, amply assisted on its way by my lovely beta Wildsky. Thank you also all you lovely readers for lovely comments! And now, the plot thickens...

Summary: Yet it was like a scab that he couldn't help prodding and scratching. Lowering his guard had led to an open wound being inflicted into his core that now needed to heal and harden – but the poison had seeped under it and it festered, wept and hurt, like all the seven hells together.

Sandor

Sansa's confession on the night of his return hit Sandor harder than he would have imagined – had he ever thought such thing possible. Love. She loves …me? Her words shocked him to the core but he couldn't brush them away as the naïve sentiments of a silly girl, as she was neither silly nor girl anymore. He only held her close and a tightness the likes of which he had never felt squeezed his heart. Sandor knew he was probably expected to respond to her in kind, but the words he had never in his wildest dreams imagined to utter stuck in his throat and almost choked him. He opened his mouth but nothing came out, and as if to compensate he crushed Sansa tighter until her feeble attempts to pull herself away alerted him to the fact that he had almost succeeded in choking his little bird.

Sandor lay awake for a long time after Sansa had already fallen asleep and stared into a void, his mind blank except for a swirl of perturbing thoughts he fought to chase away. For the first time in his life he was scared; he who had faced grave danger and scorn for most of his days and had never let that affect him. Yes, he had been angry and hateful but never, ever afraid. Yet all his well-practiced defences were useless against this new threat: a few soft-spoken words from the mouth of a lithe girl.

Sansa didn't repeat her confession the next morning when they woke up before the birdsong when the world was still painted in hues of grey and black. They had each other again, hunger from the past month still not sated, but no words of love were spoken – only sighs and murmurs and gentle teasing now that the tension of their separation had been broken. Nor did she seem to scorn him for staying quiet. Not that night or the nights after - their stolen time together was just as sweet as before and for a short while Sandor felt at peace.

Until a new threat started to cast its long shadow over them.

As Sandor had suspected, it didn't take long before the talk about Sansa's marriage started. Yes, she had made it perfectly clear that she was still tied to the Imp, no matter how little she liked it, and couldn't marry another as long as Tyrion was alive. At first her lords had listened to her and agreed with her arguments, relieved to have at least one true Stark back in their midst. Nonetheless, as moons waxed and waned, their mood started to change.

Sandor had been invited to participate in the regular council meetings organised to discuss important matters of the North and Winterfell – at Sansa's insistence, he knew. King Stannis had initially assumed that he would still run the affairs of the North on Sansa's behalf as the most experienced leader, but he had his plate full with his ambitions for the rest of the Westeros. When Sansa had first suggested joining the others so that she could listen and better understand the matters important for the bannermen of her house - as she had put it - Stannis had graciously agreed. So Sansa had joined the lords and knights and important men of the North; Umbers, Ryswells, Karstarks and many others.

At first she had settled into the role of an innocent young maiden who knew little of the ways of the world. She had listened more than talked, had nodded in agreement to any notion that met her approval and withheld her judgment on those that didn't. However, under Sandor's observant gaze she had slowly started to take part in the discussions, formulating her sentences politely and seeking an agreement from others before proceeding. Her arguments were reasonable and valid and her suggestions made sense, and so the men of the North started to pay attention to her words. Sandor couldn't hide his amusement about the way she gradually turned those gatherings around with most of the council members not even realising that it had happened; how those council meetings had turned into Sansa's council meetings.

He had expressed his admiration to Sansa one night, laughing at the way she had led all those mighty men on a merry ride, and at first she had laughed with him before turning serious and telling him how she had learned a lesson or two about ruling – or to be precise, how not to rule, from Queen Cersei and King Joffrey. Just mentioning those names from the past had deflated their good mood and Sandor had pulled her into his arms and just patted her silken hair, feeling a lump in his throat and cursing for the hundredth time his miserable failures back in King's Landing.

Despite Sansa now being the un-anointed head of those meetings, lately she had also become the main subject of them. It had started with innocent queries and mild suggestions, but as time went by the voices grew louder and the proposals bolder.

"With all due respect, Lady Sansa, nobody has heard a whisper about the fate of Tyrion Lannister since he escaped the dark cells," Harrion Karstark announced once again at the beginning of one such assembly.

"It is true, my lady. He might as well be dead, most likely he is dead," Rickard Ryswell followed. Murmured agreements followed that and Sansa looked around with poorly concealed agitation on her face.

"Might be so, but as long as there is no confirmation, I still remain his wedded wife," she said aloud.

"My lady, nobody can expect you to stay married to a man forever if he is not heard of," intervened King Stannis. His usual frown had not left his face but he, too, had accepted Sansa's strengthened position after having witnessed many of her suggestions leading to good outcomes. "Everyone knows and agrees that it is possible to release the wife from the marriage vows and allow her to marry again in such cases. All it needs is a septon's word."

"Or the word of the lord of the land," Lord Karstark continued. "King Stannis will gladly grant such a notion, I'm sure." Again shouted approvals followed the statement.

"My lady, if you will excuse my bluntness, the North needs an heir," Galbart Glover called out, an older man with grey at his temples. Sansa looked around her in desperation and Sandor followed her gaze, seeing as well as she did the uniform enthusiasm of the council members.

"My lords, even if that would pass and I married, what if my first husband returns? I could be put on trial for bigamy!" Sansa pleaded her case. Her face was flushed and Sandor could hear desperation in her voice. Why? Every woman wants children, don't they? Needless to say, Sansa continued drinking moon tea, now smuggled to her by Sandor from Wintertown. The old hag selling the brew didn't ask who he needed it for and he didn't bother to make up any lies. The likelihood of anyone connecting him to their esteemed lady was so remote that as long as they were careful not to actually get caught together, he felt there was little need for him to be secretive about his actions.

"That is not a worry, my lady. Should that happen, and especially if you were blessed with children in that marriage, the king can legitimise them even if they in theory were bastards. Then House Stark at least would be assured of its continuation. Surely you can't count on Lord Tyrion to be found alive to ensure the bloodline of House Stark?" King Stannis's words were dry but every one of them was sound and true and Sandor could see how Sansa recoiled at the realisation of the same.

What the North needed was the assurance of its future. As its past did, its future lay with House Stark, just like it had for the last eight thousand years.

Sandor scanned the room and all around he saw smiling faces and nodding heads, firm in their belief that this was a perfect solution to the problem. As happy as the rest of the congregation was, his mood was equally dark when he once more digested the core of the matter.

She needs to marry. Stannis or a septon will say a few words and all the houses of the North will descend on her with their eligible sons and widowers to woo her. And she will wed one of them and your days in the sun are over, dog.

The inevitability of the notion gnawed at his soul as it had done already for longer than he cared to admit. Sandor had tried to ignore it but it had niggled and niggled and cast a shadow over the nights he spent with Sansa. A fool's dream, that's all it was. As if a dog and a lady could ever be. Without anyone noticing he sneaked out of the hall and found his way to the kitchens, snatched several skins of wine and withdrew to his room. There he drank himself steadily into a kind of stupor he hadn't been in since the night of the Battle of the Blackwater, wallowing in his misery. If Sansa lay awake that night in vain waiting for him, he couldn't get up and go to her. Not now.

Besides the heavy hammering inside his skull and queasiness in his stomach, Sandor woke up the next morning with a new resolution that had firmly taken root in his mind. He avoided Sansa's chambers that evening and for several evenings after that; for so many that he could see the worry and questions on Sansa's face when they ran into each other during the day. Nonetheless, he couldn't tell her what kept him away. I am going to lose you soon, little bird, and we both better get ready for it.

After making his decision Sandor's nights were lonely and often he found himself searching for her soft form by his side, his hand reaching across the empty void only to wake up and realise that she wasn't there. The habits deeply ingrained in him over the years had dissolved and been carelessly cast away, just like a poor man used to wearing rags because he has nothing better gladly throws those tatters aside when given princely clothes. He, who had lived his life alone and had preferred it that way, was now only half the man without the slip of a girl who had sneaked her way into his life, his soul and into his very core. And now he needed to fight against it and gain control of himself all over again.

Sansa didn't stray far from Sandor's mind during those days – on the contrary, she was what he thought of when it took all his willpower to refuse taking the hidden passage and climbing the stairs to see her. He knew that she was waiting for him on her bed, her hair free, clad only in a silken shift, ready and willing to open her arms – and legs – for him should he only go to her. He had to press his eyes with his thumbs so hard that he saw stars to distract his mind from the images floating in his head. It was hard but he did it – and resisted her lure.

Yet it was like a scab that he couldn't help prodding and scratching. Lowering his guard had led to an open wound being inflicted into his core that now needed to heal and harden – but the poison had seeped under it and it festered, wept and hurt, like all the seven hells together.

Nonetheless, bit by bit Sandor's resolution strengthened just as a scar eventually forms on top of the gravest of wounds. He also realised that it was not enough to stay away from her chambers; he had to leave. It was only a matter of time before Sansa gave in to the pressure regarding her marriage; only a matter of time before one of the men already circling around her would be declared her chosen and they got married next to a weirwood tree in the Godswood. Her lord husband would take her to his bed and put a babe in her belly and all Sandor could do was to follow. Once the babe was born, Sansa would focus her attentions on it, as all women did - and rightly so. Sandor knew that Sansa dearly wanted children and of course he couldn't grant her any. No bastards for the highborn Lady Stark.

He also knew that she would never send him away – she was kind and sentimental in that way - but how could he endure being close to her in that situation? Just a good fuck, and when the time comes, acknowledge that it is over – he cursed and let out a hollow laugh. Bloody fucking hells! How stupid he had been, thinking that. How blind.

Sandor had believed he could accept being her secret lover, have his fun with her and take whatever she was willing to give. He had thought he could take it like a man when it was time for their arrangement to end. Now he knew that it had been a fool's fancy – he had no such strength. The sooner he let her know that the better; he owed her that much. Then he would ask for the rest of his payment, take Stranger and finally leave as he should have done that first time after escaping the Burned Men, or after he had escorted her safely back to Winterfell.

So it was that the Hound in him asserted itself once more and he closed his heart from the silly dreams he had allowed to seep in. He ordered a new set of daggers from the keep's smith, visited a saddler to fix Stranger's gear for the long journey, had his armour cleaned and oiled and gathered all his meagre belongings into his room. Still he didn't have it in him to seek Sansa out for the final confrontation. Every morning he woke up determined that this was the day he would tell her about his decision, and every evening he went to bed cursing his weakness for not having done so. What the hell he was waiting for? Her wedding day?

It might have stayed that way even longer had Sansa one day not sent him a missive written in her graceful hand, asking him to come and see her as soon as possible on an urgent and confidential matter. The letter specified no time or place in case it was seen by unwanted eyes but he knew what she meant. To my chambers, tonight.

Sandor had decided to come clean with her right away. He didn't want there to be any false pretences and as painful as it was going to be, better to get it out sooner rather than later. What he hadn't calculated was the distraction caused by Sansa's eager greeting and the urgency with which she pulled him into the room and onto her bed. Not because of a sudden wanton desire, as it soon turned out, but for holding and touching and scrutinising his face in the dim firelight.

"What is it, Sandor? Why have you been avoiding me?"

Sandor felt uncomfortable and tried to push himself up to his elbows but Sansa rested her hand on his chest and he succumbed. While he considered how to start to explain his actions, having lost the edge afforded by physical distance he had counted on, she continued.

"Don't tell me. I think I know what it is and I don't want to discuss it. I will not marry another and that is that. Come closer, rest by my side and let's forget all that foolishness." She pulled his head down and against his better judgment Sandor gave in, snuggled into the crook of her arm and burrowed close to her, so close that if it had been physically possible he would have shared her skin, her body. As it was not, he settled by her side, his head on her chest and he listened to her steady heartbeat. Thump…thump…thump… No other sound broke the silence of the night bar the crackling of the fire and the slight rustle of the bed as Sansa shifted to embrace him better.

One last time, he thought as the temptation soon became too much when Sansa's wandering hands awakened him and he responded with their well-used but far from stale routine of caressing, exploring and starting fires that needed to be quenched. However this time was different – he was different. Never had he taken such great care of her needs, nor stilled his motions to almost non-existence in order to enjoy every single moment and movement, every sensation and feeling to its fullest. That night before they entered the Neck had carried a desperate air in it, and so had the afternoon near Cerwyn Castle, but the difference now was the he knew this to be the last time but she didn't. Sandor felt the biggest mummer and the lowliest liar on earth but he had to have her one more time as she was now; sweet, caring, affectionate – happy.

Afterwards they lay naked under the covers and still the words didn't come. Sansa kissed him softly on the shoulder and from the way she drew her breath he knew that she was going to speak.

"I have to leave, Sansa," he stole the moment from her.

'Surely not yet? The night is still young. Stay longer, sleep with me."

"I didn't mean now, from your chambers, I mean I have to leave Winterfell."

The silence that followed was excruciating. Finally he heard a timid voice next to him.

"Why would you say such a thing?"

"Because you will soon marry some Northern lord or their get and there is no point in me hanging around here after that like some castaway cur. I know it, you know it. Only I will act on it."

"I told you I will not marry anyone. I don't care about what the council says. They may want me to but I am a grown woman and I don't have to adhere to their wishes. This is my land, my house and my decision." Sansa's voice got stronger as she spoke, obviously gaining strength from her own convictions. Sandor would have laughed at that had the situation not been so serious.

"It is not their wishes that matter here, little bird. Don't you see it? It will be your own wish as well. Did you come all this way here just for your own good? Are you repairing the keep just for your own comfort? Are you liaising with Stannis and all your bannermen only to keep yourself safe? Look me in the eye and tell me that you are not doing this because you want to uphold House Stark in its rightful place in Winterfell and in the North, and I will tell you that you are lying."

Sandor got into a sitting position and turned to look at Sansa. Gods she was beautiful! Lying against the sheets, her long hair spread against the pillow, her eyes sparkling and red spots of building anger emerging on her cheeks.

"Of course I do it for my house. What does that have to do with anything?"

Sandor sighed, suddenly weary. "You are not a silly girl anymore, so don't act as one. If you don't get married and have children there won't be a House Stark any more. You are the only one left, as far as we know, and a noble house can't count on dreams of little girls lost in the woods making a miraculous comeback."

He didn't want to look at her again but got up and started to pull on his breeches. His clothes were armour he needed to don to carry on his unpleasant mission. He expected more arguments and prepared for them but hearing nothing he turned to look at Sansa, wary of her wrath or frustration. What he didn't expect was what he saw: Sansa sitting up with her knees raised in front of her, clutching at them desperately, staring at him and big tears flowing down her face. Her expression was such an image of misery that Sandor would have faced a horde of Bolton men and bloody Roose and Ramsay themselves rather than this. He cursed.

"Can't you see that this is the way it has to be? Your plan was good, it was necessary that you were able to hold off marriage schemes until you established your position. Had you been ready to marry right away, you wouldn't have had this chance to make people see your own strength. Things are different now because of what you did. Whoever you wed will be your spouse but not your lord ruling over you." Sandor knew that being dominated by someone once again was what Sansa most objected to. She didn't respond, however, only staring at him mutely, and her tears almost brought him undone but Sandor hardened his heart.

"Besides, you deserve to have children. All women do, and you know I can't give you lowborn bastards. Doesn't even matter who you wed, as long as he treats you well, because then you will have a family. A house full of Starks and you will love your children and the North will rise again with them - and you will soon forget you ever met a mongrel like me. I know that's how it is going to be. Trust me."

He was now fully clothed and stood in front of her bed, unsure what he should do next. Leave her there, silent tears still rolling down her cheeks? Comfort her and risk being pulled back to her and lose his resolve?

Sansa acted before he did, throwing herself from the bed against him, grasping him with a desperate and hard grip that made him wince as her nails bit into his biceps.

"You can't walk away now, Sandor! How can you say such things, how can you think that way? You can't be serious! Not after all we have gone through…" Her voice was shrill and speech thick, her words choked by emotions. "Why don't you marry me? That way you and I can have all the things we need and desire."

"Bloody hells, woman, do you think I WANT to leave? Yet leave I must. One of us has to have some sense and clearly that'll be me. As for me marrying you, you must be soft in the head. Do you think the lords would allow that? That Stannis would give us his blessing?" He spoke more harshly than he had intended – he couldn't bear Sansa's pleading. She was deaf to his words though, only clutching him tighter and burying her face against him. Determinedly Sandor reached for the soft arms coiled around him, one after another, and peeled them away from his body. That didn't deter Sansa who only pressed harder against him and so he had to push her body away as well. Sansa tried to hold on and ended up sliding down him as she would a tree trunk. At the end she was crumpled in a heap against his legs, curling her arms around his knees.

"I plead with you, Sandor, don't do this. I'm crawling on my knees and hands in front of you begging you not to leave me! Have a heart!"

The sight of the proud daughter of Winterfell naked and begging at his feet pierced Sandor worse than thousand daggers. That he should be the cause of her pain made him hate himself – and for a moment he wanted to hate her too.

"Get up, Sansa! Never crawl in front of a man, least of all me. It wouldn't help if you crawled all the way from Winterfell to Wintertown, that wouldn't made any difference." Suddenly Sandor wanted to be cruel, wanted to make her hate him if that made his departure easier for her to swallow. "Or mayhap it would, mayhap I would reconsider after that. Would you want that? Would you want to abase yourself in front of your lords and your people and for what – for a dog?!"

He leaned down and yanked Sansa to her feet and raised her up, staring at her without flinching. "If you did that, how long do you think your lords would be loyal, huh? If you did that, how soon do you think you'd start hating me? Because you would, mark my words. And that is something I couldn't take!"

Sandor had to leave, and soon. A moment longer in that room looking at Sansa's puffy eyes, her contorted mouth and her nakedness which she didn't even bother to try to cover, and all his defences and resolution would crumble to dust. A minute longer and he would take her into his embrace and kiss and soothe and beg for her forgiveness for hurting her in such an abominable way. He knew that it would only lead them back to where they were, no closer to facing the reality which as sure as hells was ready to face them.

He lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed, then tugged the blankets up to her chin to cover her.

"Believe me girl, this is best for everyone. You will see it yourself once you get over this. I know you will. You are a strong Northern woman and you have been through worse than this." Sansa seemed to have given up and only laid there listlessly so he dared to give her a peck on the forehead. His rough lips met her smooth skin and immediately he regretted his decision and pushed up, abruptly.

At the door he turned for one more look but saw Sansa already having burrowed under the blankets so that all he could see were a few strands of red hair peeking from under it.

"I will talk to you later, in a few days. We have to make this official lest there are questions about my sudden departure. If you can find it in your heart to pay me what I am owed and bid me a cordial farewell in front of the keep, that should be enough. For your own sake, not for me. Or if you prefer me to sneak away in the dark of night like the craven everyone thought me to be, that's fine as well. No hair off my arse. Just let me know which you prefer."

He lingered at the door for a few more heartbeats, searching for something else to say, but came up empty. He had already said enough.

Sandor turned and walked away. From the only good thing he had ever had in his whole miserable life.