Chapter 5

Tyrion's head was pounding. Too much wine over the past couple of days and too little sleep would do that to a man. Moreover, as people were always telling him, he was just half a man.

Joffrey was still in a dark mood. He seemed to be taking the Hound's desertion rather hard, more so than Jamie's death. Tyrion wondered if Robert Baratheon's neglect had led his nephew to look up to the Hound as a father figure. If that was so he had only acquired the Hound's ruthlessness, and left out the bravery and loyalty.

Cersie's eyes were like two dark bruises in a face so pale it had a greenish tinge. And her otherwise lovely mouth seemed to be permanently etched into an ugly scowl. "Did you receive any ravens yet? Have they been found?" she asked.

"No, they haven't been found," he said. "Not yet at least. The Goldcloaks have disbanded into smaller groups of five to ten men and they are fanning out northbound. Father had men dispatched from Casterly Rock as well. It is only a matter of time. Unless..."

"Unless what?" she hissed.

"Unless the Hound was able to charter a ship. It is really difficult to know his mind. The fact is he can go anywhere he wants. He is a rich man, as you know. The Hand's tourney was not the first tourney he had the honor of winning."

"Yes, yes," she said. "I know what a great fighter he is. Are you trying to make me feel worse?" She leaned back and pressed a hand to her forehead. "I don't understand what he was thinking, what he hopes to gain. He thinks the northerners will reward him for raping and corrupting that Stark child?"

"I believe it is love," he said simply. "I wouldn't be too surprised if he takes Sansa away to a free city and sets her up in a palace of her own."

Joffrey laughed, and Tyrion thought it sounded rather like the Hound's barking laughter. "I didn't know you were such a romantic, uncle. The Hound does not love. And if he did it wouldn't be that stupid girl."

Tyrion gave a shallow bow. "I am sure you are right. You've known them longer than I have, after all."

"Yes," Joffrey said, sneering. "And I hope you have made it known that I want the Hound alive. They can bring me Sansa Stark's head, but the Hound has to answer for his desertion before I grant him death."

***

Sandor knew that the inn they were approaching was a hovel, but he didn't care. There was lightening streaking the sky and any shelter would be a blessing right now. And the smoke coming out of the squat little chimney was saying it would be warm inside.

His little bird seemed excited. She gathered her reigns and gave her horse a little kick. "Race you!" she yelled to Tommy as she sped by.

Tommy got to the inn a few moments after she did with Sandor several paces behind. "No fair," Tommy said, wrinkling his snub nose. "You started before me."

Sansa just stuck her tongue out at him and laughed.

She had laughed more in the two days they had been on the road than he had heard her in two years at Kings Landing. It was strange watching the two children (because a child is what she was despite his body's reaction to her) giggle together and play their little games. He generally stood away from them and watched them, feeling ancient.

A stablehand came over to lead their horses away. Sandor reached into the purse at his belt and drew out a few coppers, handing them to Sansa. "Go get some food," he said. "I'll have to tend Stranger myself."

A blast of warmth hit him when he opened the inn door. It was bright and cheery in there, and every table seemed occupied by laughing men and women. Looking at them one could imagine the world was not at war, and that winter was not coming. He made his way to the table where she and Tommy were sitting. They were already tucking in bowls of steaming stew and fresh baked bread. There was a bowl waiting for him too.

Sandor ate while looking around, trying to catch the innkeeper's eye. The man finally noticed and made his way to their table. "Ale for them and wine for me," Sandor said, laying a few coppers on the table.

The innkeeper scooped the coppers up. "Will you be staying the night, milord?"

"Aye," Sandor said. "One room for me and the boy and one for my..." He looked at her. He had meant to say "sister" but he had a sister once, and the things he felt for his little bird were far from brotherly.

"His wife," she said politely. Probably to fill the silence and keep him from sounding like a fool.

"Hm," the innkeeper said doubtfully, looking at her and then back at Sandor. "Well the inn is crowded, what with the thunderstorm and all. I can only give you one room. The boy can sleep in my son's room and you and your... wife will have to share a room."

She blushed at that and looked down at her bowl. Tommy grinned, his mouth full of bread, and waggled his eyebrows.

Sandor sighed and sat back. He would have to drink a lot more than he had intended tonight.

***

Sansa twisted and turned and tried to get comfortable on the lumpy mattress. The Hound was already asleep with his back to her, his soft huffing snores breaking the silence of the night. It wasn't a terrible sound, she realized. It reminded her of when Lady used to share her bed back in Winterfell.

She punched her pillow a few times and squeezed her eyes shut, listening to the gentle patter of the rain hitting the roof, begging it to lull her to sleep. It was no use. "Ugh," she said, sitting up. She chewed on her bottom lip and stared at the Hound. There was a fire in the grate and she could she his large body move gently with his breathing.

"Hound," she whispered.

He didn't stir.

"Hound," she said.

He snored louder.

"Hound!" she half yelled, poking him in the back.

"Seven buggering hells!" he rasped, turning to face her. "Why are you yelling? What do you want?"

"I couldn't sleep," she said meekly.

"And so you decided to wake me to tell me that?" He pressed a steadying hand to his head and winced. "Do you want to throw a cloak over my face? Would that help you sleep?"

She blinked at him. "What?" she asked.

He laughed, but it was not a pleased sound. "On our wedding night you threw a cloak over my ugly face. I woke thinking you were smothering me to death with a pillow."

She sputtered. "I would never! You were without a nightshirt and I didn't want you to catch a chill."

"My sweet, considerate wife," he said in a mocking tone. "I never wear a nightshirt and I have yet to catch a chill in all my years."

Sansa cast a furtive glance to his naked chest before looking at his face. She bit her lip again. "Will you kiss me, Hound?" she whispered quietly.

His eyes glittered in the firelight. "Are you mad, little bird?" he asked pleasantly.

She huffed. "No, I just..." She tried to think of how to phrase this. "My maid told me that when a man kisses a woman it can help her sleep. And if I don't sleep well tonight I'll probably fall off my horse tomorrow." She cast a hurt look at him. "You said you would leave me behind if I fell off my horse."

He considered her for a moment. "Your maid told you this?" She nodded in reply. "Was this the girl you brought from Winterfell?" She nodded again. "Strange," he said. "She didn't look like a fool."

He sat up and looked down at her. "You really believe if I kiss you it will magically put you to sleep? Wasn't there a song like this? The handsome knight kisses the sleeping maid and breaks the wildling's curse on the seven kingdoms?" He laughed. "Since I am neither handsome nor a knight I suppose the opposite can be expected."

"Well," Sansa said doubtfully, thinking the theory over.

"Stupid little bird," he said. "A sharp blow to the head would more likely help you sleep. But no harm in trying your way first." He pressed her back into the bed and covered her mouth with his.

Sansa closed her eyes and concentrated on the feel of his lips, trying to memorize it. She wondered when she had stopped fearing his face, and how long she had wanted this kiss. His lips, what remained of them, were a little dry but soft. It was pleasant enough, and she was wondering when she would fall asleep when she felt a warm wetness press against the seam of her lips. She realized it was his tongue and gasped. He took the opportunity to slide his hot tongue into her mouth. His mouth tasted of wine and some other spicy taste, and heat. The bare flesh of his chest felt impossibly hot to her searching hands. She slid her hands up and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. When she moved her tongue to slide against his, he groaned.

He was breathing heavily when he pulled back. "Feeling sleepy yet?" he asked, his mouth twisting in a grin.

Sansa had never felt more awake. She shook her head and reached out to gently cup his cheek. The right one.

His grin died on his lips and he leaned into her hand. She could feel the burnt ropy flesh and the twitching of his mouth under her palm. "I think your maid was speaking of another kind of kiss," he said lightly, smoothing the hair away from her face. "The kind in the Bear and the Maiden Fair."

"There's no kiss in that song," she said, her voice sounding strange and hoarse even to her own ears. "There's just a bear licking honey from a maiden's hair."

His eyes roamed her face. "How sweet and innocent are you, little bird? I suppose if I tried to show you what the song means you would faint in my arms. Aye, that could keep you asleep till morning. But I have another way to achieve a similar effect. Perhaps not as shocking." His hand was under the blanket, and it was slowly gathering and pulling up the skirt of her nightdress. "Do you want me to help you sleep, little bird?" he whispered.

She licked her lips in reply and pulled him in for another kiss. He ravaged her mouth for a moment before pulling away. Then he put his hand under her skirts and pulled off her smallclothes. Sansa blushed even as she helped him, and pressed her thighs together.

"Don't," he said, brushing a kiss to her knee.

He lay down close beside her and propped his head up in one hand, looking down at her face. The other hand was making its way up her thigh to her damp curls. He gently pressed his finger to her slick folds and slid it towards the nub between her legs. Sansa gasped and gripped his shoulders tight. He rubbed her lightly, causing her to squirm. Then slowly, ever so slowly, he slid that finger inside her.

"Sandor," she hissed when he started moving the finger in and out, deeper and deeper. His thumb stroked her sensitive nub again and she couldn't help herself. She reached out to grip the hand that was pleasuring her and moaned, grinding her hips into it. She opened her eyes and looked at his face, at his rapt expression, and came with a wondrous gasp. Her body clenched and unclenched itself around his finger and a deep, bone-melting calm settled over her.

He pressed a kiss to her head and sat up, pulling her skirts down and tucking the blanket around her.

"Where are you going?" she asked him sleepily.

"To the privy," he said, slipping out the door.

Sansa tugged the blankets to her chin, and drifted off to sleep with a smile.

***

Sandor stood against the privy door and guided his cock out of his breeches. It was hot and heavy in his hand. He ran a thumb over the tip, spreading the moisture. Closing his eyes, he remembered the look on her face, the soft mewling sounds she was making. He gripped himself hard and began pumping. His whole being was centered on the pleasure, on remembering how wet she had been for him. He brought the fingers that had touched her wetness, that had been inside her, to his mouth and sucked the saltiness off them. When his body jerked in release and his seed spilled over his hand, he whispered her name.

He still stood there long after, his now limp cock in his hand. He was trying to remember when last he had such a powerful release. He honestly couldn't remember. Despite what he had told her, her cunt was the tightest he had ever felt. Even with just one finger it was a tight fit.

"This is madness," he groaned to the privy walls, squeezing himself, feeling his cock harden again.

When he returned to the room she was curled up in a little ball and sleeping on the other side of the bed. He considered pulling her close to him, considered sharing his heat with her, but thought better of the idea. He had crossed a line today he never intended, and he wondered how best to retrace his steps.

In the morning he was down to breakfast before she and Tommy awoke. He seemed to need less sleep then they did. Perhaps because they were both still growing. He wondered if his little bird would gain more height over the years. She was already one of the tallest maids he had come across.

She and Tommy came down together, both rubbing their eyes blearily and dragging their bags with them. There was bread, jam, and fresh churned butter on the table. "Eat quickly," he told them, signaling to the innkeeper for ale.

Dawn had just broken when they walked out the inn. The air smelled clean and sweet, as it always did after a thunderstorm. But nothing could be half as sweet as the blush and the smile his little bird gave him as he lifted her into her saddle.

It was harder than he had anticipated, not returning her smile.