Author's note: the bars mentioned in this chapter are, of course, a reference to the inns described in A Song of Ice and Fire. Some of the events told by Sandor are freely inspired from Arya's chapter XIII in A Storm of Swords.

The familiar noises of the gym - dull sounds of a fist hitting a punching bag, raucous laughters and boys calling out to each other - would disturb him for sure so he closed the door of his small office and sat down behind the desk, on the old swivel chair. Like the boxing gym, the chair was part of the Barristan Selmy legacy, and it made a weird sound of protestation under Sandor's weight. Alright. Let's get done with it.

After he had left Sansa alone in her new apartment, getting to sleep had not been easy and Sandor had revived a long tradition of sleeplessness. As a kid, he didn't sleep because his desire for revenge kept him awake whenever something made him think about his fucking brother; later, in his late twenties, his obsession for a certain red-haired girl had taken precedence over his wish to kill Gregor. Today, Gregor was pushing up daisies and the last scion of the Clegane family clutched to the belief he had no good reason not to sleep the sleep of the righteous. Until he met her again.

The night after Sansa had moved in her apartment - thus taking up residence in the town he lived in - he had tossed and turned for a long time before exhaustion came; finally, he had slept like a log for the second half of the night.

Of course, the day after, the Elder Brother had questioned him about that Saturday spent with Sansa: his old friend had thrown questions thick and fast after he had knocked at his door. If the doctor thought Sansa's arrival would make him forthcoming and erase long years of muteness, he was totally off-base. No matter how blatant Sandor's reluctance was when it came to Sansa Stark, the Elder Brother had kept deluding himself: it had mostly been the doctor talking that afternoon in Sandor's kitchen, while his host sipped his beer, embarrassed, bored, yet polite enough to utter from time to time a monosyllable or a grunt of approval.

Among the countless comments the Elder Brother had made, one or two had captured Sandor's attention - although he would never admit it. His friend had insisted on Sansa's kind thoughts, he had underlined how Sansa had repeatedly taken the initiative. Implicitly, he meant a woman couldn't always take the lead, that it was Sandor's turn to do something. Sandor had shrugged at that, but the idea slowly took root; the next move had to be his.

"Did you hear from her, since yesterday?" the Elder Brother had inquired.

Sandor had shaken his head, hiding his abashment behind the thin curtain of his hair, but he had had his answer. Calling the little bird was a good start. It didn't have to be a long call, no, just a short conversation to remind her he was here and her well-being concerned him.

A thud, followed by expletives, informed Sandor one of the boys had fallen flat on his back on the boxing ring; the noise out of the office roused Sandor from his thoughts. Do it now. Just pick up the damn phone and make this call. A quick glance at the old sunburst wall clock confirmed it was 1 p.m.: it was most likely lunch break at the hospital and it was the right moment to call. His stomach gurgled noisily, but Sandor would have to wait before gulping down whatever he would buy at the nearest food truck.

Ignoring the plastic dial phone sitting imposingly on the desk - with its finger wheel dial, the phone was another relic from the seventies left by Barristan Selmy - he retrieved his cell phone from his back pocket. The piece of paper with Sansa's number was stored in his wallet, with his driver's license, because in the end it was just as important as the plastic card. Perhaps even more. Sandor had been playing with that piece of paper for what seemed like hours, running the tip of his fingers on Sansa's neat handwriting until he realized he could erase her phone number by doing so.

What was that lump in his throat? Sandor called himself a moron as he looked for her number among his contacts, then as he placed the phone next to the remains of his left ear, he waited with bated breath, counting the unpleasant beeps until he understood she wouldn't pick the phone. Oh no, not her voicemail…

"You've reached Sansa Stark. I'm not here but I'm sure you know exactly what to do after the beep."

He cursed in an undertone, a convenient way to hide his embarrassment bordering on panic.

"Hi, Sansa, it's Sandor," he mumbled. He frowned at the sound of his own raspy voice. Fuck, what am I supposed to say? Collecting his senses, he went on: "I- I hope you're doing good. Just wanted to find out what you're up to. How are you?" He paused, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "OK. Just call me back when you have some time."

The cell phone almost slipped between his hands and it landed on the desk as Sandor face-palmed. Where did this ability to make a bloody fool of himself came from? Exasperated by the whole situation and ruing the idea the Elder Brother had given him the day before, he stormed out of the office, told off a boy who was eating a sandwich next to the treadmill and walked out of the boxing gym.

It wasn't enough for him to leave a stupid message on Sansa's voicemail, or so it seemed. When he arrived to the food truck, the last of the chicken tenders were gone and he had to content himself with shrivelled up pizza and french fries. He growled at the guy inside the food truck, grabbed the food and began to eat on his way to the gym. Even if the boys inside the boxing gym were decent and responsible - they were high schools kids who came there to practice during their lunch break instead of smoking pot or bothering girls - Sandor didn't like to leave the boxing gym unattended. You never know what can happen. Even now with his slight limp, his long strides quickly led him to the parking lot where the boxing gym was located.

Once inside the gym, he softened a bit when he saw Podrick Payne's shy smile. Slightly older than most of the gym's frequent visitors, Podrick already worked as a waiter in some restaurant on the outskirts of town. Sandor knew the boy tightened his belt to pay the modest membership fee, so he pretended not to notice when he was late in paying. In exchange, Podrick had offered to close the gym when Sandor couldn't. He exchanged a few words with Pod, recommended one of the boys that he kept his back straight while lifting weights and he walked back to his office.

Ironically enough, something unexpected had occurred during his absence; Sandor noticed it straight away when he took the cell phone he had left on his desk instead of shoving it in his back pocket, infuriated after his attempt to call Sansa. For some reason, Sandor didn't like phones; a new message or a missed call felt like a veiled threat, an intrusion. It inevitably awakened his suspicious nature.

Sansa had called him, probably right after he had closed the office door, and he had missed her. For the second time, Sandor face-palmed, then he listened to the message she had left.

"Hi Sandor, it's me. I'm sorry I missed your call and I wish I could talk to you now… but never mind. I'm doing good. Yesterday I tidied up the apartment, so everything found its place now. I have a long day of work at the hospital, but I really want to celebrate… you know, my divorce. I need that pub crawl you promised me or whatever it is. What about tomorrow night? I don't know if you're free on Tuesday nights, so call me back. You'll probably reach my voicemail because I must go now. If you're not free or if you changed your mind, just... tell me." There was a silence, then he heard her voice again: "Thanks for checking on me. I can't say I'm surprised you did so, but… thank you. Call me, Sandor."

A stupid grin illuminated his face when he shoved the phone in his pocket. I'm fucked-up, was the first thought popping up in his mind. The little bird insisted and she was kind enough to think that he might not be free on Tuesday nights, as if it wasn't plain to see that Sandor Clegane was a loner who spent his nights pumping iron or doing the gym's accounts. Why is she so fucking adorable? And why in hell does she even want to celebrate something with me? How could I say no? Sandor shook his head with disbelief; his smile didn't vanish, but a dozen questions chased these thoughts. Should he call her back now? Should he wait? What was he supposed to say? Where would they meet and where to go? Should he take her to the Crossroads? Perhaps the Seven Swords in Duskendale was a better choice. It was far, but… No, the Crossroads. It has to be the Crossroads.

In the end, remembering some stupid cue he had heard in a dud, he decided not to call immediately but to wait. Never call back straight away. Never. Don't look desperate. Sandor couldn't restrain himself from picking up his phone for a very long time but at least he would try not to reveal how impatient he was. I'll wait until 3 p.m. before calling. No... 2:30 is good.

"What's the matter with you today?" Barristan Selmy asked him the morning after.

The old man was standing on the threshold while Sandor opened the drawers of the desk one after the other, frantically looking for the certificate Barristan demanded. Behind Barristan, Sandor could see one of the most dedicated boxers of the gym who had just arrived; bending over, his hands resting on his knees, the man panted after his daily jogging. Barristan folded his arms about his chest. Now in his seventies, the gym owner only showed up from time to time, whether it was for a courtesy call or because he needed something he had left at the gym. Barristan came at a bad time, he probably knew it but he couldn't understand why: under his uncouth outward appearance, Sandor always gave him a cordial welcome. Except for today.

"Sorry, I can't find it." After cursing and mauling the drawers because the damn paper had disappeared, Sandor realized how rude he was and he softened.

Barristan took a few steps forward and appraised him, scratching his white head. "Is something the matter, Sandor? You know you can tell me if you have trouble with the IRS or with the city hall."

Sandor let out a deep sigh and stood up, hands resting on top of the desk. "It's nothing, really. I'm a bit tired, that's all."

Across the desk, Barristan frowned suspiciously. "I know what you look like when you're tired, boy. Today you look nervous."

Sandor lifted his hands in a clumsy attempt to reassure the man. "Don't worry. It's not about the gym." Fuck. If only he knew what I have in mind.

"Your health, then?" Barristan's frown deepened, thus revealing his concern. "I warned you about your chain-smoking tendencies… So what is it?"

Sandor did the only thing that annoyed Barristan and the Elder Brother even more than his fits of temper; he stared at the man and he walled himself off in silence.

"Alright," Barristan said, the thin line of his lips slowly turning down in disappointment. "If you don't want to talk… I'll come back later. Try to find the certificate by then. Have a nice day, Sandor."

Sandor muttered a perfunctory "goodbye" and the old man left. As much as he respected Barristan Selmy - one of the few persons who trusted Sandor and who worried about him - he couldn't envision telling him about Sansa. Fuck me! What could I tell him? "I'm thirty-eight and tonight is special because I go on a date for the first time… Any ideas?" All this is fucking nonsense. Could he even say it was his first date? Over the last five years, two or three women had been reckless enough to try to stick around; they had all given up after two or three weeks. Sandor didn't remember taking them out. When you run into a girl in a bar and you pick up the check, is it a date? He shook his head. And when a girl tells you she wants to celebrate her divorce with you, is it a date? Nope. His shoulders sank. It's not a date.

Sandor had to close the boxing gym himself that night - Podrick would had volunteered if his service didn't begin at 6:30 p.m. - so Sansa and he had agreed on meeting at her place, at 9 o'clock or so. From her apartment, they could walk to the Crossroads. The bar was just a short way from her place and a stroll at dusk, in June, promised to be relaxing.

Sandor's reluctance to explain why he was so nervous had surprised Barristan - perhaps had he even hurt him - but could the old man understand? He shook his head once more, before snorting at his own foolishness. I almost convinced myself I'm a the first person to experience this, like a fucking teenager who thinks he's the first boy to fall in love.

As the last kids began to jam their things in their gym bag, in a sweat and exhausted by workout, Sandor walked to the showers at the end of the locker room. Going back home to take a shower and to change clothes would be too long so he had decided to take advantage of the locker room in the gym. When he exited the locker room, he felt clean and somewhat relaxed, even though he knew the butterflies in his belly would come back once knocking at Sansa's door.

Sandor locked the doors of the boxing gym, got into his truck and drove to the condominium where Sansa lived. Glancing at his reflexion in the rear-view mirror, he realized his hair was still damp; droplets scattered the collar of shirt, leaving slightly darker marks on the gray fabric. Who cares? This is not a date, after all.

He parked his truck, got out and limped toward Sansa's door. As expected, the butterflies had come back; he cleared his throat, rang at the door and observed his surroundings to hide his awkwardness. The sun was setting, everything was quiet, except for a few laughs coming from the swimming-pool, behind the building.

Sansa opened the door and beamed at him. "Come in, please. I'm almost ready."

He mumbled something and followed her in. As she stood in front of the mirror she had hung on the wall by the entrance door, Sandor drank in her sight. She wore ballet flats, a pair of worn out jeans, a strange white top that was belted, emphasizing her narrow waist; further down, it flared like a skirt. Her loose hair partly covered her shoulders, but she looked at her reflexion hesitatingly, brush in hand. Too bad her hair is still brown.

"You look pretty," he said in a clumsy attempt to prevent her from tying her hair back.

She turned to face him, delighted. "Really? I wasn't sure you would like the peplum top."

"The peplum top?" he repeated, wondering what the hell she was referring to. I don't know shit about fashion.

He looked so disconcerted she felt the need to add, showing her middle: "This is a peplum top."

Sandor grumbled something about women's fashion that made her giggle and he finally said he liked it. She wasn't overdressed but her simple attire was feminine. It almost said "I'm not going on a date, am I?" Hands shoved in his pockets, Sandor smiled at that idea.

"Did you eat something?" she asked after a quick walk to the bathroom and back. The floral scent in her hair intoxicated him when she moved past him, revealing she had just put some perfume on. She opened the closet where she stored her shoes and her bags. "I can prepare something for you if you didn't."

He didn't answer straight away. Technically, he had enough time to eat before coming to her place; he had even bought extra food at lunch and saved it for his dinner. The thing was, he had lost his appetite. Knowing he had to be in control that night because the little bird might drink too much - she had insisted on celebrating and he guessed she wouldn't be satisfied with just one beer - he had nonetheless made himself eat a bite or two.

"I'm good, thanks," he replied, amused by her concern.

"Shall we go, then?" She grabbed her purse and they exited her apartment.

The Crossroads' new owners took pride in their establishment's appearance. Oddly enough, it had been built as a replica of old taverns, with false timber frame and a thatch roof that propelled its customers in the Medieval times. It boasted three stories, with a turret at each corner; on the side of the building, the bell tower never failed to intrigue the new comers. When Sandor told her that was the place he had chosen, they could see the tavern from across the street; she marveled at the building, confessing it had drawn her attention while driving to the hospital. She spent the rest of their walk to the Crossroads silent and starry-eyed.

"You chose well," she commented as he opened the entrance door then stepped aside out of gallantry. "Now I feel like a real lady."

"Do I look like a fucking knight in shining armor?" he teased her.

Moving past Sandor, she looked up at him, jabbing a finger at his chest. "Don't ruin the moment." Her blue eyes slightly narrowed but she smiled.

He felt proud, a little embarrassed too, and jealous over all when men started to look at her, as they came in. He remembered coming there, too, some years ago, and the memory of his night at the Crossroads made him clench his jaw. Was it a mistake to take her to this place? One feeling chased another, leaving him almost giddy. His old reflexes came back and he spotted the fire exit on the opposite wall, on the right, and the swing door leading to the restrooms. Even years after leaving the Lannisters, he still behaved as if he was Joffrey's bodyguard.

On Tuesday nights, the tavern wasn't crowded like it usually was at the end of the week, but Sandor knew assholes and shit disturbers came anyday in places like the Crossroads. For now, Sansa contemplated the decoration of the tavern, gaping at the huge white-stone fireplace contrasting with the mud-colored walls and she craned her neck to see the coats of arms hanging everywhere. Even the furniture - solid wood trestle tables, benches and old-fashioned wooden trunks with forged iron locks and handles - created an unreal atmosphere. The owners didn't go so far as to impose medieval tunes to their customers; Sandor recognized some rock cover of a traditional song. It's classy, now. Next to him, Sansa grinned. She loves the place. Good for me.

"Where do you want to sit?" he inquired, protectively placing himself between her and a group of young men he didn't know. Too young, too noisy, and soon too drunk to keep their filthy hands away from her. He had already glared at a boy who had obviously trouble keeping his eyes where they belong.

"What about the counter?" she suggested cheerfully, showing two empty bar stools, further on their left.

"You're living dangerously, girl," he commented, nevertheless leading her to the counter.

Once seated on the wooden bar stool, Sandor rested his elbows on the countertop and hunched his shoulders to be eye-level with Sansa who seemed mesmerized by the bar shelves in front of her and their content. The sight of her, toes resting on the bar stool footrest, keeping her back straight and drawing her hair over her shoulder, was enough for him to gawk helplessly. Feeling his gaze on her, she swiveled her head, offering him a graceful smile.

"I love this place, Sandor."

He laughed, leaning toward Sansa to nudge her. "I wish we had a tavern with marble columns and huge amphoras, to match your Roman top." With that, he couldn't help glancing at her V neckline and he noticed with pleasure how she blushed: even the delicate skin of her throat was reddening.

"It's a peplum top," she corrected, giggling. There was a silence, then she asked: "Do you often come here?"

"No, not anymore." Should he tell her what had happened at the Crossroads? She looked so damn pleased and the atmosphere of the tavern was so different from what he remembered he was afraid to spoil everything. "I haven't been here in a while," he said cryptically and she frowned at that, probably dying to know more about his long absence in the pub, he told himself. The question never came, though: if she was tempted to ask why this was his first visit there in years, Sansa knew better than to voice out her interrogations. Just like when she was a teenager, he mused, watching her bite her lip.

His tone could have ruined the atmosphere, without the new owner's arrival. Sandor knew Jeyne Heddle only by reputation, but when the kids of the boxing gym spoke highly of someone, he always listened carefully. The tall, thin girl behind the counter smiled at them while adjusting the headband that kept her brown hair from hiding her face. She wasn't older than Sansa, yet her efforts to turn the Crossroads into a respectable bar and to build up a new customer base were praiseworthy. The local newspaper had even honored Jeyne with an article and a photography of her and her sister Willow, by the counter.

"Welcome to the Crossroads," Jeyne said. "What can I do for you?"

"What would you like to drink?" Sandor asked Sansa.

"I don't know." Hesitation made her pout, something that never failed to increase his desire to kiss her. She turned to him slightly and added with a hint of mischief: "Choose for me."

He didn't remember her challenging him, at least not this way, when they both were under the heel of the Lannisters. She resisted him sometimes, she tried to reason him - uselessly - but she always trembled before Sandor when he was angry. So what? Have I lost my tough guy aura? He ordered J&B for both of them, then he turned to the little bird to watch her reaction. Undeterred, she smiled at him. The more time they spent together, the more he realized he knew nothing about these last seven years. Did she drink now? Being a nurse didn't mean her behavior was always beyond reproach. Apparently, she didn't smoke cigarettes, but he couldn't be sure she didn't enjoy weed. She's changed. Sansa watched him without flinching now and when he became aware her eyes wandered about his chest, up and down, appraising his muscles under the fabric of his shirt, he reacted like she would have done a few years ago: her look sent a shiver down his spine.

"What?" he asked, unease disguised in brusqueness.

"Nothing," she said casually. Thanks to a strange role reversal, Sansa was conspicuously confident while his words fled him.

Jeyne placed two coasters in front of them, then two polygonal edged glasses; with a smile, she poured the amber liquid in the glasses and turned to the customer sitting next to Sansa.

Sandor glanced at his companion, sensing the toast would have more importance for her than she would ever admit.

"Here's to-" he began, lifting his glass. "To what, Sansa?"

Sansa looked at him playfully. "What do you suggest?"

He was at a loss for words. "Fuck, I'm better at drinking than at making toasts." She laughed. They had both swiveled their hips to face each other, creating their own bubble from which the other people were banned. The realization made his throat as dry as sand. "Here's to… your new life here."

"Not bad. I thought you would say "Here's to single life."" Holding his gaze, she mirrored his attitude, lifting her glass. "Here's to my new life here, then, and to old friends."

He nodded, then took a sip. And to all the words we will never speak. "I never thought we were friends at that time," he whispered, thinking aloud. Sandor regretted his words instantly and called himself an asshole. You'll never learn, Dog.

"You're right, we were not friends, when I was a kid," she approved. "That being said, when I think back on my stay in the south, you were the only person who was... friendly with me. If we were not friends back in King's Landing, then I had no friend at all; that's why I told myself you were my friend." She sounded melancholic; her eyes had fallen on her lap, where she rested her glass.

Putting back his own glass on its coaster, Sandor scooted to the edge of his seat, until his knee brushed Sansa's. This contact seemed to rouse her from her thoughts and she looked up at him, suddenly embarrassed.

"I'm not that straightforward, most of the time," she apologized, the shrug of her shoulders almost childish. "Did I offend you?" He shook his head. "Good. Offending you is the last thing I wanted."

Silence stretched between them, while a group of young men chorused an old song by The Specials. Sansa glanced at them, before turning to him again; she bit her lip.

"You'd better say something now, or else I'll think I spoiled everything," she said, smiling but shifting uncomfortably on her seat.

"So you're divorced now," he began. He rued his bluntness at once. Fuck, what was that question? He rolled his eyes at his own words as Sansa chuckled.

"Some things will never change, Sandor... Yes, I'm officially divorced. Twice divorced, in fact, and I'm only 23. For my grand-parents' standards, I'm a slut. It's probably a good thing they're not here anymore to witness the downfall of the Stark family."

"It was forced marriage, both times," he observed, trying to make eye-contact with her.

"I guess you're right. That being said, before I married Harry, I clutched to the faint hope he could… I don't know… save me, or something like that." She kept her eyes downcast, visibly ill-at-ease.

Sandor cleared his throat. "We'd better change the subject," he suggested.

"No, we won't." She sounded determined; locking eyes with him, she raised her glass to her lips and drank the rest of her scotch in one go. "Alcohol is supposed to make these things easier, right?" She put her empty glass down on the counter and he noticed that she suppressed a wince with faint smile. "So what do you want to know?"

"Did they hurt you?" he rasped. He wasn't sure he wanted any details about her married life, but that question had haunted him since the day he had heard about her wedding with the Imp.

"Tyrion never hurt me, he left me in peace. He said I was a baby and he prefered whores. Then I left with Littlefinger and I soon realized what kind of mistake I had made. He wanted to control my family's assets and he wanted me forhimself. By marrying Harry, I became a wealthy girl. You know, people thought my husband and I were so influential… We were not: Littlefinger controlled everything, including us." She paused. "I knew Littlefinger wanted me, so I begged Harry to do something about that. He said no. That day I found out he didn't give a damn about me... and I didn't really care about him either. So I prepared my escape and I- I just ran away. It was three years ago. Harry did all sorts of things to make sure I wouldn't divorce, that's why it took so long, but now it's over. And Baelish is dead." She remained silent for a few seconds, staring at her lap, then raised her blue eyes again. "It's good to talk. Painful, but good."

Sandor extended his arm and brushed the back of her hand. It was more a primal need to touch her than a premeditated gesture, so his fingers lingered there, warming up against Sansa's skin; when she opened her hand and tried to take his, he barely understood what was happening. Sansa's fingers weren't long enough to circle his hand: in the end, he felt like he should be the one to take her hand in his and the way she let herself go, her muscles relaxing under his touch confirmed she liked it. They stayed like that for a while, face to face, her hand in his, resting on Sansa's thigh, until she broke the silence.

"What did you do after you left, seven years ago?" she asked.

Did his fingers tense, after he heard her question? He took a sharp intake of breath, then he tried to collect his senses. "I've been to places. I met people, not the kind you want to hang out with. I've done bad things too." Around him, the lights, the customers and the whole tavern seemed to reel. "This- This is the place where I got shot at, Sansa."

She gasped in shock, her eyes widening like saucers. "What are you talking about? Someone shot at you here, in this bar? Why did you take me here, then?" She thinks it's tasteless, morbid perhaps.

He shrugged. "This place has changed. We've changed too." He called himself a fucking coward, a wimp for not telling her straight away what this was all about.

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut, then when she opened them again, she said, softening: "What happened? Who shot at you?"

"The tavern you're in has nothing to do with what the Crossroads looked like at the time. The new owner - the girl who served us - she's Masha Heddle's niece. Masha owned this place for years. She was murdered and after her death, there were more thieves, crooks and convicted felons here than in the local prison. I was reckless at that time - just the way I was when I left you - and-" Her blue eyes, glistening with unshed tears, locked with his. "And when I arrived here, three of my fucking brother's men recognized me. We fought, inside, at first, then in the parking lot."

It took him some time to realize Sansa's other hand rested on his, in a protective gesture. He went on: "I killed one of these bastards, but I got shot at."

"You said they were three. What about the two other men?" she inquired.

"They were already dead. So I got into the car and we ran off." Her eyes narrowed when he said "we". There's no way to avoid it, now. "I wasn't alone, Sansa. Your sister was with me."

Her two hands withdrew immediately, leaving an unpleasant sensation of coolness on his skin. She felt betrayed, he could tell it.

"Arya? What was she doing with you?" He noticed that she struggled not to shout and her neighbor glanced at them suspiciously.

"I told you I did bad things in my life. You know what I'm capable of, little bird. After I ran into your sister, I thought I could… extort money from your family before giving Arya back to your uncle."

"Why do you tell me all this only now?" she accused him.

"Because I knew you would give me that look." Ignoring the way she cringed and her frown, he cupped her chin. "The look the little bird gives me when she's upset and she wants me to fuck off." Reluctant at first, she sniffed, then she finally met his eyes.

"Where was Arya during the gunfire?" she asked.

Sandor hesitated, then he rasped: "I'm not going to lie to you, Sansa. She shot the two other guys. A kid, probably Arya's age and a motherfucker she had met before. After that, we ran off, as I said. We didn't go very far. I was fucking bleeding."

"So Arya took you to the hospital?" She can't imagine her bloody sister not doing her best to keep me alive. A long time ago, he would have found pathetic the way she trusted Arya because he couldn't fathom what love between siblings meant; now her faith in her wild, hot-tempered sister just seemed strange and fascinating.

He shook his head. "No. When I realized I was dying, I told her to take me out of the car and to shoot me there, on the roadside." He pointed at his chest. "Right in the heart. She refused, left me on the yellow grass, got back into the car and she disappeared." After a quick glance at the counter, he told himself emptying his glass of scotch might help, so he threw it back; the liquid burned down his throat. "Some people found me on the roadside, they took me to Quiet Isle General Hospital and that's how I met your boss. I never saw your sister again."

His story visibly shook her and for long seconds, she remained motionless, as if paralyzed. "Why didn't she take you to the hospital?" she asked, brow furrowed. It doesn't make any sense for her.

"Sansa, your sister had just killed two people, I had a gunshot wound. The cops would have arrested her. I'm gonna be honest with you: I used to hate her for leaving me alone, dying, and for refusing to kill me. Today, I understand. Because your sister fucking hated me and because she wanted to take off. I was a bastard and a dead weight, so she left me when I gave her a fucking opportunity to do so. End of story." Some details were best ignored: he didn't want Sansa to know how much he had regretted her absence when lying on the roadside, how much he wanted her cool hands on his burning forehead, nor how pointless his own existence had seemed at that very moment, when everything was about to fade into blackness.

"So you don't know where she is?" Her voice was tinged with wariness.

"I heard she was abroad, but that's all I know."

Regardless of her make-up, Sansa sunk her face in the palm of her hand. "I need another drink."

Sandor called the bartender, ordered two more glasses and turned his attention to the little bird. She faced the counter now and absentmindedly played with the coaster, until Jeyne Heddle came back with a bottle of J&B and a knowing look that said "Lovers' quarrel: I've been there". That was what their body language shouted: Sansa, staring at the counter, ignored him, while he was still on the side, facing her sulky form.

"You have every right to be mad at me," he whispered. "If you leave now, or if you want me leave, I'll understand." I'll step aside. I already did it once.

Without looking at him, she shook her head. "I want you to stay. So much for that celebration about my divorce, huh?" Behind Sandor, a woman laughed heartily, soon followed by her male companions, and their high spirits underlined the gloominess that had fallen on them. "Why are you so honest?" she suddenly asked him swiveling her head.

"Why are you so sweet?" he said in echo.

"Sandor, I- I mean it. Why are you so honest, why do you tell me something that will upset me? That's something I never understood, that… habit you have to tell people the naked truth instead of wrapping it up."

"There's no way to wrap it up. This place - the Crossroads - was seedy back then, I was a bastard who failed to ransom a teenager and... your sister and I killed three people."

At that very moment, Sansa Stark did something that stunned him: she wiped away a tear that rolled down her cheek and she grabbed his hand. After she collected herself, she asked again: "What happened to you once you arrived at the hospital? Did the cops arrest you?"

"I was a wreck, so they left me alone for a while. The Elder Brother must have felt like he had a bad karma, because he insisted on finding a lawyer for me; he even found someone who had watched the gunfire and who testified I shot in self-defense. I was released: a fucking nonsense, given all the things I did prior to that, but I didn't complain. I kept a low profile until the Lannisters lost their influence. Then Barristan said he wanted to retire; I already worked at the gym, so you can say it was the natural course of events."

Sansa shook her head in disbelief: "Bad karma? That's how you explain why the Elder Brother helped you? For God's sake, Sandor…"

He shrugged, feeling uncomfortable with the whys and wherefores of people's acts of kindness towards him. As his eyes fell away from her, he realized their glasses were untouched so far.

"I'm sorry," he rasped, one elbow rooted to the countertop and ducking his head to make eye contact with her. "You wanted to celebrate and I screwed up, with my ramblings about your sister."

Sansa didn't answer at first and only squeezed his fingers gently; when she locked eyes with him, she exhaled a deep breath. "I'm glad you brought it up. And I won't let all this get under my skin. It's... part of the process." As if she noticed his furrowed brow, she went on: "I suppose everybody expected me to stay in the North after I ran away. They thought I would, I don't know, take care of the Stark legacy. I thought I would do that, too, like a dutiful daughter. The thing is, I can't live according to what people think I should do. I don't want them to think of me as the heiress of Winterfell, because that's not who I am. And to be honest, I'm not sure I'm able to shoulder that responsibility for now."

Again, the pressure on his fingers increased slightly, as if she found courage in his touch. "Maybe I'll come back North someday, but for now, I don't want to live in the past. Coming here was part of that process; listening to what you had to say about Arya and not letting my emotions get the upper hand is important too. Blaming you won't bring her back. At least, you kept her safe for a while."

"So you don't hold it against me?"

A smile graced her lips. "I don't blame you for telling me the truth. What I can hold against you, however, are these terrible flirting techniques you have, Sandor Clegane. You're the only man I know who takes his date to the place where he got shot at." Her eyes sparkling with mischief, he watched as she observed his reaction. "Come on, it's your cue," her blue gaze said.

"I didn't think it was a date," was all he could find.

"Well, it's not a date anymore, now that I have this mental image of you, bleeding in a ditch," she teased. "You'll have to do better next time." She sat up straight on the bar stool, repressing a smile like the proper little lady she was.

Next time. Next time? He leaned forward until he breathed in the scent of her perfume; she probably could smell his Cologne. "What if I leave the bar and come back? I want another chance and you deserve a better celebration of your divorce with this asshole."

"I'm afraid you'll still have to make up for it," she replied, her assent disguised in a pout. Feigned haughtiness made her even more irresistible; he craved to kiss her. On her lips and basically, everywhere else.

His face was still inches of hers. "I can think of a way to make amends," he growled. He played with her nerves, because her eyes widened at that before she regained her composure. "Don't move, I'll be right back."

While he stood up straight and walked to the door, he felt the perplexed gaze of the other customers and hers, warm and curious. Outside, it was dark and the only things that proved he wasn't alone were the bright red embers of two cigarettes and the smell of smoke that tickled his nostrils. For a second, he considered the opportunity of having a smoke, because he craved a cigarette, but the little bird was waiting for him inside. Come back and make it right. Smiling, he took a sharp intake of breath to enjoy the faint scent of tobacco, gave a last look at the quiet surroundings of the Crossroads and he walked back inside.

After the silence of the parking lot, the atmosphere inside the Crossroads, hot and almost clammy, struck him. Leaving behind him a couple making out by the entrance door - are they even able to reach the back seat of their car? he asked himself - he strode towards the counter. Make it right, make her laugh if possible… Fuck. He stopped in his tracks when spotting a brown-haired man standing next to her, ready to sit down on Sandor's bar stool. He was one of the young pricks who had eyed Sansa right after their arrival. Asshole. You don't know what you're doing. He remembered how anger had built inside him, years before, when locking eyes with Polliver, but it was entirely different; he was dangerous and there were only dangerous people around him. Today that kid would get away with no more than an intense feeling of humiliation emphasized by his buddies' presence and an epic memory he would tell his grand-children, slightly changing the outcome, perhaps.

Coming closer, Sandor heard Sansa's polite yet annoyed voice: "... waiting for someone." She still had her back to him and the fucker who was daring enough to believe he could take Sandor's seat was too busy ogling her to notice his looming form. "Well, looks like he's here. Hi, Sandor," she went on, as if he had been gone for a while. Her eyes lingered on Sandor with something akin to relief. "Get rid of him, please," her pout said.

The young man, average in height and build, probably a student on a pub crawl with his friends, swallowed hard at his sight, yet he didn't move.

"What do you think you're doing here?" Sandor rasped.

"I- I'm talking to this girl," he slurred, pathetic but electrified by his friends' eyes on him. Sandor heard them laughing behind.

"This is my seat and this is my glass of scotch," Sandor explained, his tone as steady as possible although something inside him wanted to strangle the boy. "And she's not your girl either."

Sansa bit her lip at that. Was she exasperated by his possessiveness or did she feel awkward because of what his words conveyed? He couldn't tell, and his inability to decipher her thoughts, although now familiar, only increased the speed of his pulse. The guy looked hard at him, vaguely disgusted by Sandor's burned face and already too drunk to notice how his rival towered above him.

"Fuck off," Sandor commanded as the other one remained silent and motionless.

"Fuck off yourself!" Behind Sandor, the cluster of friends - visibly as drunk and as stupid as the tool who stood in front of him - laughed again.

A sarcastic smile twitched the burned corner of his mouth. "Go back to your seat. The lady told me she wanted to have a nice moment and I'd be sorry to crush your head against the countertop with her watching."

The asshole's eyes narrowed. In all likelihood, alcohol made him uninhibited. "I don't know, man." He looked around, pursing his lips, his gaze sweeping the empty bar stool, the glass and finally Sansa. "I don't see your name on these things." In the meanwhile, a younger, shorter version of Jeyne Heddle who could only be her little sister appeared behind the counter and placed Sandor's glass a bit further, next to Sansa's. Good girl; she reads my thoughts. Around them, people had stopped talking and Sandor felt their stare on his face, on his broad shoulders and on his clenched fists. They apparently waited for the moment when things would go south, expecting Sandor to do something wild. The thrill of a dogfight, he thought.

"You'd better go," Sansa told their uninvited guest. Her tone was dry and cutting, yet he shrugged, chuckling at her words.

Sandor only needed a signal to give the boy a lesson; when the young prick made a slight movement suggesting he was about to sit down on the bar stool, Sandor yanked the collar of his shirt then, by a downward movement, he crushed the boy's head against the countertop. The right side of his face flattened against the hard surface of the counter, the intruder squealed; after a few gasps of surprise, most customers started to laugh.

Merciless, Sandor held his victim firmly despite his poor attempts to wriggle away; like some insect pinned by an entomologist, he flailed in vain. Sandor leaned over him and whispered in his ear: "Didn't your mother tell you not to insist when a lady says no?"

The boy tried to look up at Sandor, even though his uncomfortable position made it barely possible. There were fear, resentment and shame in his dull blue eyes; sickened, Sandor let go of him so that he could stagger towards the table where his friends were gathered. A half-smile lit Sansa's face as Sandor finally sat down next to her, heaving a sigh.

"Must feel good to be your girl," she commented. "Always ready to fight for what's yours."

He shrugged, ashamed to realize he had never been in what she could call a long-term relationship. "Don't know that, little bird."

"My ex-husband was ready to share me with a man old enough to be my father, so I see a huge difference. Still…" Her voice changed, becoming playfully arrogant. "... you'll have to make up for that, too. A brawl isn't what I imagined for the rest of the evening."

Shoulders hunched so that he was eye-level with her, he rasped: "And what is it you have in mind for the rest of the evening? You make me curious, girl." The innuendo had poured out of his lips before he realized it; that was something that often happened when he ran into Sansa Stark, years before, because he loved to scandalize her and also because he was always in the mood for suggestive remarks with her.

As expected, she blushed and her eyes darted away from him, before settling on their glasses. Her back stiffened as she regained her composure. "We should drink. You asked for another chance, you make a toast." All that feigned confidence made him want to disturb her a bit more. I want her to squirm under my gaze, he decided. The discomfort in his pants came back and he wondered if she would notice it or not. All he knew was that he would not try to hide it. I want her badly and she knows it: I'm not going to throw myself on her, but I won't pretend either. I'm done with shitty games.

Still faking composure although her red cheeks betrayed her, Sansa carefully pushed his glass and its coaster towards him, thus encouraging him to make another toast.

"Here's to the little bird and to all the things that make her blush prettily." Everything about him, from his husky voice to his deliberately slow delivery, from his stare to his attitude, leaning towards her, had but one and only one aim: seeing her turning red, from hairline to cleavage. A triumphant smile on his lips, he watched her going purple and shaking her head as if to remove whatever dirty thoughts his words suggested. Sandor couldn't help thinking of her in his bed, squirming under his gaze and he could tell she was fighting to confine that idea to the back of her mind.

He was about to raise his glass to his lips when she stopped him. Still blushing, she cleared her throat, then offered: "To Sandor and to his bad manners, for I missed them."

They drank.

Sandor had promised to make things right and he did: he made her laugh, he made her talk about her beloved little brother and her great-uncle, he told her stories about the Elder Brother. He made her blush again, with his innuendos. He never let her out of his sight, afraid the spell would break if he turned his attention to something else, even for a split second. His little bird was sitting next to him, facing him just like he faced her. With one elbow resting on the counter, she mirrored his attitude, and from time to time, their fingers brushed or her hand accidentally touched his; they ignored the rest of the world and he was grateful for that. She laughed at his comments and she let him drink in her sight. She enjoyed her time with him and more than once, he told himself it was too fucking good to be true.

That peplum top, or whatever it was called, was a cruel way to tease him, because he couldn't see anything, yet the damn thing underlined her curves. He wanted to wrap his arms around her narrow waist, to run his hands down the smooth skin of her bare arms. For the first time in his life, he understood why the patronesses in his hometown said the V neckline was a devilish invention: it showed him the shadow gathering where the valley of her breasts began, whenever Sansa leaned forward to whisper something in his ear, but he couldn't see anything else, and that - that insult to his most primal needs, see and touch - was unfair. Her breasts looked round and firm underneath the ivory fabric of the top. Tantalizing. He pictured himself undressing her and he mentally shook his head. Sacrilegious, even now that she was a grown woman, but he had never been a godly man.

When Sansa began to sway on her seat and when the soft lilt of her laughter resonated whether he said something funny or not, he understood it was time to go and he turned to the bartender.

"One for the road?" Jeyne Heddle suggested.

"No, thanks."

He retrieved a couple of banknotes from his wallet, slid them between his glass and the coaster and got on his feet. Jeyne smiled at them as he grabbed Sansa's wrist to prevent her from falling, when she reached her feet to the floor. She was a bit tipsy and he felt obliged to protect her.

"Good night, then," Jeyne whispered with a knowing look. Whatever that woman imagines, she's wrong, he complained inwardly. I didn't get Sansa drunk and I'm not going to take advantage of her. Not like that.

As they walked out of the Crossroads, Sansa stumbled and caught hold of his biceps. Flushed, she didn't refuse when he offered her his arm. "You're a knight in shining armor," she teased.

"Don't call me that."

Before pushing open the door, he glanced behind him and noticed the bunch of students who had leered at Sansa had disappeared while he paid the check. Strange. They were sitting there a minute before. He wasn't seeing things; crumpled banknotes were still on the table.

They nonetheless exited the tavern and crossed the parking lot, before he heard hurried footsteps behind him. He turned around just in time to dodge the bottle the brown-haired prick who had bothered Sansa an hour before waved. Two of his friends were behind him.

"Stay away," Sandor hissed, addressing Sansa. "And when I say "run", you run." He just hoped she was steady enough on her feet.

The student he had humiliated mumbled incoherent things about his pride and the vengeance he sought. One of his friends tried to reason him, except he was drunk too; Sandor knew by experience alcohol didn't make anyone eloquent. The third one didn't say anything, ready to keep score. In the circle of light the street lamp provided, the brown-haired student giggled at his friend's arguments and waved his bottle once more, trying to look ferocious.

"Drop that damn bottle!" Sansa advised him. "Drop it and leave us alone."

The moment he raised his empty bottle again, Sandor made him lose his balance. The bottle crashed to the ground, the shattered pieces of glass twinkling under the electric light. A hammerlock and the boy was on his knees, begging.

While holding the student firmly, Sandor looked up at his two friends who gaped. "Want me to go on?" he grunted, his face distorted by a cold rage. "What's wrong with you? Sober up in your car or call a cab to drive him home, I don't give a shit, but get lost or I'll hurt him for good."

They nodded with a frightened look and when Sandor snatched his wrist away from the boy, the three of them ran to the opposite side of the parking lot, without ever looking at him.

He finally turned to Sansa who hugged herself. "You're OK, little bird?"

She nodded, taking tentative steps toward him. "So the Hound didn't disappear?" she inquired, half-smiling. "Were you ready to fight for me?"

"What do you think?" He shrugged, embarrassed by her question and clutching to the belief that she would never ask it if it were not for the Scotch she had drunk.

Sansa gave him a long look and closed the distance between them. "I think you always wanted to be my hero, somehow."

Alcohol-induced jokes. Great, he mused, although the idea Scotch might loosen her tongue and make her say truths she would never confess otherwise crossed his mind. "Let me walk you home," he sighed.

As she glanced behind them from time to time, he understood the incident in the parking lot had frightened her. The little bird was also cold and she slipped her hand in his, staying close, her shoulder bumping against him until he wrapped his arm around her waist. After a while, she hummed and made small talk, but when they arrived in the parking lot of her condominium, her tone changed slightly.

"I won't let you drive home," she said, suddenly serious. "You drank a lot too and I don't want you to have troubles." As he refused, she insisted. "You're not able to drive now. I'd say you did it on purpose to be sure I'll offer you to spend the night here, but I don't mind, really: you can stay." Alcohol made her snuggle against him and Sandor realized he could have her that night if he wanted. Should he claim her mouth, she was too grateful and too weak to protest if he tried to take her. Except I want her to recall our first night together, if we ever share the same bed.

One slender arm snaked around his neck until he lifted his hands in acquiescence. They were in front of Sansa's door and he had to restrain himself from pinning her to the wall. "It's OK. I'll take the couch."

The spotlights of the parking lot and the outdoor staircase lit her face and he saw her mischievous smile when he mentioned the couch. He tried to ignore her lascivious gaze while she looked for her keys in her purse, glancing at him over her shoulder from time to time.

She didn't make any fuss once inside, as if she sobered up at the sight of her parents' furniture in the living-room. Ever the proper little lady, she gave him a blanket and a pillow and she wished him good night, before disappearing into her bedroom.

The dull pain in his back and the headache slowly building inside his skull awakened him, unless it was the sizzle of something in the frying pan. Had he left gas cooker on, the night before? Fire… Startled by the prospect of the kitchen burning, he sat up hurriedly and realized he wasn't in his bedroom. The blanket was soft under his fingers but the couch rather uncomfortable for his back. He grunted, trying to adjust his sleepy eyes to the dim light. Where am I?

Soon enough, Sansa's voice resonated from behind him and he remembered he had spent the night on her couch, after their evening at the Crossroads. "Are you awake, Sandor? I didn't want to disturb you while you slept, so I only turned on the kitchen light, but maybe I can draw the curtains now?"

After rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, he dangled his feet over the side of the couch and pushed aside the blanket. Sansa had drawn the curtains before disappearing again; when she came back from the small open kitchen, she held out to him a glass of water with an aspirin tablet. He mumbled his thanks and took it, suddenly fascinated by the myriad of tiny bubbles rising to the surface and bursting. The moment he looked up at her, he noticed she held the same glass in her hand, although she didn't look miserable.

Her damp hair tied back in a messy bun, she looked down at him, smiling. With her light gray tank top, her flowery skater skirt and her bare feet, she looked relaxed. At long last, I can see her legs. Long and slender, they didn't have that weird orange color self-tanning cream gave to many young women's skin. In his boxing gym, Sandor had seen some girls proud of their fake tan and he knew he didn't like that. On the contrary, Sansa's creamy skin was mouth-watering.

"Cheers," she said playfully, leaning forward. They clinked glasses. "Did you sleep well?"

He nodded, after taking a long gulp. The bitter taste of aspirin made him wince. "What time is it?"

"It's eight o'clock. If you're supposed to open the boxing gym this morning, you should take a shower here and have breakfast with me, before going to the gym. Not sure you have enough time to go back to your place."

Despite his hangover, her suggestion forced a smile out of him. "You planned everything, didn't you?" Sansa shrugged, then she emptied her glass. "You look just fine for someone who drank a lot last night," he added, sitting back in the couch.

He expected a response whether it was impish or more serious, but instead she remained silent until a deep blush colored her cheeks. That was when he realized she was gazing at his naked chest. Fuck. That damn tattoo. He didn't move though and even rested his arm on the back of the couch to offer her a better view on his torso. Don't fool yourself, girl, you know what the letter 'S' means for me.

Sansa shifted from foot to foot now. "Would you like to eat? You must be hungry. I wish I had flour to make some pancakes, but I don't so I already fried some bacon. Do you want eggs?"

Her chirping, a tell-tale sign of her nervousness, filled Sandor with pride, because even now, after she had been married to a guy who was both handsome - according to the gossips - and wealthy, she was obviously attracted to him, a man who was at odds with common standards of beauty and success.

"Would you feel more comfortable if I put on a shirt?" he inquired, ignoring her question.

"Yes… I mean no. Oh, God… Do as you wish... Do you want eggs?" She sounded hesitating as if she feared there was a double entendre in her words.

Sandor raised to his full height and took a step toward her. "I'd like that, little bird. I'm starving."

Her blue eyes widened slightly at that. Glancing down at her arms, he noticed the tiny bumps on her skin. Goosebumps. I'd stake my life on it. Is she scared, cold or aroused? I hope it's the latter. She walked back to the small open kitchen, Sandor on her heels.

He asked if she wanted some help, but as she said no with a graceful smile, he stood there, leaning against a cupboard, watching as she prepared the breakfast. From time to time, she swiveled her head to catch a glimpse at his form and she smiled.

They ate on the counter, as an awkward silence stretched between them. She eventually told him she had to go to the hospital after lunch and asked some random questions about the boxing gym, in a poor attempt to distract herself from the gothic letter on his chest.

He insisted to help her wash the dishes, enjoying every moment spent next to his little bird, then he took a shower. For the rest of the day, his hair and skin would smell of her and he was ready to endure the jokes the kids never failed to make when they found an opportunity.

She was sitting cross-legged on the couch, reading a book when he came back from the bathroom.

"I'd better go," he said, trying to suppress the hint of disappointment in his tone.

Slowly, she got up and crossed the room to stop at arm-length of him. "I really had a good time, Sandor."

"In spite of… in spite of everything?" he muttered, pathetically uncertain. Can she forgive me for what I told her about her sister?

"Yes, in spite of that rude student and in spite of your… confessions." She paused, unease tangible in her attitude, eyes downcast and hands clasped in front of her.

"I had a good time last night, but…"

But was the worst fucking word, in Sandor's experience: it only promised trouble, suffering and disillusion. Friendzone, in this case. "I had a good time yesterday, but I'd rather be your friend." Spit it out, girl.

"But I want a real date," she added, flushed and nonetheless holding his gaze. "What are you doing on Friday night?"

"Nothing." She had hardly finished her question that his answer came up. Don't show her how desperate you are, Dog, he scolded himself. However, he sensed it didn't matter anymore now that she made it clear: she wanted to see him again. "What do you want to do?" he rasped.

"I don't know. I'd like to go somewhere quiet where nobody tries to steal your seat." She wriggled her hands, blushing prettily.

"What about my place?" he heard himself ask.

Her cheeks now aflame, she nodded. "That's a good idea, I never saw your house. Nor the boxing gym… Should I join you at the boxing gym or at your place?"

Wherever you want, he told himself. Fuck, I don't care if we see each other again in the boxing gym or under a bus shelter. He didn't really listened to the rest of the conversation, focused on the idea that today was Wednesday and that waiting until Friday night to see her again seemed like an eternity.

To Guest: Thank you for your kind words! I'm glad you like my Rickon. "Rebel and smart", that's exactly how I imagine him in the future. Hope you enjoyed this chapter too...