Once again thanks to littlebirdhound for reading this over and helping me with my errors.

Sansa stood in the middle of the loft, contemplating. She had dug out a hollow in the back of the straw pile and made a level sleeping area as Sandor had instructed. We will both sleep here, alone. She spread Stranger's saddle blanket atop the straw and lay Sandor's bedroll on one side with the bedroll she had been given, just slightly away. There is not much room, but surely he will lay his sword between us. It is only proper, she thought, needing to reassure herself.

Sandor had shown her the small loft and hauled up the small bundle of clothing and blankets that the old woman had given her. He hung a lantern from the the low ceiling and muttered that he had to take care of Stranger, and noisily went back down the creaking ladder.

She picked through the several items of clothing for a while, and finding a pair of woolen stockings, Sansa sat on her bed roll, took off her boots, and wiggled her toes. Thank the gods they are fur lined, else my toes would have froze. She pulled on the stockings and neatly placed her boots at the foot of her makeshift bed. I would like to change out of these breeches, they feel so tight and uncomfortable, but where do I change? She tiptoed to the edge of the loft and peered over and saw that Sandor was brushing Stranger, the light from a dirty lantern beside him cast a large shadow across the barn.

"I wish to change, please," Sansa called down in a quiet voice, "I will be quick but please, wait below till I am done."

He stopped brushing Stranger and looked up, staring at her intently. She felt her cheeks redden and she quickly turned around and went back to their sleeping area. Why must he stare at me like that? Gods, my face. So warm.

She reached into the bundle of clothes and pulled out a heavy shift, a pair of long smallclothes, and a brown woolen dress. She looked at the garments and furrowed her brow. How can I possibly wear these? Have I come so far that I must wear a dead peasant's garments? She reversed them and shook her head away at her thoughts. At least they are clean.

Sansa untied her dagger from her waist, and quickly changed, thankful that everything tied in the front. I could not ask Sandor to lace me, she thought remembering how he had placed his hand on her shoulder and cut through her corset laces. It's better this way.

She folded the dress neatly, and wrapped the fur lined cloak the old woman had given her around herself before settling on her bedroll. He will be up here shortly. Gods, why am I so nervous? She remembered the goosebumps that prickled over her arms and shoulders when he grabbed her at the table, when his nose had briefly brushed against her neck. It was not proper at all. And when he sniffed my hair... Why am I having these feelings? It was something she asked herself over and over again, and she felt confused. He is not a proper man, but I let him near me all the same.

Just then, she heard Sandor's approach as he cleared his throat loudly, and Sansa pulled the cloak tighter around her shoulders, watching as he lumbered up the ladder and into view. His tunic was a right mess and his cloak was draped haphazardly across his wide shoulders. Looming over the little nook she had prepared, he snorted and dropped the saddlebags between the bedrolls. He then carefully set down a small pot of clean, hot water.

Sansa watched as he rifled through the bags and pulled out a worn brown tunic, placing a needle and the old woman's brew on it, and sat down. He looks much too large to be sitting here. He fills up the space. As if he felt the weight of her watching his every move, Sandor looked up and grinned tiredly at her.

"You might want to hide your little eyes, girl," He tentatively reached behind his head. "Need to take this off and clean up this mess you made of me. And a needle going through my flesh might not suit a lady such as yourself," he rasped, pulling the tunic over his head in one fluid motion.

Sansa watched him grimace when the soft material of the makeshift bandages from her shift, caught on the now crusted wound. He used his dagger and cut them away quickly.

Immediately, she turned her head away, not being quite sure if it was the sudden confrontation of his bare chest or the unsightly wound that prompted her. Though, when she felt herself blush again, she had a feeling it was not from the latter.

The sound of him tearing his ruined tunic into scraps returned her gaze back to him once again and she saw that he poured some contents of the flask onto them. He took a quick swig for himself and it made his face contort, his scars looked to wrinkle the side of his face. He let out a heavy breath.

"Seven hells! It's like drinking fire!" He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and handed the flask to Sansa. ""Here, girl. Try some."

Sansa sniffed the contents and shook her head.

"Come on, little bird, no need to be so prim and proper. Might be you have a role to play here as my pretty little wife. You said yourself we've been parted too long. Have a drink to your gods who sent me to you," he said as he began patting at his wound.

"She was asking questions. What did you expect me to say? I told you we should have come up with a story," Sansa replied, annoyed. "And why would I want to taste something so vile?"

Sandor didn't answer, seemingly distracted as he, rather timidly, tried to clean his wound. She sighed loudly and moved toward him. "Give me that," she said holding out her hand. Sandor raised his eyebrow at her, but did not say a word, and handed her the cloth as she handed him back the flask and knelt down beside him.

"Here," she folded the cloth neatly into a square and held it out to him, "put more on here." Sandor took hold of her, his large hand engulfing hers, and in the moment they touched, she felt it again.

This time it was like a sheet of goosebumps covered her from her head to her toes. Suddenly, being this close to him, gave her that strange feeling, and reminded her of the Eyrie when she would wake in the middle of the night, startled, her palms sweaty and her heart thumping madly. It was not a feeling of being scared, she recalled, but a feeling that she would only experience on nights when she dreamed of him. She would lie there in the dark afterward, unsettled by the sensation between her legs that she could never seem to ease, no matter how hard she squeezed her thighs together. The feeling is here, now, with him before me. Why is it I feel this way around him? I used to be frightened of him, of his anger, but now I'm afraid of my own feelings. He would never hurt me, I know, but when I am close to him...

Sansa swallowed hard. In my dreams, the things he does to me and the things he says - Is he capable of such things? Am I?

"Girl," Sandor muttered at her, interrupting her thoughts, "Are you going to sit here all night holding my hand?"

Sansa could feel the heat of her blush, and knowing her face was now a deep red, was thankful for the dim light of the the lantern. She pulled her hand away and tentatively began to dab his wound, trying to ignore his watchful gaze.

As she wiped away the flakes of dried blood, she took the time to quietly observe him. His chest was covered in dark hair and while there were several scars, there was the occasional freckle and she imagined herself drawing a line with her finger to connect them. Is he easily tickled? She glanced up through her lashes. He looks different with a beard. It's rather strange to see a man hairy on one side and scarred on the other. Though he has a look of the North about him. She bit her lip to avoid the smile that was about to cross her face. I never knew a man could be so large, she thought as she took her time and gently pressed the cloth against his chest. Her eyes wandered across his chest and to his heavy shoulders. As her eyes flicked down his muscled arm she noticed his burned arm. I wonder what happened here, is this also from his brother or someone else? Truly you are a warrior with all your scars. It would take more than both my hands to wrap around your arm. Oh blessed Maiden, Sansa stop this, she scolded herself and tore her eyes away and quickly looked up and saw Sandor smirking at her. Sansa cleared her throat and concentrated on her task, trying to ignore the heat on her face and the slight shake in her hands.

When the wound was finally cleaned, she sat back on her knees and watched as Sandor dipped the needle in the brew and attempted to thread it. He tried to focus, his fingers fumbling as he missed the eye hole and snorted his frustrations. Sansa could not help but laugh.

"Here," she said when he looked up and glared at her. "Let me help."

When she quickly threaded it and tied a tiny knot, she handed it back, but had to turn away. I can't watch him do this.

Aside from Sandor's laboured, frustrated grunts, and the occasional nicker from Stranger, it seemed quiet and peaceful there in that old barn. The straw around them acted as an insulator and Sansa felt warm under her cloak, she took a deep breath of cold air and smiled. For the first time since Father was killed, I feel safe. It's strange to be here with Sandor. The last time I saw him he was so angry and crying. The Mother truly did look after him. She began to hum the song from that night.

Looking up towards the roof, she noticed a hole off to the side and she could see the moon brightly shining. It had always been night when I would meet him. Now here we are once again, and he won't take me back to my cage. She felt her eyes fill up with tears. I am free. She stopped humming and turned to Sandor. He was watching her carefully. His hand still holding the needle, the other holding his wound tightly shut. Sansa could not stop the tears from falling.

"Am I free?"

Sandor stilled. He looked up at her, intently, and nodded slowly.

Sansa stood up quickly. "I can leave here, right now, if I wanted to?" She looked back at Sandor. He nodded again. He really means it. He is not here, with me, just to trap me.

Suddenly, she felt overwhelmed and sank to her knees in front of him. Freedom. What do I do with that? What does this mean? She placed her hands on her cheeks and wiped away her tears. She inched closer to him, now kneeling between his long legs, and placed her hands on his thighs as she leaned towards him, peering into his now wide open eyes.

"Am I truly free?" she asked again.

"All men are free till they're caught, little bird. That's life. If you want to leave, I'll not stop you. But you won't last a day out there and I aim to keep you safe."

Sansa nodded slowly as she listened.

"Now, I won't keep you caged up," he continued, "You're free in my company, too. But your sword skills are shit," he rasped as he pointed to his wound. "The only thing I ask is that while you're with me, you stay close and do as I say when danger is afoot. I'll you get somewhere safe and when this war is over. You'll never have to fear being caught again. I'll make sure of it." He declared firmly to her.

Sansa looked him in the eye. Suddenly it was not hard to do. He always speaks plainly to me. Does he feel that he owes it to me, to make some sort of vow to protect me? Truly, he is sorry for that night and maybe he really is atoning for what he did. For all his cruel words. For the dagger to my throat. She nodded and wiped the remaining tears, and spoke no more of it.

"Well, I better get on with it, little bird," he said quietly, looking back at his meager progress.

"Let me," she offered.

Sandor glanced at her and nodded in agreement and held out the needle.

Sansa looked at the wound and took the needle from his hand. "I didn't know it was you when you threw yourself over me. I was truly frightened and I just wanted to protect myself. You should have said something, called out to me. I could have slit your throat. How could I ever live myself if I killed you," she said in a shaky voice.

Sandor barked out a loud laugh. "You kill me? Ah, the little bird did well. Might be you should have slit my throat. What if I was someone else?"

Sansa just shook her head. I don't want to think about that.

"What do I do? I have embroidered before, but never done something like this."

"Are you sure, girl. Might leave you squeamish."

She drew in a deep breath. "Yes, just tell me what to do."

Sansa grimaced at the first few stitches. She shrieked the first time she poked the needle through his flesh and pulled the thread tight. Stitch by stitch her jaw clenched as she moved slowly across his chest. She knew Sandor was watching her closely, his hands constantly brushing against hers as he held the wound closed. When she was done, she sat back and appraised her work. It was neat and the stitches were as small as she could make them. Sansa felt a slight sense of pride as she gazed upon his chest.

"You did well, little bird. This will be my prettiest scar thus far," Sandor said gruffly clearing his throat.

She looked up at him with a sad smile on her face. "My sister would never believe that I took down the Hound and then stitched him up. If she knew what I did to you she would be proud of me."

Just then she felt the familiar burn of tears stinging her eyes and she went to stand up. I can't keep letting him see me cry. Sandor reached out to her arm, stilling her. She looked at him once again. His grey eyes suddenly serious.

"Little bird, I need to tell you some things - things about where I've been and what I've seen."

Sansa studied him. Why don't I like the sound of this. He looks hesitant. She settled back down on her knees. Sandor straightened himself, bringing one knee up and stretching out his other leg beside her. Suddenly Sansa realized how improper her location was. She made a move to scramble back, but again, Sandor's hand gently stopped her.

"It's fine girl. I'm not going to bite you. You need to hear me out."

Sansa nodded slowly and settled down between his legs, waiting.

He carefully put on the clean tunic and brushed his hair away from his face. He then looked wearily at her and rested his arm on his knee. What?

"Your sister," he started out, "I found her. Before your mother and kingly brother were..."

Sansa gasped. "You found her? Where? Where is she?" Sansa felt a tightness in her chest and she gripped his knee.

"Let me speak, girl. Oh I found her alright. She got mixed up with the Brotherhood without Banners somehow. Dondarrion, and his lot found her before they found me. I wanted to find my brother and kill him before leaving Westeros for good, but that swine herd stole my winnings from your father's tourney. So I stole her." He looked away and shook his head. "They were going to ransom her to your mother, most like. And I was going to do the same."

Arya would have been safer with Sandor. Maybe he would get cross with her but I know he would try to keep her safe. He would have deserved the ransom, no, a reward. Robb would have done the honourable thing, like father.

Go on, please." she urged, tugging at his hand.

"Heard your uncle was to marry some Frey, so I took your sister to the Twins. Had I known what was to happen..." he shook his head.

"What? Tell me, Sandor?" Sansa urged, tugging at his hand.

"If I knew what was to happen, I'd never have taken her there. Thought I could make some coin, maybe join your brother's service and help find my brother and kill him. It was a fucking bloodbath. I have killed many in my time. It's what I do. Never thought twice. But what they did to your brother...it's something out of Gregor's book," he said, his voice low and angry.

"Did you see my mother before she was killed? My mother…" she whispered, gripping his hand in hers. For several moments, she wept. "I wish I could have seen her one last time. To have her hold me and to tell her that I loved her."

Sandor said nothing, but let her hold his hand as tightly as she could. Sansa looked down at her lap, her tears rolling off her chin. She gazed back up at Sandor. "My sister, where is she?"

"After I took her away from the Twins, I thought to take her to your aunt. Didn't want to take her with me. She's wild. She's too much trouble. "Not like you, you keep your fangs hidden well behind your little courtesies."

"What do you mean 'she's too much trouble'? She's still alive, is she not?" Sansa asked, clasping her hands together. She inhaled a deep, shaky breath, and braced herself.

"She was alive when she left me. I was in a bad way, asked her for mercy. I tried everything, even told her I should have raped you bloody," he rasped. A look of shame came over him and he looked away. "Said I didn't deserve it. She was right."

"Enough. I already forgave you for that night. If I thought you were still a danger, I would have never left with you today."

Sandor looked back up at her, and nodded.

"Did she say where she was going? Was she injured?" Sansa said briskly.

"She mentioned Braavos. Said she had a friend there. She's an angry one. She's seen too much for her age. It changes a person. But last I seen of her she was fine. Angry and seeking revenge, but fine. I have no doubt that she's well."

"She's alive." Sansa whispered. "Gods be good, she's alive, I know it. Is that where you're taking me? To Braavos?" We have to find her.

Sandor shook his head. "I'm sorry, little bird, not enough coin to buy passage. I have an idea where to take you, but I'm keeping it to myself. I need to keep you safe just now, and the less you know, the better." He reached out and gently wiped the tears from her face.

"Listen, girl," he said, patting her shoulder awkwardly, "I'll not sit here and tell you all will be right soon. Might be hard to believe, but I have a sense of what you're going through. I had a mother long ago. A sister, too, and I lost them both. Changed me forever. And what my brother did to my face." He gestured towards the ruin. "Made me who I am. One day I'll tell you some things, little bird, but for now, you just let me take care of things."

Sansa tilted her head and observed him quietly. You have a story don't you? You were alone, too. She rose up and scooted closer to him, surprising him when she placed a hand on both sides of his face and stared into his eyes. He tried to push her away.

"No," she whispered, shaking her head. She brought her face right up his, she could feel his warm breath, heavy on her face. She could not explain why but she gently pushed his hair away from his forehead, and placed a soft kiss upon his forehead.

She pulled away and smiled tremulously. "Thank you, Sandor, and good night." Sansa stood and walked over to her bedroll to lie down. She pulled her cloak tightly around herself and closed her eyes.

Sansa smiled when she heard a faint raspy whisper, "Good night, little bird...thank you."