Sandor slices through the skinny neck of the first man like he's cutting off a hunk of meat for supper. The detached head falls to the ground with an audible thunk that makes Sansa cringe. The image is too familiar. Bile rises in her stomach as she remembers the way her own father's head was chopped off, as she was forced to watch his punishment, no, his murder. She falls back onto the ground, hands grasping piles of dead leaves, but she can't pull her eyes away.

The headless body drops to the floor as Sandor approaches the remaining man. His dark eyes are filled with fury, and Sansa's attacker raises his hands in surrender. But Sandor does not deal with mercy, and he sticks the point of his sword through the soft belly of the plunderer, blood spurting out, streaking across Sandor's black clothing. The cry of pain is loud, curdling. The man tries to plug the gaping hole in his midriff, but it's of no use. Sandor strikes him a second time, across the neck, and a second headless man falls to the ground, joining his companion in a dripping pile of blood.

Sandor is standing over the two men, staring with that blank, calculated look. He pulls off a rag from his belt and uses it to wipe off his bloodied blade. Sansa tries to control her breathing, but too much has happened too quickly. Her father's death is now on the forefront of her consciousness, a memory she has tried to bury so many times. And what if Sandor hadn't showed up in time? She would have been raped or worse.

"Fancy that," Sandor says as he continues to clean his blade. "I guess there were some savages around here after all." He glances at Sansa, and for just a moment, she sees an unfamiliar emotion flicker through his gaze. Concern, maybe? "You'd better get off the ground. There could be some more around. We should get moving."

He moves towards Sansa and offers her a red-stained hand. She grasps it tightly, and he lifts her to her feet. The small contact sets her nerves on edge. His calloused grip is surprisingly warm. When he lets go, she finds herself standing on very unsteady feet. "Help me check the bodies," he says. "Let's see if they managed to steal anything good before I came along."

The thought of touching headless, bloody men makes Sansa want to vomit, her morning's breakfast resting uneasy in her agitated stomach, but she does as Sandor asks. Her hands shake as she pads down the clothing of the taller dead man, yet to her small pleasure, she quickly encounters a full pocket. She extracts a handful of gold coins and small jewels, silver necklaces and rings with valuable stones. In the pile, there's also a metal nametag, the type that were given to soldiers during the war: "Peter Anthony, #53562, North's Army."

Sansa's face pales, and Sandor notices. "What is it, girl?" He steps closer and sees the jewels. "Oh, good. They were worth something after all. Let me see them." Sansa silently hands over the stash of goods, all except the metal token. Noticing her silence, Sandor asks. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"He was one of my brother's men, during the war. He's still carrying around his token." Confused emotions run through her. What is a war veteran doing in the middle of the forest, living off of raping and pillaging? Why isn't he at home with a good job and a stipend?

Sandor sees the questions on Sansa's face. "He was probably a deserter. Don't worry yourself, girl."

"But what if he wasn't?" Sansa asks. "Aren't veterans supposed to be provided for?"

"Aye, but even a winning country isn't always rich after a war. There's damage to be repaired, and your brother and his treasury can't support every man who fought in the effort."

"Still," Sansa says, "It feels wrong."

Sandor is picking through the jewels until he pulls out one small, gold ring. He puts the rest of the treasure in his deep pockets. "There's a lot of wrong in this world. Best to just survive and let someone else worry about the rest." He twirls the gold ring before offering it to Sansa. "Here, take it."

Sansa tries to keep her face from flushing. Sandor is giving her a gift. Even if she just pulled it out of a dead man's pocket, it's still a gift. Sandor killed the men, and by his rights, the bounty belongs to him. "I shouldn't," she says. "You've done enough just by saving me."

"I want you to have it. My sister used to have a ring just like it, and you remind me of her."

Sansa furrows her brow. "You have a sister?"

"A long time ago, I did. Here. Take it." Quickly realizing they've breached a sensitive topic, Sansa shuts her mouth and accepts the ring. It's small, but there are tiny sapphire stones garnishing the top. Sapphire is a stone of the North, and it's comforting to slip the little treasure onto her finger.

"Thank you."

Sandor grunts in response. He finishes checking the men for anything else of value, only finding a couple of dull knives and a pouch of dried meat and fruit. "Come on, let's get going," he says, looking at the horizon. The sun is already past its midday position. "We've lost time. We need to ride a few hours from here before the sun goes down, so that we can hunt."

"Wait! I did hunt- at least, before the men came, I did." Sansa runs over to where she dropped the rabbit. She picks it up, dusting it off. "It's a bit dirty, but it should still be good."

Sandor looks impressed, and that small, close-mouthed smile reappears. "Not bad, little bird."

The familiar name pleases Sansa. It feels affectionate, familiar. She looks into Sandor's dark eyes and for the thousandth time, wonders how he feels about her. She cannot ignore her attraction to this strange, older man, but does he still feel for her? Or was their kiss caused by some sort of fleeting attraction, lust in a time of war and confusion? "Thank you," she responds, trying to push away these thoughts. It's probably best to stay on these distant, yet friendly terms. After all, he's the only person she can depend on until they reach Winterfell. "I would have hunted more, but then-" Sansa shivers. She still can't believe what almost befell her.

"It's all right. If we don't have time to hunt tonight, this will stay us until tomorrow." He takes the rabbit and ties it around his belt. "Come. Let's ride."

The temperature drops quickly with the fading sun, and Sansa shivers, pulling her cloak tightly around her. She leans towards the fire, the crackling twigs and smoky leaves, trying to gather the little warmth it gives off. Sandor looks over at her as he cooks the raw, rabbit meat. "Cold?" He asks. "I thought you were a child of the North."

Girl, a child, why won't he stop calling me these things, Sansa thinks. After all, even if I was young when we were together in King's Landing, I'm a fully grown woman now. "I guess I've been South for too long. Besides, at Petyr's, I spent many of my days tucked under lambskin covers with a large fireplace constantly burning at my bedside."

"Here. Take this." Sandor slides out of his thick, fur cloak and passes it to Sansa. The material weighs heavily in her hands.

"Don't you need it?"

Sandor shakes his head. "I don't get cold." His eyes narrow, and his voice lowers. "I guess you could say the fire has stayed with me my entire life."

Sansa pities Sandor, for the story of his burns, the path of his life. But he's a strong, closed-off man, and pity won't do him any good. She accepts the cloak and pulls it around her slim shoulders. It smells like the forest and musk and mint, and she breathes in the heady scent, hoping it clings to her after she returns his cloak. "Thank you." Sandor nods, and they continue to sit in silence, watching the meat slowly cook and darken. "What will you do," Sansa asks, "When we get to the North? Will you stay?"

"I'll go where there's work to be found."

"I'm sure my brother would love for nothing more than a practiced guard at his side," Sansa says, perhaps too eagerly. Something distasteful twists in her stomach when she imagines Sandor disappearing from her life a second time. The more days they spend together, the less she can imagine saying goodbye to the faithful hound. "He's a good man. He'll pay you well to work for him."

"I'm not looking for the sort of work."

"What do you mean that sort? Isn't guarding what you're doing now?"

"I wouldn't want to be tied down to the King of the North. I wouldn't want to be tied down to anyone. I take my work on commission now."

Sansa leans forward. "But don't you get sick of constantly moving around? Everyone wants to settle eventually."

"Not me."

"Why not?"

Sandor sighs and looks up. His gaze is agitated, but he keeps talking anyways. "Because men like me don't settle down. We've no one to settle with."

"What do you mean?"

"You ask a lot of questions, girl."

"You're a hard person to get answers out of, boy."

Sandor smirks, but stays silent. He continues to cook the rabbit until its charred skin is starting to flake off into the wind. He pulls it off the spit and serves Sansa her portion. Their meal is silent, save the sound of chewing and the quiet whispers of the forest. And then, as Sansa is finishing her last bite, without prompting, Sandor says, "I don't mean to be short with you, but there are lot of things I don't like talking about, and you need to accept that. I like you well enough, so respect my space, and we'll get along fine."

But I don't want to respect your space. I don't want there to be any space between us. There's something here, and if you would just open up to me, than I'm sure- "All right," Sansa says. "I understand."

"Good." Sandor licks his lips, greasy from the rabbit and looks into the sky. "This winds are picking up. We should head out early tomorrow so we can ride with the sun."

"How long do you think it'll be until we reach Winterfell?"

"A week. Maybe two. Just depends if the road is good to us."

Sansa nods. She stands up, and is about to gather her things for bed, when she turns to Sandor. She approaches him slowly, and his dark, unreadable eyes follow her advance. Sansa kneels down so she can look at him, eye-to-eye. "I'd like to thank you," she says. "For saving me today. If you weren't there, well, I just wanted to say thank you."

Sansa swears that his scarred face softens, and to her shock, his hand reaches up to brush softly across her cheek. The contact almost makes her jump in surprise. It sends her hearts racing, her nerves on fire. If she leaned in, just now, she could kiss him. She remembers those soft lips, and she wants to feel them now. But she doesn't lean forward, and he doesn't kiss her. He simply tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and says. "I'm here to protect you, little bird. Never forget that."

When Sansa falls asleep that night, she dreams of birds and dogs and sunshine and spring.

A/N – Thanks for all of the great reviews! I'm glad you guys like the story so far.

Do you like how this story is a slow-burn? Or do you wish things would progress more quickly?

Thanks for the R&R!