Their party rode for most of the day. Until darkness spread across the sky like ink leaching into parchment, turning the grim grey clouds to black, and they came to a village with an small wooden inn.

There were forty soldiers in their party—twenty knights of the Vale (a stipulation Littlefinger had insisted on), ten northerners, and ten of Tormund's best warriors—and Sansa herself, who rode with her hood back and snowflakes lacing an ornament of silver and cold in her flaming hair.

She was so beautiful, Tormund thought. And so unreachable.

Her mind was occupied, with images of what—or whom—that he didn't dare guess.

Who was this man that claimed her thoughts? What was he to her?

The question bounced around in his skull with every stride of his horse.

Even after they stabled their horses at the inn. Even after they ate and the men fell to drinking and Sansa retreated to her room at the top of the stairs, and Tormund went to stand guard. He couldn't dislodge the question.

Who was he?

The men were loud downstairs as the night wore on, their voices raucous and echoing. They were warm and fed and there were serving girls to distract them. And so no one heard when Sansa's door creaked open and she pulled Tormund inside. No one heard the door close behind them, or the bolt slide in the lock. And then they were alone.

Inside her room it was black as pitch. No moonlight filtered in from the shuttered window and no torches burned on the wall. In the darkness, Tormund couldn't see. But oh, he could feel.

"I told you I'd come to you tonight," Sansa whispered against his fevered mouth.

He had her up against the door to her room. The soft swells of her breasts pressed against his chest and her leg wrapped around his waist, drawing him in close. She was wearing a shift and nothing else and her skin felt like fire under his incessant hands.

Her body against his was making him insane.

The reasonable part of his brain knew he shouldn't be here. Knew that it was foolish. Idiotic even. Knew that there were forty men downstairs with their heads in their cups, and that twenty of them would have loved nothing more than to kill him just for being a wildling. If they found him with their lady—

He should stop.

It would have been easier to quit breathing.

Tormund pulled Sansa's shift from her shoulders, exposing several inches of silken skin. She gasped when his hands found her breasts and his fingers circled her nipples. Moaned his name. Like he loved.

He lowered his lips to the smooth column of her throat, raining kisses on the sensitive skin there. Her breathing was becoming erratic, hitching in her throat at the sensation of his mouth on her skin, and finally, she moaned so loudly that Tormund pulled away.

"Be quiet, girl," he warned her. "Do you want half the inn to come barging in thinking you're being murdered?"

"No," she said, chastised. Then, "Tormund, are you angry with me?"

There was a nakedness in her voice. A timidity he wasn't used to hearing.

"Does it feel like I'm angry with you?" he said.

He wanted to crush her to him again. Tangle his hands in her hair and carry her to bed. Wanted to lay her down on it and fuck her until morning.

Wanted to know what this man—Sandor Clegane—meant to her.

But who was he to ask? And why would she answer? He'd seen the way she lied. The half-truths she told. She'd as likely lie to him as tell him the truth. And he didn't think he could stand that.

He pulled away from her.

"That wasn't an answer," Sansa said.

"I should go."

He felt around behind her for the door.

"Tormund, please." She placed her hands on his chest. "Talk to me."

He took a long unsteady breath. Released it. Weighed his options and thought oh, fuck it."

"Who is he?" Tormund asked.

"Who?"

"Sandor Clegane. The Hound. Whatever his name is. This man you'd risk your life to see."

Silence greeted his words. Sansa took her hands off his chest.

"He was Joffrey's bodyguard in King's Landing. That's all."

Tormund sighed. She was building up her walls between them.

"Alright then," he said, fumbling for the door. "Good night, m'lady Stark. Sweet dreams."

"Tormund, wait!"

He waited.

The silence stretched between them, punctured only by the sounds of their breathing and the distant echo of voices from the common room.

"He saved my life," Sansa finally said. "In King's Landing, there was a mob. There were men…men who wanted to hurt me…who would have killed me. Sandor risked his life to save me from them when no one else would have. And he stopped Joffrey from hurting me. Whenever he could. He was…kind to me."

"And were you kind to him?"

"What?" she asked. Her voice had gone hard.

What was he doing? What was wrong with him? All he knew was that he couldn't stop.

"Did you lie with him as a sort of thank you for saving me?"

"How dare you." She pushed him hard in the chest. "Get out of my room."

"I would if m'lady wasn't blocking the door."

"Oh." she breathed. "You are so rude."

"Aye, Sansa, I'm a wildling." He took her face in his hands then, though she fought him. "I'm not some lord with a castle and lands. I'm not one of those pretty little knights you like. I'm a fighter. A killer. Nothing more."

"That's not true."

"Isn't it, girl?"

His face was only inches from hers, and even in the darkness he thought he could make out the shape of her lips. If he pulled her against him and devoured those lips like he wanted, what would she do? Would she fight him, or give herself to him?

"Tormund, why are we fighting?"

"We're not."

He heard her breath catch.

"Then what is this?"

"You know what this is."

And then he was against her. Roughly, he tugged her shift down, freeing her breasts completely, and finally further, until she was completely bare against him. He tossed the shift over his shoulder, where it landed with a soft sound, pooling in some unseen corner of the room. He couldn't see her, but he didn't need to. He felt every inch of silken skin pressed against him as he lifted her off her feet and laid her on an old worn-out rug on the floor.

Beneath him she was breathless and bold. She yanked off his own clothing with brutal efficiency, arching her back and writhing her hips against his. Making him crazy with desire.

Gods, he wanted to see her face. Wanted to know what expression she wore when he ran his hand up her leg, marveling at the feel of her against him, and slipped two fingers inside of her. Her breathing was uneven. And with every thrust she emitted little whimpers of pleasure. He lowered his lips to her breast and her breathing became even more erratic, the whimpers louder.

He wanted to make her forget Sandor Clegane and whatever claim he had on her. Make her forget any other man she'd ever met. He wanted to claim her, mark her. He wanted everyone to look at her and know she was his. Only his.

He covered her mouth with his hand. Felt her lips part under his palm. Heard her muffled moan.

Gods, he was going to combust.

He needed to be inside her.

Now.

He withdrew his fingers, though she gave a disappointed groan against his hand, and used it to support himself above her. He took his other hand off of her mouth.

"Sansa, if we go any further, I won't be able to stop. Tell me now what you want."

Her breath was between them, loud in the still room as he waited.

Then her lips rose to meet his, and she pressed her mouth hotly against his.

"Do you really have to ask?" she said.

He smiled, though it was lost in the darkness.

"I want to hear you say it."

Sansa leaned in close then, trailing her tongue along his ear ever so lightly.

"Tormund Giantsbane, will you please stop talking and make love to me already?"

"I thought you'd never ask, girl."

They came together then as he slid himself inside her. Slowly at first and then less slowly. Gently and then less gently. With every thrust becoming more fevered, more frenzied, more desperate.

"Cover my mouth," she begged.

He put his hand over her parted lips just in time, as the waves crashed down on her and she cried out.

His buried his face in her hair.

There were forty soldiers downstairs sworn to protect the lady of Winterfell, and none of them suspected a thing, as their lady and a wildling warrior made love to wake the Gods on the floorboards above their head.

Author's Note: So I didn't introduce the Hound...sorry, sorry. This last chapter was really tough to write. I started several times but nothing was working. Only when I left Tormund and Sansa alone did it finally come to life. So yeah, short but hopefully sweet. :)