Author's Notes: The plot - as they say - thickens…

XIII – "Shhh, it's only me."

Sandor worked hard the next two days, the clock taking shape under his hands. Every now and then he stopped, walked to the window and peered towards the path leading to the Main House and the Quiet Isle Inn.

She didn't come.

Sandor was already at sleep, having succumbed late at night unable to keep his eyes open anymore, finally crawling under the quilts. The restlessness of earlier had vanished and he had slept well the last few nights, waking up to fragments of dreams of auburn hair.

Yet he had soldier's instincts still, engraved in his mind too deep to ever get rid of – and they woke him up and told him that he was no longer alone.

The hut was quiet, bar the usual night-time sounds, but when he strained his ears he heard a soft pat of Lilburne's steps on the floor. Quiet, unhurried, so it must not have been anything worth rousing his master that had got him up.

The next thing he knew was a weight landing on his mattress, his quilt being lifted and a voice whispering into his ear, "Shhh, it's only me."

What the fuck?!

Even when her form curled by his side and her hair brushed the side of his neck Sandor could not believe it. He laid frozen stiff, afraid to move should that somehow break the spell.

It was not a dream – his dreams of her, many years ago, had had a completely different unworldly atmosphere. This was too harsh, too real. The squeak of the bed frame giving in under them, Lilburne's panting as he settled down in his usual spot on the floor, the hair rising all over his body.

His throat dry he croaked, "What the hell are you doing here?!"

A moment of silence, during which he felt Sansa's body pressing closer towards him. Heaven forbid, was she dressed only in her shift?

"I had to, I wanted to."

Then he felt her hand touch his chest, slowly, hesitantly, a gentle brush of her fingers and words withered and died before they reached his lips.

Sandor slept naked as usual, only coldest of winter nights seeing him donning a night shirt. The reaction of his body took him by surprise - he had thought himself being already past such things and indifferent to charms of women. Yet it was more than obvious that his body responded to her, even if his mind was still in disarray.

"You can't… you won't…" Sandor tried to utter. How to tell a lady to get out of his bed? How to tell her it was dangerous, it was foolish, it was simply not right? How to…

"I can…and I will… shhh…" Her fingers moved lower and Sandor was lost.

XIV – "Didn't know you still had it in you."

Sandor woke up alone the next morning. Only an indent on the mattress served as a sign that she had been there for true - that, and a sweet satiety of his whole body.

He lifted his feet on the floor and just sat there at the edge of his bed, face buried in his hands, for a long time. Finally, he peered between his fingers at Lilburne who had already been on his morning jaunt in the woods and now looked at him expectantly, his tail wagging.

"What a fine guard dog you are! What did she do, did she even have to bribe you with a morsel to keep you quiet, or did you lay down and yield outright?" he scolded the dog – then stopped, realising he himself had yielded just as easily.

Sandor flexed his arms and stared at his hands; gnarly joints, blunt fingernails. Glancing down he had to admit that his body was giving up on him; although still tall and strong, his muscles were not as firm as they had used to be, his knees ached on chilly days and sometimes when he moved his joints made hideous cracking sounds. The hair on his body – previously jet black – was streaked with grey, as was the hair on his head and his beard. Life of a soldier had been as hard on his body as his soul – and no amount of meditation and contemplation was going to cure the former.

What business has an old dog like me bedding a lady?

Last night had been... Sandor shook his head. He wasn't sure what it had been or how to feel about it. Sansa had been confident and sure of herself and had taken charge when he had been too dumbfounded to do it.

Darkness and the silence between them – every time when he had tried to speak Sansa had hushed him with a sound or a press of a finger on his lips - had lent anonymity that had made it possible to pretend that it was not her, it was not him in that bed. Just two people, a man and a woman, engaging in the most primaeval act of the world.

It had been uncomplicated and straightforward and urgent, their coupling. He had flicked her on her back and nudged his way between her thighs and he had touched her and licked her and he had enjoyed it – every second. She had seemed to find her pleasure too if he was to judge her shudders and little noises she made towards the end correctly.

And yet there has been also tender moments; sweep of a hand slowly and tentatively taking in the human landscape under it. Slide of fingers through hair, a gentle scratch. Little kisses peppered on shoulder, chest, breast, navel. And then, after he had pulled away, Sansa had placed her hands on the sides of his face, pulled it towards her and kissed him. Hard but tender, the urgency of their deed melting away to lazy and lingering.

That single act had felt more intimate than the rest of it – her taste, her lips, her tongue.

By that time the clouds had moved away and the glow of a full moon had illuminated the room, and finally he had seen her fully. Seen a grown woman, not a flushing maiden with a flat belly and a slim body. She had given birth, twice, and her stomach was round and soft and her breasts had lost some of their perkiness - but she was still achingly beautiful and life-affirming and real.

She was also wealthy and of good breeding and a Dowager Duchess and she could have anyone she wanted.

Why me?

"Didn't know you still had it in you," Sandor rumbled looking at his cock, now flaccid and resting comfortable in the nest of black and grey hair.

It had been a while since… Sandor had never held rutting with a woman in particularly high regard. Sometimes men had needs and as long as there were women to be had without resorting to rape, what of it? And if there was no need, what of it too?

A few widows in the community had eyed him since his clock-making had taken off. Some had even made advances, judging his earning potential enough to counteract his brusqueness and unsightly looks. He had turned them down civilly but firmly and after a while, he had been left alone.

There had been a few – a miller's widow who had lost her leg under the wheels of a wagon and to whom Sandor had fashioned a wooden leg. Whether it had been her uncertainty of herself as a woman since the loss, her gratitude, or something else, she had warmed Sandor's bed for many a night over the years. Never serious, never with direction – but they had both received whatever they had been searching.

A travelling couple who had passed the region some years ago, quarrelsome but bound together by necessity. Sandor had not even paid attention to them in the common hall, but the woman had sought him out after and taken him into the woods - and he had not objected.

He could have also gone to bawdy houses on his market trips, but by then Sandor had gotten used to his life as it was. Only fools and young men paid heed to urges that were usually not worth the trouble or money.

Sandor shuddered. Last night had been a mistake. He should have told her to leave at once. He should have lifted her off his bed and pushed out of the door. He should have…

He sighed.