Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire/Game of Thrones nor its characters. They belong to GRRM, HBO, and whoever else has the rights.

Warning: Strong sexual content.

Part Three

Sansa Stark always wanted a whirlwind romance, with sparks flying across her silver screen. Love comes as easily as lust in the movies.

There is a soft weight on his shoulder and a hushed voice in his ear, dragging him from sleep and dreams. Instinct kicks in; a second later he's holding the little bird by the arm with the barrel of his gun pressed to her throat.

"Sandor," she gasps out, sounding pitiful and meek and terrified. Her blue eyes are wide and round, and her body's shaking.

"What?" he rasps out, groggier than he'd like. He's slow to move the gun away and slower still to let go. But he lowers the gun and slips it back under his pillow. He pulls his hand away and sits up so there's a bit more space between them.

Dreams are fading fast from his memory, but he recalls Sansa Stark moaning under him. It'd be so easy to grab her and pull her down, flip them over; it'd be so damn easy.

"I can't sleep," she whispers and averts her eyes. It's not fear; no, she doesn't fear his face like she used it. Her lack of fear sometimes drives him more insane than her fear ever did. She's blushing; it's obvious even in this dim light. "I keep hearing things."

Sandor pushes her aside and gets off the bed. He doesn't snap, because as annoyed as he feels the little bird's paranoia is a good thing.

It's been six days since the first night on the run; six days of driving, of switching out vehicles, of sleeping in those vehicles because motels are too risky. The first night was an indulgence (for him as much for her). Since then it's been parking in secluded areas for a few hours at a time, catching enough sleep that he can think straight again and drive without wrecking.

Some days he really hates Sansa's fear of driving.

Tonight is the first time in a real bed again since that first night. They stink, and naps aren't taking the edge of his exhaustion. He's wound up too tight, she's quiet but miserable with her greasy hair and dirty clothes, and the soreness caused by the tight quarters he's been sleeping in doesn't help him keep a clear head in the slightest.

But it's still a risk.

He grabs his handgun and checks out cautiously from the edges of the window. Listens for several moments. He can hear the motel clerk on his cell phone, yelling at someone; girlfriend or mistress or wife. There's a train passing through a few miles away. No other cars in the lot. No other travelers sharing the rat's nest they're hiding in.

"Nothing. Get some rest," he barks at her as he puts his gun back and stretches out on the bed once more.

Behind him, the bed shifts the tiniest bit, and her hand is on his shoulder again. Her hair tickles his arm when she peers over. "Sandor?"

He doesn't say a word. He stares at the wall straight ahead, tense and silent and one hand gripping the sheet under him so tightly that his knuckles are white. He can smell the cheap motel soap-shampoo combo and a smell that's just her, something almost sweet. He feels her heat against his back, her breath on his skin, her hair and fingers feather light on his arm.

So damn easy.

"May I please lay on your bed?"

Fucking hell.

Sandor doesn't mean to let it, but a grunt escapes him. She shrinks back and quickly mumbles an apology, starting to pull away. He grabs her wrist.

"If you lay on my bed, little bird, sleep won't come for some time."

He lets go. It's a warning, one he thought should have been clear from the get-go (at the very least since that first motel stay when they both know she heard him groaning with his release in the shower). He grinds his teeth together when she slips back over to her bed, quiet as a mouse. He hates her for not even realizing she was teasing him; he hates himself more because this is so fucking low.

They both lay in silence for several tense minutes. He tries to get back to sleep, back to that dream where she didn't shy away from the promise of more than sleep. She says nothing, but he can hear her tossing and turning, driving him wild.

"Do you actually know where we are going?" she eventually asks.

"Not enjoying the road trip, little bird?" he spits back.

Her response feels like a riddle. "I didn't say that."

Sandor sighs. He doesn't know what to make of that, and he's too tired and too aroused to care to even try figuring it out. "We're taking the long way to see an old associate of mine."

She's quiet, probably mulling over this piece of information. She knows what he is, what he used to be; all the nasty things he's done in life. "And he won't-"

"No, little bird. He won't sell us out. Now shut your mouth and let me sleep, or I'll make you drive today while I nap," he snaps. He just wants some fucking sleep; no, he wants more than that. He's tempted to go to the bathroom to relieve himself a second time (he was quiet in the shower this time, perhaps he should be loud and foul-mouthed, that might shut her up).

Fuck, this is pathetic.

Sansa makes a little indignant noise, and it does nothing for his hard-on. She shifts restlessly on her bed behind him, driving him mad. Eventually she stills - but now he's wide awake.

He waits for a few more minutes. Listens to her breathing calm, deepen. He stays on his side with his back to her and moves his hand down, starting to unzip the fly of his pants - when he hears her shifting again. He freezes when he hears the soft padding of her feet on the floor, when he feels the bed sinking ever so slightly.

The little bird's slender form is suddenly pressed up against his back. Her hands on his shoulders.

"Why are you doing this?"

For a moment he wants to snap at her, wants to ask her what the hell she thinks he's doing this for - but then he realizes through the fog of his lust that she's not talking about what his hand was moving to do. He closes his eyes, memorizing the way she feels pressed up close to him, her breasts at his back, arms clutching his shoulders, mouth so close to his neck he can almost feel her lips.

He's doing this because he wants her for himself. He's doing this because he wants to fuck her; wants her under him, on top of him. Wants her mouth on his cock, her back against the wall. Wants her ass pressed to his groin, wants her cunt at his mouth. He wants to hear her sing her favorite songs and sing secret songs just for him. He wants her to give him one of those shy, sweet smiles every day; he wants to see her cry when he takes things he can never give back. He wants her to give those things freely, wants it so badly he feels like a pathetic, sick sap.

He's doing this because he can't take a chance that next time the midget won't be there to stop Joffrey from letting all his dogs have a go at her. He's doing this because she has a better chance of coming out unscathed now than she would if he waited and wound up killing Joffrey.

"I gave you a warning, girl," he growls and grabs her arm and drags her over him. He pins her down while she lets out a startled yelp before staring up at him with round, blue eyes. He glares, angry, frustrated; why does she keep making it so fucking easy?

"I know," she whimpers. She's breathing erratically, her little body trembling under his. There's no fucking way she can't feel the bulge under his jeans against her abdomen, no fucking way.

He could rip her clothes off and finally get her out of his head, his skin, his bloodstream. Have his way, have his fill. He could squeeze his eyes shut and focus solely on how good he knows she has to feel and ignore her crying.

He's not Gregor, he's not. He's not as bad as Gregor, he's not as bad as the midget pretends not to be, he's not as bad as little, fucking Joffrey.

She's watching him, and it unnerves him how calm her gaze is. She's scared, he knows it; can smell it. But her lips are moving, curving, slowly forming that shy, sweet smile, and her voice is tiny but curious when she asks, "Is this why?"

Fuck, she really does believe he's better than the rest of the Lannister lot.

Sandor gets up and stalks towards the bathroom. He can't; not like this. He can't when all he wants is to hurt her and make her remember when she feared him. He can't take the way she's looking at him, like he's some fucking hero in a movie. Fuck it all, he really does want to be better, he really does want that adoring look in her eyes.

"Did I do something wrong?" she asks, and it sounds like she could be on the verge of tears.

"No, child," he groans out. She is a fucking child; maybe he's still in his prime but he feels old. He's too old for her, he'd be too old no matter the circumstances. And he's fucked; he's so thoroughly fucked up.

He'll get her out, and he'll get her somewhere safe, someplace pretty that she can start over. Then he'll leave, he'll lead the Lannisters so far away they'll never get the chance to hurt her ever again.

"Sandor?"

Against his better judgment, Sandor lets himself glance over his shoulder at Sansa Stark, sitting on his bed. He sees in the dim light the way she's shaking like she does when trying to fight off the urge to cry, he watches her hands twist and tug at the too tight t-shirt she wears in motel rooms.

"I want to."

He snorts and turns away. "No, little bird, you don't."

"Yes, I do!" she cries out.

He turns, surprised, and she looks just as shocked at her little outburst.

"I mean, what if...what if this doesn't work?" She's standing now, moving towards him. She's tiny - tall, certainly, but she's slender and graceful and pretty and he could stop her easily. But she nears him and somehow makes him feel like a cornered animal. "What if they catch us? I...I don't want..."

Sandor snarls and grabs both her arms, dragging her to him until she's pressed tight up against his body. "You'd rather Joff's old dog fucked you, good and proper, before they kill you, or worse? You want it cause it's your only fucking option, that it, girl?"

She shrinks and shakes and her head drops the way it did when she started stripping in front of Joffrey, in front of him, in front of all the others. "Why are you doing this?" she cries again, her little hands curling into tiny fists and beating against his chest. "Why do you keep ruining it? Why did you make me run if you don't want me?"

"Never said I didn't want you, girl," he mutters as guilt weighs down on him like a heavy blow. He hadn't meant to make her cry; he tries to tell himself it's for the best.

"Then why?" she chokes out. In the sliver of light from the cracked bathroom door, she's red-faced and her nose is scrunched up and her cheeks are wet. Somehow she still looks perfect, a pretty thing he'll smudge up and break. She's not a plaything for Joffrey to destroy, but she's still something too good for him.

That sort of thing never fucking mattered before in his world. Not until Sansa Stark.

"Because." He doesn't know how to finish that. He wants to snap at her until she quiets down and goes to bed and lets him jerk off in fucking peace (because he doesn't want to tell her the truth).

She sniffles, gaze lowering, and mumbles, "That's a statement, not a reason."

And Sandor can't help it. He laughs. He can imagine her mother or her tutor drilling that into her head as a little girl, and she says it with such absurd disappointment that the laughter rumbles from him, unbidden but deep and amused.

Sansa looks embarrassed and annoyed - which only makes him laugh harder. "Well, it is!" she insists.

That doesn't help him stop, either.

Much of the tension leaves his body with the laughter, and Sandor moves his hands to wipe away her tears. He stares at the hint of a pout, at her timid gaze; he takes note of her hands still on his chest, palms flat against the fabric of his shirt instead of balled fists. "Yes, it is," he rasps. "Go to bed, Sansa. Get some sleep."

She smiles again - tremulous and nervous and sweet. "You called me by my name. You never called me by my name before."

Sandor blinks; he tries to recall if that's the truth of it. "Don't go making a big fucking deal out of it," he mutters. He still wants her; wants to nibble on her lower lip and wants to feel her hands under his shirt. He starts to pull back, not wanting this moment ruined. The humor's calming effect on them shouldn't be wasted.

But the little bird is persistent, and she moves closer. She's everywhere now, invading all his senses. "It isn't just because I'm scared of...of dying a, virgin. And have no other option." She looks down again; he's certain she's blushing. "You were always nicer to me."

Another bark of laughter, but this time it's harsh and humorless. "And there are plenty of other boys and men out that nicer than me, girl." He grabs her chin and makes her look at him, like he used to do when she feared his face and couldn't look him in the eye. "They won't catch us. I'll get you somewhere safe, and then you can have a normal life, like you should have had all along."

Her fingers curl against his shirt until she's clutching it. "What about you?"

He shrugs. "I'll keep them away from you."

"By leading them away, you mean."

"Yes."

Quicker than he would have ever given her credit for, she pushes into him and stands on her tiptoes until her mouth meets his. Her arms wrap around his neck, and she holds, tightly, while he stands there in shock.

He could have stolen this kiss a hundred times over (and he's not even sure why he never did) but it's her. It's his little bird clinging to him and kissing him and moving her lips and tongue awkwardly but insistently against his mouth.

Had he been a decent sort of man, he'd have pushed her away and rushed into the bathroom, locked the door, and taken care of himself. Come back out, put her to bed - tie her up if need be - and get some sleep. Had he been a decent sort of man, he'd have stood up for her months ago when Joffrey ordered Meryn to hit her for the first time - or stood up for her any of the countless times since.

Sandor is not, by any standard, a decent sort of man. He grabs her by her ass and lifts her up - and the little minx wraps her legs around him like it's nothing - and sets her on the sink counter. It's his kiss now, his mouth open and his tongue against hers, and she's completely lost and blindly following him. He groans into her, grips her hips and pulls her tight to the bulge of his erection.

Sansa gasps, a breathless cry as his mouth moves across her jaw and over her throat. She lets out an insistent moan, like a wordless and confused plea while her body wriggles against his. She's fucking seventeen - all hormones and innocence and ignorance, but she wants it.

He doesn't know why it's with him, but she wants it.

"We do this," he groans out; he already sounds out of breath, as though he was some fumbling teenager as well. "We do this, and we make it out of this alive, you're mine."

His little bird smiles - fucking smiles, sweet and shy and bright and big - at him and nods. "And you're mine?" she asks. As if there's any fucking question.

"Yours," he growls and leans in, hungrily exploring that little mouth of hers. He can be a loyal dog with the right master.

Sansa's hands slide down his chest, down his stomach, down to the hem of his shirt, and then they drift under. Her fingertips dance across his abdomen, just above his pants; she giggles into him when he groans. The noise encourages her, and she lays her palms flat against his skin. Her hands are cool and soft as they move over his torso, going up and dragging his shirt with them.

He groans again and does the same. Slips his hands under her shirt and feels the smoothness of her flesh - gentler than he'd normally be, because he doesn't know if she's still bruised and sore from her last beating. He bites on her lower lip when she jolts slightly and whimpers and lets her body arch into his touch.

Fucking hell.

His dick twitches and he sucks on the lip he bit. His fingers slide up until he feels her bra and he reaches around.

She trembles, panting between hungry kisses, but doesn't tense or start to protest. She wants it, he reminds himself; she wants him.

Sandor unhooks her bra but lets his hands linger there for a moment, fingers tracing circles to keep her relaxed. He doesn't want her thinking back to that day, to that moment. It's killing him, taking his time - but he won't do that to her.

He's not his brother.

"I'm all right," she whispers in a throaty voice that makes him shudder and his hands grip her sides just a little. She giggles a little, sounding almost drunk; Sandor can vaguely remember feeling the same way years and years ago even if it was a generally emotionless affair. "Just, show me what to do?"

Oh fucking hell.

Sandor buries his face in his little bird's hair and clutches her tight, grinding into her for just a little taste of relief as need takes on a whole new meaning at her words. He thinks of all the things he could show her to do, and the craving for her becomes agonizing. "I'll show you," he grunts out, trying to sound reassuring rather than threatening - but that request of hers is a loaded gun.

Sansa shivers, and her fingers curl against his skin so that her nails scrape lightly. She giggles again when he shudders in response and then repeats the motion.

Sandor nips at her ear and moves his hands around to her front, sliding under the loose bra and cupping her breasts like he's being dying to do since long before he actually saw them. He struggles not to squeeze too tight or dig his fingers too deep.

His little bird is soft and perfect. Her nipples already stiff, his thumbs trace circles around them until she's whimpering with her head falling back against the mirror. He pulls back to watch her, shirt still on but her chest arched towards him while he kneads her teats and teases the nipples. Her mouth is open, her eyes closed, and her thumbs are moving to follow his example.

"That's it," he grunts out encouragement. He doesn't know why her tentative touches are driving him so wild, but he's too drunk on lust to care. Sandor finally moves his hands to pull her shirt off, then her bra.

Sansa sits up then. She doesn't cross her arms over her chest - not like that day - but she moves closer to him so she's not in plain view. The light is still dim, but their eyes are well-adjusted. She's already given him an eyeful as she moved, and he longs to turn the light on but refrains.

The last thing he wants is to spook her, because that will cripple him.

"Nothing to be ashamed of, little bird," he murmurs, awkwardly stroking her arms to try and relax her again.

"I know, it's just..." she chews her lip, and her hands still against his chest. "Are they, um, are they a nice size?" she squeaks out - though she says it so quickly it sounds more like "Are they, umaretheyanicesize?" to him.

Sandor feels a rumble of laughter building, but he kisses her to squelch it and merely groans instead. It's another absurdity; that she would feel self-conscious around him of all fucking people. But his little bird is a young, shy thing, and he doesn't want to ruin this. So he nips at her earlobe and growls, "Fuckin' perfect," in her ear. To his delight, she gasps - whether at his language or the compliment he isn't sure - and her fingers claw at him.

"Oh!" She starts to pull her hands back, but he grabs her wrists. She looks down. "I didn't mean to."

Grinning, Sandor lets go and then moves his hands to her back; his fingers curl. He doesn't have nails like her, but he has enough that there's a scratch to his touch when he drags his fingers down.

Sansa's eyes go wide and her mouth forms an oh, and she lets out a shaky, little moan. "Oh."

"A little friction is a good thing. Just don't try to tear off skin," he chuckles.

"Okay," she giggles back. Her thumbs are circling again, and then she stops. "This isn't exactly fair."

"Then do something about it."

He loves the embarrassment and shock he can make out on her face. He thinks maybe now would be okay to turn the light on, but he holds off. Part of him feels - absurdly - nervous. Not that he would ever admit it. He doesn't want to remind her that she's giving herself away to a big, ugly lout; can't take the chance she'll change her mind.

When did this happen?

When did he become so consumed with Sansa Stark that it rendered him a lovesick teenager, a pathetic fool desperate to play the good guy in her idealized view of reality? When did he become so desperate for her that he cannot stomach the thought of not listening should she say stop?

The little bird overcomes her shock at his words and shyly tugs his shirt up. Obediently, he lifts his arms to let her remove the article of clothing - and then he pulls her to him. She is cool and smooth and delicate against him; so small and feels so fragile.

Sansa sighs and wraps her arms around him. She hides her face against his chest, just clutching him. "You're so big."

Sandor bites down on the lewd comment that comes to mind. He feels strange, his whole body and mind in turmoil; the words wouldn't have come out right anyway. "You're small."

"I'm tall for a girl."

"Still small."

She pauses and looks up at him. "Is that a good thing?"

Fuck. "Yes," he somehow chokes out.

She smiles, shy and sweet - and then she reaches an arm out to the switch on the wall. It's his little bird that turns the light on.

The light is bright, blinding and yellow, and he blinks a couple of times. Then he's staring, looking over her exposed skin, fully illuminated now. He swallows and stares at her - avoids looking at the mirror or at her eyes now that the light's on.

Sansa chews on her lip and slowly moves her hands up his chest to his neck. One hand moves to his cheek; he hates it, hates it in this moment because he cannot truly feel her fingers caressing that cheek. She smiles at him though, her two smooth cheeks still damp but pink now with bashfulness.

His hands cup her head, fingers burying in her hair, and he kisses her again. He can't wait much longer; seeing her in the light, in almost all her glory is wearing at his paper thin patience. He knows foreplay, but he's never been much for it. He wants to just sink himself in her flesh, teeth and fingers and cock, but she's such a delicate looking thing.

She wants it. She wants him.

And he's not Gregor.

She sighs into him, her fingers stroking his neck, brushing through his hair, leaving tiny, thin trails of heat over his shoulders and down his arms and sides. She's squirming a little, grinding innocently; is she so close to the edge she's about to lose control as well? Is this as maddening for her as it is for him?

Sandor tears his mouth from hers and suckles on her earlobe. His hands move down her back to her ass. He slides his fingers under her pants and panties, and she squeaks but holds onto his shoulders to lift herself up from the counter for him. He drags her clothing down and pushes them off.

The little bird is blushing furiously now, blue eyes darting everywhere while she giggles sheepishly. It's an entirely new sight for him; she's coy and demure and completely honest, something he can't remember ever having with a woman before (not a woman he fucked at least).

He strokes the underside of her thighs and then around, dancing up the front of her legs towards her cunt. He moves slow - too fucking slow, but she's breathing rapidly and her hands are gripping tight and he won't spook her. One hand slides up her side, rubbing awkwardly to keep her calm, while the other reaches her - fucking slick already when his index finger traces her slit.

Sansa gasps and clings to him, and Sandor moves the hand on her side to brace against the mirror, head pressed to her shoulder as a shudder ripples through him.

Entire body tense, it's nearly impossible to resist the urge to plow ahead. She's wet, he could make it feel good, he could.

"Sansa," he chokes out, barely able to think straight. "Last chance. It's gonna hurt. No matter what, there will be some pain, so if you have any second thoughts better fucking speak up now, cause any further, and I won't stop."

His little bird trembles in his arms and makes a little mewling noise that causes his fingers to curl. "I know it'll hurt," she whispers. Oh, she knows, she just doesn't understand. But then she pleads, "Please, I don't want you to stop."

"Just remember that when we're done, little bird," he growls before his mouth is on hers, thumb at her cunt moving to stroke her clit. His hand against the mirror moves to his fly - and both of her hands follow. They fumble with his pants until finally he's pushing them down while her wicked fingers are tracing over his hips and almost to his cock before shyly stalling.

"Sandor," she gasps against his lips between kisses. She's wriggling, hips writhing forward into his hand, and her legs are restless and rubbing up his.

"Touch me," he growls. Just for a moment; he just needs to feel her long, slender fingers on him for a moment. He can feel her body jolt at his demand, the rush of air as she exhales shakily before he kisses her again. If he looks at her face he will lose the last, flimsy shred of control he still has; it'll be difficult enough once he feels her - oh, fuck.

Her fingers are timid and uncertain, but she's stroking him all the same. Both hands at his cock, fingertips dancing down the length of him, light as a feather. One thumb brushes over his tip, and his thumb strokes her faster, and she cries out insistently; "Please!"

Sandor steps out from his pants pooled at his feet and wraps an arm around her waist, holding her to him. He can feel her slick and hot and ready against him, and he bites on her lip while her hands move to his shoulders, her grip nothing but nails digging into his skin. He somehow finds his way to the bed - blindly moving about until his legs hit the edge - and then he lays her down, crawling on top of er.

She giggles under him, beaming and blushed and shy. She looks up at him, stares him in the eyes until he can't take it anymore. Her arms cradle him to her, and it feels foreign but wonderful while his hands hold her thighs apart. She takes a deep breath, and there's an instinctive flinch when he presses into her.

"Cry or scream, but don't hold it in," he whispers roughly into her ear. He doesn't want her to think he'll take offense; he doesn't want her to pretend when it hurts.

"O-okay," she mumbles awkwardly and gives a nod.

Slow, he tells himself. He guides his cock to her cunt, pushes in; he meant to be slow, he did. But she's tight like a vice, and he thrusts before he can think. He feels her flinch, feels the tiny, little tear, feels her body stiffen while her fingers claw at his back and her head twists away. He grits his teeth and clenches his eyes shut but holds still, buried in her.

Nothing has ever felt better, but she's breathing deep and slow and when he finally forces himself to look at her there are tears in her eyes.

He knows he should say he's sorry, but he won't lie to her. He's not sorry, no matter how much he hates that it had to hurt. He's selfishly proud that it's him hurting her, taking this from her and watching her swallow and stare him in the eyes and form a wavering smile.

No matter what happens, nobody else will get this. Nobody else will ever see this. Just him.

He's not fucking sorry.

In the movies passion is perfect, a beautiful, emotional, physical connection. Girls don't hurt afterwards, and their leading men never go too rough. But for once Sansa doesn't mind - laying sore and stiff and sleepy in a too tight embrace - that life isn't always like the movies.