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: Extreme violence/gore, torture, minor character death.

Note: I just want to say a huge thank you to those who have reviewed/added this to story alerts! So glad you are enjoying this. :) Your feedback is greatly appreciated!

Part Four

Sansa Stark always wanted a life like something from a movie. But not every movie is easy for some people to stomach.

Sandor hadn't liked the idea of another motel only two nights after the previous one; he should have listened to his gut instead of the little bird's strained smile (or was it his other head he'd been thinking with?).

It was dumb luck on Blount and Trant's part and sheer stupidity on his. That's all; nothing more, nothing less and just enough to put him in this situation.

With Blount nothing but butchered pounds of flesh in the sink, it's Trant that Sandor's going to have to work with. Not that there's much difference between the two; both cowards who enjoyed hitting his little bird whenever Joffrey gave them the word.

Sansa is hugging herself in the corner, staring, and it unnerves him. She should wait outside, wait in the car - wait somewhere else so she doesn't have to see or hear this, because it won't be pretty. She looks like she might vomit again, and Sandor can't really blame her.

He never claimed to be a good guy.

"Don't look," he tells her.

She meets his eyes - she meets his eyes constantly now, seeking his gaze out where he used to force hers. Her fingers are clutching his jacket, hanging on her shoulders like a cloak, and she shakes her head.

"I'm okay," she lies, but she lies so bravely it makes his gut clench.

He wants her again already, even with his gloved hands soaked red and Meryn Trant wheezing and tied to one of the chairs.

"Little bird, you won't be if you watch," he snaps, condescending and acidic. He has to scare her. Has to make her look away. He doesn't want her seeing this. Sandor doesn't know which would be worse; her watching and always looking at him like a monster, or always looking at him like some fucked up hero.

She doesn't flinch, his little bird. Hurt flickers in her eyes briefly before she slowly sits on the edge of the bed facing away from him. Her hands move to her ears. Such a clever girl.

Sandor turns back to Trant and forces himself go cold. He wants to beat Meryn Trant to death with his bare hands; hit and hit and hit until his knuckles feel Trant's skull shatter. Crush his jaw, chop him up, toss the chunks of meat into the tub with Boros Blount. Set fire to the place and get the fuck out. All that has to wait, so he goes cold.

It's always been so easy; now it feels like a losing battle.

"Does anyone else know we're here?"

Trant glares at him. His nose is broken and blood is still trickling out.

Sandor grabs his nose and twists until Meryn shouts a few choice words before grinding his teeth together.

"Does anyone else know we're here?"

He lets go after he asks a second time and stands back, waiting. Sandor doesn't think it will take much to break the man.

Trant is nothing more than a low-rent thug with no stones and a fondness for his own skin. He also happens to know exactly what The Hound is capable of when let loose.

"How do I know you'll believe me?" Trant hoarsely asks.

Sandor shrugs. "You don't. But I'll know when you're telling the truth. The sooner you start, the quicker this goes." He glances briefly at his little bird; back to him and hands over her ears and breath coming in ragged, shuddering gasps. Yes, quicker is better. He doesn't want to drag out the screaming.

"No," Meryn spits. Once he starts it all comes pouring out. "No, nobody else knows. Blount and I were alone, we were supposed to meet up with Greenfield and Moore tomorrow. The others are in New York, in case you took her to friends of the family. Blount and I decided to wait until we had you both in custody before we got in contact with anyone."

Smartest idea Trant and Blount had ever come up with. Not to mention convenient.

"What about Payne?"

Payne's the one that worries him; if Trant and Blount could find him and the little bird, Payne might could too.

"Payne's still in Atlanta."

Sansa whimpers. She never saw what happened to her father, but Joffrey was happy to tell her about the "mercy" he had Payne give Ned Stark.

Sandor's gut clenches. Is his little bird going to see Payne when she looks at him after this? He's a killer the same as Payne. All this time she's been making him into someone better, and fuck it all, he'd wanted to be something better.

He's not Payne, he's not Gregor. He's not a fucking Lannister man anymore, but he's still covered in blood and there will be three bodies in the bathroom when they leave and set the place on fire.

"I swear, it's the truth. Joffrey didn't want to chance Payne killing you. He wants you alive, you and her both."

"I believe you," Sandor rasps and stuffs a handkerchief in Trant's mouth. "Whatever you do, Little bird," he states loud enough for her to hear through her hands, "Do not look over." He grabs Trant's left hand and breaks the man's index finger. Then the middle, then ring finger, then pinky. Bends them backwards fast and hard until bones are splinter out through skin.

Trant screams against the gag and thrashes in the chair.

Behind them, the little bird is whimpering.

He's not a fucking Lannister man anymore; doesn't make him a better man, just means he has someone better to protect.

Sandor does the same to Trant's right hand. He breaks each finger and then the thumbs and wants to go even further. He glances at Sansa, the girl hunched over and trembling - but he can tell she isn't crying. He doesn't see the tell-tale tremors, doesn't hear her sniffling quietly to try and hide it from him. He wants to touch her hair, but he knows she'd recoil in this moment.

Fuck Blount, fuck Trant, fuck all the damn Lannisters to hell.

She had been his this morning, his for days now, but it would never be enough.

"Now tell me again," he barks after removing the handkerchief from Trant's mouth.

Meryn is shouting curses in a voice laced with pain, but he gives the same story.

Payne is in Atlanta. Joffrey wants them both alive, so he can rape Sansa, then either kill her himself or, "Give her to Gregor. He thought it would be fitting punishment."

Sandor digs his thumb into the deep gash his knife left in Trant's thigh. He covers Trant's mouth with his other hand and watches the fucker's face grow purple as he screams and thrashes. Sandor sneers at the way Trant's eyes bulge when the thumb hooks into Trant's flesh and pulls at the torn skin, widening the tear.

The mere thought of Gregor touching Sansa has him seeing red.

Trant isn't screaming anymore though, just wheezing and groaning. Reluctantly, Sandor stops before Trant passes out.

"Go on."

It takes the man a moment, heading swaying and eyes blinking rapidly; Sandor slaps him lightly to make him focus. Trant curses wearily, voice strained and hoarse, but he continues. Tells him Joff's plans for his favorite Hound, that the boy wants Sandor tortured, broken; Sandor isn't surprised. Joffrey thinks he might be loyal again one day, once he learns what's good for him.

"What about Tywin? Or Tyrion? Have they sent out their own men?" Sandor slams his fist into Trant's belly after the question. Best not to make the fucker bleed more (yet).

"Yes!" the fucker gasps. Blood and spittle spray out when he speaks. "But I don't...I don't know where they are." He's wheezing harder. The blood at his nose is drying, caking.

Sandor punches him in the face.

"I swear!" Meryn yells, though it's hard to make out, it comes it in a gurgle with more blood.

"Sandor. Please."

He turns toward his little bird; hunched over and clutching his jacket and staring at the floor, never looking over. He wants to yell at her. Wants to go over there and grab her and shout at her and shake her and snap her into reality. Grab her chin and make her look. Tell her that this little fantasy they've been living in for just over a week is over; shattered and ruined and nothing but a farce.

He's no fucking hero, she won't come out unscathed, and they're fucked.

Sandor thinks of her in Gregor's hands, and he thinks maybe he will vomit. He can't; he can't let that happen. As bad as he is, as much damage as he's done...he can't think of Sansa in Gregor's clutches, can't think of her back at Joffrey's mercy.

"Go outside."

"But, what if-"

Sandor reaches her in three long strides. He grabs her arm and yanks her up. Blood gets on his jacket but it's his jacket; not her. "Nobody's out there. Get in the back of the car," he snarls, like he should have done from the start. He shouldn't have let her hear this, let her be anywhere near this. He opens the door and makes certain the coast is clear. "You are going to stay on the floor in the back of the car. You won't move. You won't make a sound," he hisses, leans his face in close as he speaks.

She meets his stare, just like she's done for days. She doesn't flinch though her eyes are watery and her body is trembling. "I understand," she whispers.

But she doesn't, he knows that. She doesn't understand why he made Trant tell him everything and then tortured him and made him tell it again. She doesn't understand why, let alone how. She's fucking seventeen years old, a virgin until two nights ago, and she doesn't understand how any of this can really be happening.

Sandor gets her in the car and walks back into the motel room.

Trant is almost worthless by this point. He's barely even fighting to stay conscious at this point; they both know the longer he's conscious the more pain he'll be in before Sandor finally puts the fucker out of his misery.

There's only one question left to ask anyway.

"Do they know where the spider is?"

Meryn slowly shakes his head. "No. I heard Cersei mention him, but, they didn't think you would be able to find him either."

"Good." Sandor snaps Trant's neck and enjoys the loud crack it makes. He stands to his full height and closes his eyes for a moment, just breathing. He has to calm down, he can't go back out there where the little bird waits in the car, not when he's so high on the bloodlust. What he wouldn't give for a fucking drink.

It's hardly satisfying, butchering a dead man. Not now, not with thoughts of Joffrey getting his greasy, little hands back on Sansa and ruining her, breaking her and tossing her over to Gregor to be chewed up and spat out, nothing but a limp, bloody mess with vacant eyes staring into nothing.

Sandor has seen what happens to women after Gregor gets his hands on them; his little bird would be better off if he went out and shot her here and now than if Gregor ever got her. He feels sick just thinking it, but it's the truth.

No. No, he's not offing his little bird (and then himself) as if there's no chance of getting her to safety. He's got at least one trick up his sleeve, one advantage over the Lannisters. He makes quick work of Meryn and tosses everything into the tub with the mess of Boros Blount. He undresses and tosses all his bloody clothes into the tub and changes into fresh jeans and a clean shirt and dry gloves. Packs everything up and heads outside with Blount's gun tucked into the back of his jeans.

Sansa is sitting in the floor in the back just as instructed. She looks up at him when he opens the door and tosses their bags in. Her little fingers poke out from the sleeves of his jacket; she looks tinier than ever. But she smiles at him; tremulous and frail and sweet and shy. She scoots over, her chin quivering as she licks her thumb and reaches up. Like a little angel - nothing but innocence and goodness and things he shouldn't be allowed near - she wipes a bit of blood from the burnt side of his face.

That fragile smile never falls.

"Don't," he chokes out. He's not sure if he's about to vomit or cry - even though he hasn't done either in over a decade - or if he's just about to snap. He suddenly realizes how tense he is, how near she is, and his hands are shaking as he pushes her away for her own safety.

"Please," she whispers, clutching his arms. "Don't push me away, not now."

"Now more than ever, little bird."

She scoots back over to him and leans up until her mouth is at his. It's tight-lipped and awkward; she's probably afraid he'll taste lingering bile. But she kisses him all the same, as if nothing happened, as if he didn't just brutally murder two men who would drag them back to their long, painful deaths.

"Please," she says in that same reverent tone as her thank yous.

He doesn't touch her, doesn't respond. He can't; if he does he's lost.

"Stay here, little bird," he rasps and steps back, shutting the door. He knows she's watching when he heads into the motel lobby; knows that she'll know. He stares her in the eyes when he comes back out.

She looks down - for a moment, only for a moment, but her gaze still falters.

For once he doesn't mind.

When they take off a half hour later, Blount and Trant's car hidden in the woods a ways off from the motel with the license plates missing and their motel room on fire, she reaches over and clutches his hand in hers.

"Thank you," she whispers. Like a tiny, meek prayer.

Sandor grits his teeth together while his dick twitches and every part of him wants to pull over and fuck her, bury himself in her and forget all about the shit they're in; he squeezes her hand, too tightly, and nods.

Later, as Sansa curls up with her head on Sandor's lap while he drives, she tells herself that it had to happen. That the worse it gets, the happier their final escape will be; the happier it has to be.