Sansa stood on the terrace facing the sea, red hair waving in the breeze. Through the thin silk of her turquoise sleeveless gown, he could see the shadow of her body. She was beautiful in the setting sun, and Sandor was encouraged by the feisty way she defended him to Kellan, though his curiosity was nipping at him to discover if she truly meant to choose him as her husband.

When she heard the creak of the terrace door, she greeted him with an easy smile, curtseyed, and began speaking with such conviction that he dared not interrupt. "I must beg pardon for not properly greeting you when you arrived, but I was overcome to discover you alive, as I have prayed to the Seven for you so many times. I was also confused about the means by which Arya orchestrated our reunion, and I apologize on her behalf for any deception. I believe that you and I were both equally embarrassed by my sister's revelations regarding our feelings toward each other and shocked by her hasty proposal, but I do hope you understand that I am truly delighted by your arrival." She gestured to the table. "It will be just the two of us for supper. Arya and the serving girls are gone."

"And Kellan?" He pretended he hadn't overheard them on the terrace.

"He is either at the port fetching you some new attire from the tailor or on his way to Volantis. I hope the latter."

"New attire? Is my appearance not to your liking?"

"No, my Lord, you are quite to my liking, though you do look quite different to me now. Out of your armor, you're more accessible." She caressed his forearm, her fingertips leaving a trail of aching in their wake. "After we've eaten, will you walk with me on the beach?"

He consented, and they enjoyed the meal, a simple fish in parsley sauce, as they shared with each other the events of the years in which they were separated. After dinner, they leaned on the terrace wall, side by side, looking out at the sea, drinking wine and becoming quite relaxed in each other's company. She laughed at his tale of Arya's luring him to Lorath, and he then remembered her gift.

"I've never given a gift before." He began.

She turned to face him, relaxed and delighted. "For me?"

"Wenton, er Arya, told me that it is customary in Lorath to give one's hostess a gift."

"She's mistaken. It's quite against the custom here. Lorathi hosts refuse gifts from their guests, feeling that the pleasure is in giving rather than receiving."

He recalled his fantasy. More pleasure in giving than receiving.

"Will you refuse me then?" He brought the box behind his back.

Her look was provocative. "No, I'll not refuse you."

He presented it again, and she opened it with enthusiasm. "Oh! It's the Mother!" She brought her hand to her mouth, and tears welled up in her blue eyes. She stood staring into the box for a few moments. "It's beautiful, Sandor. Thank you!" She cooed. "But where did you get the coin to pay for this?"

"Graverobbing."

She laughed. "You're much funnier than I remembered you to be."

I told her that I'd never lie to her. I never said she had to believe me.

"Will you help me put it on?" She gathered her hair up with her hand.

He stood behind her and brought the necklace together at the back of her neck. He couldn't resist brushing the skin with his knuckles, as he let the thin chain rest. He fought hard against his urge to press a kiss there below the clasp.

She inhaled deeply, turning around, bringing her face toward his neck. "You smell wonderful. Wonderful but different."

So polite. She means that in King's Landing I smelled like wine and horse and sweat.

"Shall we?"

He nodded, ready to follow her down to the shore. As she began removing her silver sandals, she explained "Lorathis enjoy the beach in their bare feet." So, he copied her action, removing his own boots and socks. Then she shyly suggested, "And the men don't wear their tunics." He reluctantly stripped off the yellow gift from Arya, and his broad chest was bare before her.

"Oh!" She caught her breath and for a moment he saw disapproval in her eyes. Then, she pointed to a scar on his chest. Her finger was a hair's breadth away from his skin casting its heat there.

"How?" She asked.

"Crossbow quarrel." He spared her the rest of the story.

"Here?" She pointed to another near his ribs.

"Dagger." This is no mere curiosity. .

She didn't ask more but simply ran her finger over the next one as he answered her silent question. "Axe." She sees I am brutal, that I am damaged. His heart sank. She is unblemished in skin and virtue, but I am not.

She silently circled his body languidly, lightly brushing each old wound, back, shoulder, then stomach, as he replied to each touch in turn, "Mace. Morning star. Sword. Spear. Lance." He was convinced that her disgust was building with each one, and he reached for his tunic to rescue her from her morbid curiosity.

"No!" She grabbed his hand, and laced his fingers with hers and gently brought her lips to the first scar, saying only, "Quarrel." She moved her mouth to his ribs, "Dagger." As her mouth trailed wet kisses, she whispered each in turn, "Axe. Mace. Morning star. Spear. Lance."

He could no longer suppress his hunger. He grabbed her face firmly, and when he brought his lips to hers, it was not in the manner of the soft, slow kiss he imagined. It was passionate and breathless. He was trembling and overwhelmed. He began to pull his face back from hers, until he felt her hand in his hair, pulling him back to her mouth.

The kiss was slower, more rhythmic and controlled, and he felt the softness of her tongue at his lips. As he opened his mouth to allow her tongue deeper, his hands fell to her waist and pulled her tighter against him. Her tongue swept his, and when he felt the hardness of her nipples through the thin fabric of her dress, he could no longer resist the desire to bring his hand up to her breast. His manhood pressed hard against her hip, and she slipped her hand between them, appraising its size and shape through his breeches. She staggered back, on the terrace, astonished.

He realized that she had probably never felt a man's cock before, and maybe only seen Tyrion's. "I'm no dwarf, Little Bird."

Her breath was ragged. "Is it always . . .so . . .?" She left the question hanging in the air, too shy to describe it further.

He realized that she was not as prepared for this as she needed to be, and simply answered, "When you're around, yes." Her eyes were wide. Hide your disappointment. "It's alright. We'll stop. Let's go for that walk."

"No!" She protested.

He was confused.

"Just, don't take my maidenhead. Not tonight." Her neck lengthened, bringing her face back toward his, and this time he cupped her face in his hand for a moment. His softer kisses tickled her lips, her chin, her jaw, her neck, her collarbone. He stopped where the Mother's pendant hung and picked her up, carrying her through the terrace doors. The pain in his leg reminded him that he couldn't bear their weight easily anymore. He set her down on the first surface they encountered, the dining table. She wrapped her legs around his thighs, and with both hands he brushed the shoulders of her dress down her arms, baring her to the waist.

He kissed the tip of one already hardened, blushing nipple, flicked his tongue against it, and sucked it into his mouth as she sighed her pleasure to the dining room ceiling. He moved to the other breast, his tongue tracing narrowing circles from pale skin to pink. He found the hem of her dress near her feet, and it followed his hand, up her ankle, calf, knee, thigh. He almost stumbled back when he discovered that she wasn't wearing any smallclothes. She was soaked, and she sucked in a breath as he massaged her with all four of his fingers together. She spread her legs wider, and he looked down to finally see her womanhood, flaming waves dancing above glistening, rosy lips.

She pulled his head toward hers, and he thought she meant to kiss him. Instead she brought his forehead to hers, and stared into in his eyes. He wanted to taste her now, but he couldn't bear to break her gaze, so his large fingers continued to work her so slowly and gently that she began to rock her hips to increase the rhythm. Her hips tipped, bringing herself tighter against his hand to increase the pressure, and when her eyes closed, he knew she was close. She whispered his name, and his heart swelled, whispered it again and again. "Sandor," she moaned as he felt the pulsing of her climax against his hand.