Though she was half asleep, Sansa jerked awake when the door to her cell finally slammed open with a bang. She opened her eyes slightly, wanting to look but also wishing for the intruder to think her asleep. The room was almost pitch black, the only light coming from the dim open door, but there was no mistaking the Hound's hulking figure.

After she had eaten her meager dinner and he still hadn't came back, Sansa had allowed herself to hope that he had forgotten about her. She should've known better than to hope for such.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she heard him fumbling with what sounded like clothing. Dread began to pool in her stomach. There was a click and then a thud hit the floor. His swordbelt? Please let that be all he's taking off. Yet the fumbling sounds continued and so too did the fear inside her. She was glad for the Hound's heavy breathing, for she was sure that otherwise he would hear the pounding of her heart.

After a century of terror, Sansa felt the bed dip down as he joined her. Her nose wrinkled instinctually as the scent of wine hit her like a snowdrift. The smell only furthered her apprehension, she knew some men became angry when they were too far into their cups. That's all I need, not just a Hound but an angry Hound.

She began a silent prayer that he would be too drunk to even realize that she was there; praying to be invisible. Alas, her wishes were crushed, literally and figuratively, when the Hound rolled over and draped a heavy arm over her middle, knocking the wind out of her. Her gasp caused him to jump and remove the weight from her, drawing his arm back while simultaneously turning his head to face her. At least in the dark I can't see his face.

"Well look, my own little bird, sleeping in my bed." A heavy hand reached over to run through her hair and brush against her face. A blush creeped up her cheeks, making her skin feel hot underneath his cold fingers. Suddenly, his hand was replaced by his face. She squeaked in surprise as his arm yanked her close, flush against his body, with his face buried in her hair. It was at that moment she truly understood just how large he was.

Despite having always considered herself tall, Sansa's feet only came to his knees. His bare chest seemed the girth of a full grown tree trunk, though perhaps it was her fear that made him appear thrice his true size. His beard scratched her neck and his hair tickled her nose. He smelled of wine most prominently, but there was ocean air there as well, wet sand, wood, and sweat. It wasn't as unpleasant as she had expected.

His hand moved from her waist and began to circle patterns on her back, running up and down again, causing her to shiver. "You smell like the sea, girl. And you feel hot to the touch. Perhaps you're overdressed?"

There was no time to respond before the giant man tore her dress down the back, buttons popping everywhere. A cry left her lips as the Hound relieved her of her ruined gown. Sansa tried to focus on the wonderful fact that she had been clever enough to hide the dagger earlier in the day, yet the horror of the moment overwhelmed her. He'll ruin me, she thought, tears pearling in her eyes.

"Mmmm," his hands explored her almost-bare skin, covered only by her shift. As sudden as a rainstorm, she felt a warmth begin to spread throughout her limbs and a dizziness cloud her mind. Outraged that her body was behaving thus, Sansa clenched her fists against his chest and took a deep breath. Though Sansa had shared a chaste kiss with a charming son of one of her father's friends, that was as far as her knowledge went when it came to matters such as this. Did he expect her to do something? Why did she care at all about her inexperience? She hated him!

Teeth grazing her neck, he rasped, "Never had a wife before. But I think I'll enjoy having something so sweet in my bed come night."

Sansa's eyes widened. "I've said no vows."

He chuckled. "Coughing the sea water out of your lungs after I breathed life back into you are the only vows I need to hear. I took you and now you're mine. That's the way of the world, little bird. If your previous man wasn't strong enough to keep you safe, then he didn't deserve you."

She attempted to process his words and reply with something that would hurt him, yet all she could blurt out was, "I've had no other man." Her voice cracked as she tried to rub the wetness out of her eyes.

The Hound's hands stilled on her body. "You're lying."

A strangled laugh bubbled out of her at the absurdity of that statement. "Why would I lie? Why do you think my only defender was my sister?" Arya. Sansa's longing for her sister in this moment stung her like a blow to the stomach. Her fierce sister had to have survived; it was the only thought that kept Sansa sane.

"You're a maid?" He asked, apparently believing her this time.

Embarrassment flowered in her cheeks; how vulgar to ask her such a question. Yet she didn't want to anger him with silence, and he was a savage after all, so she whispered, "Yes."

"Bugger me," he muttered, and she wasn't sure if she was meant to hear. "Your father must have kept you under lock and key."

"And now you have locked me away," she said before she considered whether that would anger him. However he only chuckled again, and resumed stroking her back.

"I suppose I have. I did not wish to share my prize with hungry dogs. Tomorrow I will let you out to smell the fresh air, but only if you promise to not try to fly off again." His voice was unusually gentle and Sansa did not know what to make of it. Is he trying to be kind? Why would he bother?

"I promise," she lied.

He seemed satisfied with that. His fingers brushed over her ribs, and Sansa squirmed at the ticklish sensation. However, her movements caused to her shift into a new position, her leg now pressed firmly against something very hard. It took her a moment to realize what it was, and when she did, Sansa was sure her entire body had turned red from mortification. Though thankfully he was wearing breeches, the sensation remained entirely numbing. The Hound wanted her.

At her accidental touch, the fearsome man exhaled sharply.

"I'm sorry, I did not mean to -"

Her apologies were cut off by his mouth, harsh and demanding against her own. It was a strange sensation, with one side burned, twisted and hard, yet somehow not unenjoyable. Almost instantly, she felt her body's own reaction: a twist of fire heating up her core and centering in her lower belly, creating an ache she had never felt before. Frustrated, she tried to force the feeling away. He is your captor! A monster! A Viking!She succeeded for a while, until he gripped her harder to himself and ran his tongue along her lips. The spark returned and she found herself clutching at his shoulders without realizing how they had gotten there. Maybe it won't be so bad, she tried to convince herself. Maybe he'll be gentle. And when he's had his fill and falls asleep I can slit his throat like Robb taught me.

The small amount of confidence she had mustered vanished when he rolled her on her back and settled atop her. Never in her life had she felt so invaded, so consumed; he was everywhere. His smell was a cloud around her, his hands were leaving fire in their wake, and her whole body was being pressed down by his massive, muscled form. Her shift was far too thin, allowing her to feel the heat of his chest against her own. Though she suspected he was supporting most of his weight, she still felt like she was drowning, only this time it was not the bitingly cold ocean, but the scalding heat of her husband. His hardness pressed stiffly into the inside of her thigh as he continued to control her lips. While one arm was bent by her head to hold himself up, the other was wandering. She whimpered when his hand slipped under her shift and up against her bare waist, finally reaching her chest.

"They're coming for you," the soldier boy had told them. At the time, Sansa didn't understand what he meant, not truly. It had seemed to bleak a nightmare to be true. Nevertheless, here she was, and every rough caress of the Hound's hand proved the boy's words to be true. That boy was probably dead now.

The Hound smiled into her mouth when he squeezed her breast. "So soft. Much too sweet for the likes of me." She felt his lips arrive at her neck and bite softly. "But you are my wife now, aren't you little bird? I guess I'll just have to endure to sweetness." He trailed kisses down her neck and collarbone, cradling her possessively.

Sansa tried to respond, but all that came out was a heaving cry. The events of the previous day flashed before her eyes - all she could see was her beloved Winterfell on fire, all she could hear was Arya screaming as she leapt from Ice Keep. And so Sansa Stark cried, sobbed, for how could she have possibly thought she could outsmart the Hound? A killer? Her? Who was she fooling? She was a daft, stupid bird, just like he had said. There was no way for her to escape this ship, let alone the man sharing her bed. Robb would never come on his white horse to save her. Her father would not carry her from this room on his shoulders. She was the wife of a Viking. And so she cried.

Sansa felt the Hound pull back to rest on his forearms, staring down at her. "No, little bird," he said, using the pad of his thumb to wipe the tears from her face. "None of this."

But she couldn't stop the water flowing down her cheeks, nor the desperate sounds leaping from her throat. "Stop it, girl." The Hound growled at her, shaking her shoulders lightly. "What were you expecting? I'm not a good man, Sansa. You're idiotic if you expected anything else."

Though his words were cruel, Sansa sensed an underlying defensiveness, a guilty tone. When she noticed this quality, Petyr's previous, almost-forgotten words rang out in her head, as if he were right there with her, whispering in her ear: "Find a weakness. Exploit it. You're a beautiful innocent girl, that will be many a man's undoing."

Could this be the Hound's weakness? A desire to be something good, perhaps? Her mother had often said that it was human nature to act as you are expected to. Those who are expected to be brutes too often turned into them. Maybe that was the way with the Hound? Well, I have nothing else up my sleeve, perhaps this route will sway him. "You said you..." she paused for a shaky breath. "Wouldn't hurt me." When there was no response, she reached her hand up to touch his scarred cheek. "Please. Please, Sandor."

At this, his expression softened and he touched her face very lightly, as if he was afraid she would shatter should his grip be too strong. He appraised her for a long moment until he agreed with her. "No, little bird. I won't hurt you." He removed his weight from her, and laid down next to her, resuming his original position with a heavy sigh.

Exploit the weakness.

Her throat and eyes burned from her multiple crying outbursts throughout the day, but her fear of the man abated somewhat now that he did not seem determined to devour her. Have I gained the upper hand? Curious, yet cautious, as to how much further she could shift the situation, Sansa decided to test the waters. "Will I live with you when we reach Askrow? Forgive me, I do not know what is typical for...for..."

"For what, girl?" He snapped. He says little bird when he's being gentle, girl when he is not, she made a mental note.

"For husband and wife of your people." She whispered quietly, trying to judge his reaction as much as possible in the darkness. Her heat beat hadn't slowed in the slightest, no matter how hard she tried to recover her breath, and now that his heat was gone, she shivered slightly.

Sandor's eyes widened in surprise at her choice of words, just as Sansa had predicted. She was seemingly relenting to her fate by calling herself his wife, though in truth, Sansa only wished to know whether her cooperating would make things better or worse for her. By the new comforting tone in his voice, Sansa assumed that "better" was the answer. "Yes, you will live with me." He paused and ran a hand through his hair, staring at the ceiling of the cabin. She waited, wondering if he had more to add.

"I would keep you safe," he muttered at last. "No one would hurt you again, or I'd kill them." With that, he pulled her closer, gently this time, and turned to be able to hold her to his chest. Sansa's breathing hitched, wondering if he would pick up where he left off before the crying, but he appeared content just to hold her.

No more words were spoken, and as the minutes passed, Sansa breathed out a quiet sigh of relief. Nothing further was expected of her. So she waited for his breathing to even out signaling sleep, and bided her time.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Sandor

He watched her, the unpredictable little bird, though Sandor was positive that she thought him asleep. One did not survive the fury of Viking women by sleeping heavily, he had learned that early on. It was far too common for the wench to be willing in bed, and even more willing to slid a knife through his ribs later. Though he expected it of practically every Viking woman he took to bed, he had to admit the little bird was surprising him yet again. His eyes narrowed as he appraised the slender form of the red-haired beauty glide around the bed and toward the far side of their room.

She sunk to her knees silently and began to pull at one of the floorboards. Confused, Sandor continued to watch, making sure his deep breathing remained in check and he did not shift around.

Though the floor gave a tiny squeak as Sansa removed a floorboard, a less paranoid man would have never even woken to whatever the little bird had planned. I left her alone for one afternoon and she's hidden things in the floorboards? Perhaps she was more of a Viking than he had given her credit for.

She reached her arm into the darkness and returned with steel, glinting slightly. It was all Sandor could do to remain immobile. Where the bloody fuck did she get her hands on a dagger?! Though he knew he should reveal his consciousness and end this folly before the stupid bird hurt herself, he was too curious to see what she would do next. The girl turned the weapon over in her hand, staring at it.

The tears were fake, he realized with a sudden fury. It was all an act - it had to be. Oh, she was good, he would give her that. The weeping and gasping and pleading had sounded so damn genuine; how could he harm such an innocent creature that had suffered so much so recently, only to be forced to endure him? Yet here was the weeping bird, clutching her dagger to her chest and preparing to murder him, the man she had called her husband only a few hours prior. Wrath consumed him. Liar! He gripped the sheets to keep himself from getting up and gripping her pretty little neck instead.

One move toward me girl, and I'll fuck you bloody and snap your neck after. We'll see where your false tears get you then.

Minutes passed and girl remained unmoving, staring at the blade as though it were a foreign object. Then he noticed her shoulders shaking and was hit once again with confusion. The rage retreated slightly as he tried to puzzle out what she was doing. Crying? Did she know I am watching her? No, that couldn't be it. For if she knew his was awake, why would she reveal her hiding spot? It didn't make sense. Perhaps the dagger scared her; the thought of killing someone disturbed the frail girl too much, even if it was her scarred Hound.

He wanted her to move. He wanted her to get up with that knife in her grip, and try her very best to kill him. Because then he would've been proven right. That the brief kindness she had showed him was a lie, that her tears were poisoned, that even his own wife was filled with malice and hatred toward him. That even the sweet-smelling bird was cruel underneath her courtesies.

But she did not move towards him. After wrestling with herself for a long time, Sansa wiped her cheeks on her arm and then did yet another thing he had not expected: she quietly put the blade back where it came from, and moved the floorboard back in place. She rose to her feet gracefully and walked back around to her side of the bed. He couldn't see her anymore, as she was behind him, but her felt her weight, light as it was, press into the bed next to him. The little bird sniffled a few times and then scooted close to him, little fists balled up against his back and her forehead resting on his shoulder. Sandor felt her her quick, warm breaths against his bare skin.

She believed she had the chance to kill me and she did not take it - why?

Obviously it was not out of affection that she had chosen not to stab him. Maybe the girl realized that without Sandor she would be torn apart in seconds by the rest of the men. Maybe she was just scared. These thoughts will keep until the morning. Sandor eventually drifted into a troubled sleep, filled with dreams of a bird with broken wings.

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Once again, thank you thank you for all the positive comments, it really gets a girl's heart racing! I promise next chapter we'll see more of the other characters. Any ideas or wishes for where you'd like this story to go are more than welcome.

-cerys