SO sorry for the huge time span between updates! I've had quite a bit of writer's block on this fic, unfortunately. I'm doing my best to not abandon it entirely though, promise :) Thank you for the reviews, all of you! I really appreciate them and honestly going back and reading through them helped me get these next two chapters written.

Fuck. Why, why had he let her do that? Yes, she'd moved quicker than he'd thought possible, and once her mouth was on him he'd surrendered. He was only human, after all...no, he was only a dog. How was he supposed to face her now, knowing that she'd disgraced herself like that for him? He was sucking in air, trying to calm himself yet at the same time wondering why she'd not embraced him, not even touched him. Several long moments passed before he finally stood and tucked his cock away, lacing up his breeches and stomping off to pace at the edge of the clearing where they'd made camp. Part of him wanted to swing up onto Stranger's back and ride, or to stalk away amongst the trees and make an attempt at hunting down a late dinner...yet he knew that he could not go far, and that knowledge angered him all the more. He needed wine, gods be damned, and what little they'd brought had run out long ago.

Another sennight of this nonsense, Sandor couldn't help but think. Well, I won't be letting her do that again.

"Sandor?" the little bird's voice was tremulous, and though it took every bit of self restraint that he possessed, Sandor refused to turn and face her.

"Go to sleep, girl. We've still got quite a ways to ride, and I'll not have any complaints from you about being tired." Keeping his back to her, he moved toward Stranger and fumbled in the packs that they'd laid out near the destrier. Once he'd found the brush Sandor took to running it over his horse's black coat, telling himself the animal needed a good grooming anyway. He took his time, even braved Stranger's wicked kicks to check the horse's hooves for stones and caked dirt.

Eventually Sandor could no longer put off catching some rest of his own. He knew that Sansa Stark was not asleep - she was curled into a stiff ball, her back moving only slightly with her quick, wide-awake breaths. Sandor reached down and tugged his bedroll away from hers - just a short distance, though he saw the hitch in her breathing when she heard him doing it. She needs to get used to there being space between us, he reminded himself; but though he was tired – and sated from earlier, much as he hated to admit it - Sandor's sleep that night was fitful. When he awoke dawn had not yet broken, and he was drenched in a cold sweat. He did not remember having had his usual nightmares, yet he must have all the same...and just that vague knowledge left a sour feeling in his stomach that even their bland breakfast of porridge could not smother.

Thankfully the little bird was silent that day. He made her ride behind him for once, which helped in the way of not having her too close - and it took only a jerk of his head to stop her from laying just beside him that night. Six more days, Sandor told himself when he awoke the next morning, less if we travel longer and faster whenever we can...though what his rush was to reach the Martells, he could not say. They hated his brother Gregor, though certainly not as much as Sandor himself did - still, who was to say the Martells would not take him captive despite any chirps the little bird may make?

Who was to say they'd let him live at all? Pretty, courteous, and highborn she may be, but Sansa Stark was no skilled negotiator.

You listened to her. Listen to her.

Aye, but that was because he wanted something more from her. She was no hostage to him, and where he saw a young woman others would likely see a child, moonblood or no.

Deep down Sandor knew that he was simply looking for things that could go wrong - anything, everything, that could go wrong. And yet not doing so - even arriving at the seat of House Wyl unprepared, let alone arriving in Sunspear assuming that the little bird or himself - especially himself - would be treated as honored guests was idiotic to say the least. He repeated these thoughts to himself over and over as they rode that day, more than anything using them to keep at bay all of the feelings - physical and otherwise - that were brought on by the little bird's arms wrapped tight around him.

They must have been halfway to the seat of House Wyl, perhaps more - after the incident, which was the only way Sandor could think of those last intimate moments now - before Sansa Stark truly spoke to him. They stopped one night to make camp, and she procrastinated in laying out her bedroll until he had spread his own out. He thought she may try to lay hers beside his, but no...instead she laid her bedroll so that she would be head-to-head with him, and made herself comfortable. Eventually he lay down as well, flat out on his back with his hands cupped under his head...and when he did she reached for him, sliding her small soft hand into his until it was pillowing his head as well.

"Sandor," she whispered, and it was a statement, not a question.

He remained silent.

"Sandor...please speak to me. I can't bear you not doing so."

"Go to sleep," was all he could force himself to say in response.

"No," she stated, and then in a flash she had sat up and spun around, bracing her free hand on the ground just to the side of his left shoulder, pinning her legs around his waist.

"I'm not some wanton whore," Sansa Stark fairly snarled. "If you do not desire me, say as much...and I will leave you alone. There is no need for you to act so horrid."

"Horrid?" he spat. "Is that how I'm acting, then?" Sandor reached up and grasped her hips; she was so small, his hands so big, that his finger tips nearly touched over her belly. He began to guide her back and forth, as gently as he could, rising up to meet that place between her legs until he saw her close her eyes and begin breathing deeply. "I'll tell you what's horrid, Sansa Stark. Horrid would be me taking you now, as I've wanted to a hundred times these past months. Horrid would be me ruining you before you can reach Dorne and ask for shelter, for help. What I'm being - and seven hells, fuck me, I can't understand why - is honorable."

"Yes," she sighed, then, "yes..." again. Though he was still gripping her, she was moving of her own accord now, and he had gone so hard that it was almost painful. She ground against him, faster, harder, and Sandor couldn't stop himself. He released her and yanked up her skirts, pulled them out of the way and then reached down to move her smallclothes. His hand was on her nub and he could feel that she was wet for him, so wet that it took every ounce of self-control - and admittedly, he usually did not possess much of that - to not unlace his own breeches and shove his length inside of her. He pressed himself back into the ground, willing himself to obey, obey, obey, as he flicked at her hard little pearl with his thumb and forefinger and allowed her to grind her center against him. The little bird's head was thrown back, her mouth only slightly open in a silent cry of what he hoped was ecstasy...and then suddenly she was taut above him, her whole body like a wound-up wire wanting only to spring free...

Suddenly Sandor's body betrayed him and he pressed up against her. "Sansa..." he heard himself moan, a word full of more need than he'd thought he could ever express.

"Sandor," she breathed, rocking herself forward and then collapsing, pressing her chest against his so that through the thin, cheap fabric of her dress and his own worn, roughspun tunic he could feel her hard nipples. "Oh, gods, Sandor!" And then she twitched and shuddered and her hand was in his hair and her mouth was on his and their tongues were moving against each other and he felt himself let go.