How many times had she been with him now, how many times had she enjoyed herself to this point...and yet this time, this time, Sansa sensed that something was different. He wanted to scare her, as he had so many times in the past, yet his touch and his voice were almost soft.

I must make him understand that I will not leave him. That I cannot leave him, Sansa realized.

But how?

And then he was moving her over himself, and she was feeling these sensations that were a hundred - no, a thousand- times stronger than any she had ever felt before. When she felt her pleasure fairly explode inside her and followed up that feeling by murmuring his name again and again and again, she knew what must come next...and yet she could not bring herself to say it. Not aloud, anyway.

I love him. I love him, I love him, I love him!

Just that knowledge was enough to give her pause. She was still married to Tyrion. She was still the only known Stark left alive to take over Winterfell.

And she must not arrive in Dorne as anything less than a maid.

Yet the way he made her feel...Sansa could not deny it. It wasn't just the physical aspects, though those were things she had never thought to expect considering all that her mother and Cersei had told or taught her. She was not sure just now if she would ever be able to follow her heart - yet she must hope that someday soon...

"Girl?" Sandor suddenly rasped, and she wanted to kiss him and curse him both, for speaking to her - and yet doing so in such a way.

Suddenly Sansa found herself mocking him. "Girl? Is that all I am to you, then? I'll show you a girl, Sandor Clegane." With that she reached around and pulled the simple peasant gown she'd been wearing over her head, exposing herself body and soul to this man who had somehow, unwittingly and likely unwillingly, captured her heart. She sat astride him wearing only her smallclothes, her nipples hard little rosebuds in the chill night air, goose pimples raising on her skin. "Do I look like a girl? You called me half a woman, months before you ever touched me as you did tonight...so am I full woman enough for you now? I would give myself to you if I could, yet you know that is not possible. You could take me by force if you wanted to do so, yet you haven't done it. You pleasure me, you give me endearing names, you call me by my true name...and then you dare to call me girl?"

He was abashed; she could see it in his eyes...yet still he did not avoid her gaze, and for that Sansa was glad. They stared at each other for several long moments, but when he opened his mouth to speak she did so before he could.

"As soon as my marriage to Tyrion is annulled, we should wed," she told him. "A Stark married to another high lord is a danger; a Stark married to a man who is not even a knight is..." She paused, unsure of what to say.

"Nothing," he rasped, narrowing his eyes, daring her to defy him.

"No," she refused. "This is not nothing. You are not nothing. We are not nothing." When she bent to kiss him she expected him to refuse, expected him to deny her this, when she needed it so much.

But he didn't. He returned her embrace with all the fervor she put into it; returned it...welcomed it, even. I love you, I love you, I love you, Sansa again found herself thinking...and yet she broke their kiss first, and still could not say those words to him. "You will do it, then? As soon as you can, you will marry me?"

"Haven't I already given you my cloak, girl?" he asked.

"Twice," she whispered, remembering how she had so very literally taken shelter in the folds of Sandor Clegane's cloak - willingly.

"Then you already have your answer."

Sansa slipped away from him then, to lie beside him, and after several tense minutes Sandor wrapped her in his embrace. When she felt his muscled arm pressed against her tummy, Sansa knew that she was safe. If they reached Dorne and could not find help there, they would flee again. He would cut down any who stood in their path.

After all these years, he has more control over himself than you have over yourself, she knew. He will wait as long as you bid him...but will you wait? Can you wait?

She knew that the answer to that question was no, yet she refused to let herself admit that - not yet, not just yet. If the Martells would not take them in, there were always the Summer Islands...a place where they would not be frowned upon for living together in love and love alone...

Home, she thought then, her heart aching for it in a way she'd never thought possible, at least not until after Joffrey'd had her father beheaded. She could thrive in Dorne, possibly even more so in the Summer Islands, but above all she wanted Winterfell. She wanted to be the Stark in Winterfell, with a husband of her choosing, and nothing else would ever suffice.

When dawn came it was chill and grey like every other morning, and Sansa only woke because she felt Sandor draw her close, felt him bury his head in her hair and make strange snuffling noises that could only mean he was smelling her. She gathered her courage and turned to face him, placing her palm over the side of his face that remained unscarred. During the weeks they had traveled a rough beard had grown there, and somehow its prickly feeling under her soft skin felt more right than anything else ever had.

"What do you want, little bird?" Sandor suddenly asked, somewhat gruffly.

You, Sansa thought. Only you.But what she said was, "Nothing. We should wake, though, and move on."

His eyes had been closed, but when she said this they snapped open. "Aye. I suppose you're right." In a flash he was on his feet, though she could see from the press of his breeches that he had gone hard, and Sansa smiled to herself. She wanted there to be time, wished there would be time...but there wasn't. They must press on, and in a few days at most they would reach the seat of House Wyl.

And then...

She did not like to think about what would happen then. Did not want to think about it.

Day blended into night, and night into day. They traveled, and though they were once again holding each other close, neither she nor Sandor made any move toward more. It was a companionship - a relationship, Sansa dared to think.

It was almost something like perfection.

But the inevitable happened sooner than she would like - they crested a low hill one day and the sea was shining before them in the late afternoon light. And standing before the vast expanse of water was House Wyl's stronghold, lying low and worrisome on the horizon - and beyond that, a small village, several piers, and ships. Ships, ships that could take them to Sunspear...

Sansa slid off Stranger's back and stepped forward, shading her eyes with one hand as she gazed across the small expanse of land that stood between them and the not-so-distant stronghold. She must have paused for longer than she realized, because eventually Sandor placed a hand on her shoulder, startling Sansa out of her reverie. She reached up almost automatically, covering his large hand with her own as best she could, and for several long moments they stood there like that in silence.

"It will be fine," she eventually murmured, though she knew that she was trembling, that he could feel her trembling, and that he would know she was lying.

"Aye," he agreed - a lie of his own, he who never lied. Sansa found herself grimacing at this, but forced herself to speak her next piece anyway.

"Should we get some rest, you think, and approach the Wyls tomorrow?" She peered up at the sky, feeling drenched in the late afternoon sun that would be gone all too soon. "It will be dark before we reach the gates, should we try to reach them today."

Sandor answered by first pulling his hand away with a grunt before saying, "I don't think so, little bird. If we were to make camp and someone were to stumble upon us, they'd be like to think we were sneaking around, trying to avoid capture or...who knows what they'd think, really, but it would be nothing good. Best we just...get this over with."

Sansa looked back over her shoulder at him, their eyes meeting in silent acknowledgement of the fact that the intimacy they'd known these past weeks was about to come to an end. But when she opened her mouth to speak, the only thing she could think to say was, "I suppose we should go, then." Sandor's nod was grim, and Sansa slipped her hand into his - whether to reassure him, or herself, she wasn't quite sure. He held it for a moment before quickly slipping his arms about her and lifting her onto Stranger's back, swinging up in front of her and digging his heels into the destrier's sides, as if any sort of hesitation needed to be left behind, and soon.

With a sigh Sansa laid her cheek against the broad back of this man who was her protector, her savior - this man who she loved. He had kept her safe so far; she knew that he would do everything in his power to continue to do so.

She just hoped that they would not have to fight or flee. Anymore.