As always... 3 3 3 thank you for all of the reviews and favorites etc. :D I can't promise that I'll be able to continue updating this fic so quickly, but I do promise that I'll try my best. I've finally got the ball rolling in terms of ideas for where it will go from here, at least to a point, so that helps :)

She felt...sick.

There was simply no other way to describe it. She was angry, yes, but she wasn't even sure whether she was angrier with Sandor...or with herself. He kept trying to push her away, yet so far she had refused to let him do so. And now...now...

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut against the tears that had welled up in them. Things hadn't gone at all how she'd hoped.

Stupid little bird. Silly little bird. Did you think that he would profess his love for you? How could you not have foreseen that an admission such as yours would suffocate his ardor?

She wanted to scream, she wanted to tear her shift to pieces, she wanted to throw the flagon of wine against the wall and watch it shatter, see its contents stain the wood red as blood...but of course Sansa Stark did none of those things. No, she merely lay down on her pallet and stared at the ceiling as her tears fell silently, drenching her face and her hair. When sleep would not come, she stood, dressed herself, and washed her face with the jug of water and the cloth she'd been provided. She even drank a bit more wine to steady her nerves before making her way back up to the top deck. Sandor was there, but so was the captain, and Sansa busied herself with asking him for details of the voyage and pretending to be interested in hearing about his ship, his crew, and his past. The captain was a gruff but kindly man, and all too happy to oblige - especially in regards to speaking of his ship. Eventually they were joined by Ser Willem, but still Sandor kept his distance - and Sansa was resolved to the idea of letting him do so.

"Have no fear, m'lady," the captain was saying. "With the right winds, we'll arrive at Sunspear in a fortnight. Perhaps even sooner."

"I'm glad of that," Sansa replied, forcing a smile. "I was never one for riding horses, and just now I'm not sure I care much more for sailing, either. No offense meant to you, of course...but I long ago realized that I would have been much better off remaining at Winterfell. I fancied myself a traveler, an adventuress...I wanted to see King's Landing and be at court...I was a silly little girl."

"I'm certain you were never a silly little girl," Ser Willem disagreed. "And perhaps you will soon return to the North, with friends by your side to drive out those who don't belong in your ancestral home."

Sansa could not look at the young knight as she said, "One can only hope." Deep down she knew that it would be quite some time before she could possibly return to Winterfell, and Ser Willem surely knew that as well - he was merely telling her what she wanted to hear, and above all Sandor had helped her see how tiresome that could be. Yet she dared not be rude to these men - especially Ser Willem. Not now…not when it seemed likely that Sandor would very soon insist on going his own way.

He has every right to leave, Sansa kept reminding herself, though she knew that she would never be able to forgive him if he did.

They were so far south that the autumn storms had not yet reached these waters, and true to the captain's word they made good time on their journey, arriving in Sunspear a mere twelve days after leaving the docks of Wyl. For Sansa those days were ones of quiet reflection - and, truth be told, of sadness. Sandor was on the ship with her, of course, but he kept his distance - to the point where others soon noticed. The captain and Ser Willem were among the first, and though both seemed a bit hesitant to do so they eventually questioned her on the matter. Sansa waved them off with nothing more than bad excuses, reminding them that there was nowhere for her to go and that the men aboard the cog were clearly worthy of her trust – and so she did not need Sandor to be constantly by her side.

Truth be told, Sansa had hoped that Sandor would come around - he was stubborn, yes, but he'd changed his mind before whenever she was involved. Yet as the days wore on, he remained distant, and she became less and less certain that he would ever attempt to make amends.

The morning they were to arrive at Sunspear dawned cool, but the promise of a hot day loomed before them - Sansa could tell this by how fast the mists burned off the water as the sun rose slowly in the east. She had gathered her meager belongings and was waiting on the deck, with Sandor and Ser Willem standing on either side of her, as the cog pulled into port.

"Lord Wyl would have been careful in his message to the Martells," Ser Willem explained. "They will have been told that this ship carried a gift, perhaps, or they may have written a carefully worded lie about sending one of their children for Prince Doran to bring to the Water Gardens. You will be quite a surprise to them...but hopefully, a good one."

Yet as the ship was tied up and unloaded, Sansa could sense that something was wrong. The tension in the air made her skin prickle, and any time a Dornishman - or woman - caught sight of Sandor, their stares and whispers worried her all the more.

"I think you and your...shield...should go rest in the captain's quarters," Ser Willem finally said. "I will go to see why no one has been sent to escort you."

Sansa obeyed without question, and was pleasantly surprised when Sandor followed her below decks almost...meekly. It was the only time they had been alone since that first afternoon on the ship, and it was as awkward as Sansa feared it would be. She sat in one of the captain's chairs while Sandor stood in the doorway, and at least a quarter of an hour of silence passed before she finally decided that couldn't take it any longer.

"Those Dornish people on the docks...do you think they recognized you?"

"Aye," Sandor replied gruffly.

"Sandor...what if Lord Wyl wrote of me when he sent a raven to Prince Doran? What if it was intercepted?"

"Then we're both in more trouble than I care to think about," he shrugged.

"How can you be so...so...nonchalant?" Sansa cried. "We could both be in very real danger right now!"

Sandor chuckled, which angered her even more. "If we had that much to worry about, little bird, someone would have already arrived to whisk us away to a dungeon. If your friends the Wyls knew what was good for them - and I think they did - they wouldn't have mentioned your name if - or when - they contacted the Martells. I'm damn sure that I'm the only one of us who is in any sort of danger here, and that's just because of my fucking name and the fact that everyone recognizes my ugly face." He laughed again, though this time Sansa thought it was more at himself than at her.

Still, she could not help but press him. He was speaking to her - with her - finally. She'd almost forgotten how she loved the sound of his rasping voice, rough and sharp at the same time, stone against steel or steel against stone. "I've told you that I'll not let them harm you," she reminded him. "But that depends on them not harming me."

"The only thing they could possibly do to 'harm' you would be to send you back to the Lannisters, and they won't do that. Blood runs hot in Dorne, little bird, and I can promise you that they've never forgotten what happened to Elia Martell and her mewling babes at the hands of Lord Tywin's men."

"Who happened to include your brother," she murmured.

"Aye," Sandor said again. He pinched the bridge of his nose between the thumb and forefinger of one hand, for a moment seeming almost...vulnerable. But when he looked at her again his eyes were as cold as iron. "Still think it was a good idea to come to Dorne, little bird?"

Before Sansa could answer, Ser Willem appeared behind Sandor. He was sweating and breathing hard, concern plain on his face. "Prince Doran has sent one of his own litters to carry you - both of you - to the stronghold, and we'd best be going now."

"Ser Willem, what is wrong?" Sansa asked, not bothering to conceal how worried she truly was.

"Do you really think I'm going to ride in a fucking litter?" Sandor interjected.

"Please, I beg of you, there is no time. And yes, you need to ride in the litter as well. Not doing so..."

"He'll do as he's bid," Sansa insisted. She turned to Sandor. "I'm sure Prince Doran and Ser Willem have good reason to want you in the litter. Come."

Be brave, she told herself, though all the while she could feel her heart pounding in her chest. This new development had made her fear for herself, yes, but more so she feared for Sandor.

Sansa suddenly found herself questioning whether her name and her courtesies would be enough to keep either of them safe in a world where they were at turns hunted and despised.