First, I want to say thank you to all of the long-time readers who have stuck with me through this fic...especially since I've been writing it for over a year now and there have been times when my updates were spaced months apart. I do apologize profusely for that, because I read fics as well and I know how it is to wait forever for an update. We've still got a little ways to go (I'd hazard a guess at another half dozen chapters, though it could be a bit less or a bit more :) )...but I hope to continue at least at the one-chapter-a-week pace until it's finished.

Second, I want to say thank you to any NEW readers of this fic and hope that you've enjoyed so far!

Third, just a general thank you for all of the reviews and favorites and whatnot 3 Honestly they are a big part of what's kept me going, because this one has been really difficult to write.

The little bird was right, though he didn't want to admit it. There was little and less reason for him to remain by her side, though he was only being honest with her when he told her that he still wasn't sure she was truly safe. She needs to hear such things, and I'm the only one who will ever speak them. Ser Willem, the fool, clearly thought to coddle Sansa Stark...Doran Martell may not go quite that far, but Sandor doubted that the Prince of Dorne would tell the little bird everything that she needed to hear.

"You need me because I'm the only one who will never lie to you," Sandor finally stated.

"I think that I can determine lies from truths by myself now," Sansa insisted. "And I am not stupid, either. For instance, I know that you fight with yourself over how to treat me when I am in your presence, even more so now than you did when the issue was simply keeping our...involvement with each other...a secret, from Tyrion and Joffrey and everyone else in the Red Keep. It...it seems that you are hurting yourself as much as you are hurting me." These last words were no more than a whisper...but though he saw the effort it took her to speak them aloud, as usual Sandor's anger flared up in response. It took everything in him to hold it back, despite not knowing why Sansa Stark caused such feelings in him in the first place.

It's not her causing them, you fucking dog. It's you. You want her, but more than that, you care about her...you, who's not supposed to give a shit about anyone.

Sandor took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, little bird," he grunted. He wanted to say more, wanted to tell her he couldn't do this, couldn't have this conversation, yet couldn't leave her, either...but instead he turned his back on her, swiped up his discarded clothing, and stalked back to his quarters. At least here at the Water Gardens, they were his own...Ser Willem was in the rooms beside him, he knew, but he had a small room to himself with a comfortable pallet and a jug of good Dornish red awaiting him. Gods know I'll need that tonight. The sight of Sansa in that wet shift, clinging to her form and accentuating her every curve, had almost been more than he could bear. Shutting the door behind him and making sure that it was latched, Sandor peeled off his wet breeches and threw himself into the single chair that adorned his quarters. He grabbed the jug of wine from the table and took one long pull, and then another. Before long he had finished the wine, and though he knew that he should lie down and close his eyes, he couldn't bring himself to do so.

Surely I can find some more wine somewhere in this damn place. He stood and stretched, then donned a pair of loose silken pants that had been left for him. He was surprised to find that they almost fit, but they felt strange - loose and light and almost soft, compared to the breeches he was used to wearing. Thankfully his own tunic was still dry, so he pulled it over his head and left the room, heading the opposite direction of the pools in hopes of finding a kitchen or perhaps even a wine cellar.

The halls of the Water Gardens were dark and silent, and everywhere Sandor looked they seemed to be open to the night. The marble had been pale pink when they'd arrived in the dim light of the setting sun; the moonwash made it appear almost white. Flowers bloomed in every archway and even in pots set along the walls, their scent thick even in the now-cool air. He would almost swear he could smell the oranges of the orchards that surrounded the palace.

Sansa will love it here, he couldn't help but think...and then he chided himself for a drunk arsehole. Since when do I think things like that? he wondered.

It was the kitchens he found, and mercifully it was both late enough and early enough that there were no servants lurking about. Unfortunately there wasn't much in the way of good wine, either - certainly nothing like the quality stuff they'd left in his quarters - but plenty of Dornish sour. Likely it was wine used for cooking, though perhaps in the northern parts of Westeros it would have been fit for the tables of independent merchants and petty lords. Sandor settled himself near the hearth, where embers still glowed red from the evening's cook fires. He didn't look at them - couldn't look at them - but even in Dorne the nights were cold, and the silken pants and thin tunic he wore weren't doing much in the way of keeping him warm. At least not until I get some more of this wine in me, Sandor chuckled to himself.

But the more he drank, the worse he felt. Maybe he wasn't cold, but physical comfort apparently meant nothing when he couldn't stop thinking about the little bird. She wanted things that he could not give her - no, Sandor corrected himself. She wants things you are afraid to give her. He pushed her away when at every turn he wanted nothing more than to draw her close. Why else had he kissed her that first time in the godswood, and again and again and again after that? Why else had he brought her away from King's Landing, agreed to accompany her to Dorne, fulfilled nearly every promise he'd ever made her?

Not that he would ever tell Sansa as much, but she'd been right when she'd claimed that he was hurting himself as much as he was hurting her. Sandor cared little and less for his own needs and feelings - most times, anyway - but he hated himself for having to offend the little bird and cause her distress.

"Fucking wine," he suddenly swore, throwing the jug he'd been nursing - his third for the night - against a far wall. It shattered upon impact, its red contents leaving ugly dark streaks across the pretty pale marble. He knew that it wasn't just the wine that made him think these things, though.

He knew that he needed to go to her, but he still didn't know what he would say. Could he do the right thing for once, and tell her that he was leaving? Or would he give in to her as he had so many times before, give in to her because she was the only thing that made him feel less like a dog and more like a human?

Give in to her, though you know that leaving is the best thing for her...even as it's the worst thing for you...

Sandor pushed himself to his feet, his head swimming from the wine. He'd thought it weak, but having not allowed himself to drink like this in some time clearly didn't help things. Thankfully he'd been told where Sansa Stark's quarters were; unfortunately, he'd gotten so turned around in his quest for wine that he wasn't quite sure which way to go from here. He stumbled out of the kitchens and turned the opposite way from whence he'd come, his jaw clenched as he tried to reason out what in seven hells he would say to the little bird once he'd found her. I can't leave you, not even if I wanted to. And I don't want to. It was a good start, but what if she responded by once again claiming that she loved him, or by reminding him that she wanted to wed him, or by simply throwing herself into his arms? The last would of course be the most preferable, but then he wasn't sure if he would be able to control himself just now - especially after abstaining from her for so long...

You damn well better hold yourself back. She would need him to be reserved, if the way she'd acted that first day on the ship was any indication...

Just then Sandor heard voices. They were barely more than quiet murmurs, drifting to him from around a corner, but he had the trained instincts of a warrior and could hear much of what they were saying.

"What would you have of me, Ser Willem?" a girl said, and Sandor would have known that voice anywhere. The little bird.

"A...if you would be willing...I mean to say, if you wouldn't mind it should I..." Sandor's hands clenched into fists. What in seven hells was the little bird doing wandering this place alone with him, so late at night?

"Yes?"

"A kiss."

The silence stretched for several long moments, and Sandor couldn't help but hope that he'd merely missed her saying 'no'...until he heard her whisper, "Yes. Yes, Ser Willem, you may kiss me. I...I would like to kiss you too, in fact."

Sandor moved as quietly as possible, and when he reached the end of the wall he leaned around it to see what he would see. Just one glimpse showed him more than he needed, more than he wanted. Ser Willem's hands were wrapped around Sansa's elbows, his head bent down toward hers, her head bent up toward his, their lips pressed together in a kiss that was far more chaste than most of the kisses Sansa had given him...

Yet it was a kiss nonetheless. A kiss from a handsome young knight, the very thing that Sansa Stark had always wanted.

She didn't need Sandor to protect her anymore, and perhaps he'd finally resisted her so much that she didn't want him as a...a what? Lover? Paramour? Hadn't they been both more and less than either of those things?

But then, what did it matter? Sandor turned around and stalked back to his quarters to gather his things. There weren't so many hours left before daylight, and he meant to be long gone before anyone thought to come looking for him.