A/N: Sorry about taking so long to get this chapter up. The truth is I had it pretty well completed almost a week ago. Then the dreaded self-doubt kicked in and I spent way too much time revising, editing, and generally picking apart every single sentence. After a while it becomes an exercise in futility and I finally just had to say "Enough!" I'm still not completely satisfied with it, but it is what it is.

Comments are welcomed and are much appreciated. I hope to get the next chunk up in a more timely manner.

Chapter 2

She thought him asleep and was herself drowsing when he spoke, his words muffled against her skin. "I am not a good man."

Night had fallen and the breeze through the open window had grown chilly for it. But she was warm enough, blanketed by him as they lay naked on his narrow bed. His head rested high on her stomach, faced turned away, his arms curled under and around her, one leg thrown heavy over hers. His proclamation held no hint of indecisiveness, as if he might have hoped she would counter it with a protest, tell him he was wrong. It was offered as a hard and simple truth. And so she remained silent and waited.

"The monks tried to make something better of me. For two years I knelt and prayed, until my knees were scabbed and my mouth empty. All I learned was that the gods have no love for me. The Stranger might've once, but that's it, and I won't serve him no more. I don't much like people. I like my dogs. They're obedient and loyal and they don't care if I drink too much or don't bathe like I should. I do as I want here, when and however I please. I've made a life and I'm content."

Sansa's hand lay between his shoulder blades and she slid it up and began working loose his knot of hair, freeing it and smoothing it down his back. He wore it longer now than he had in King's Landing.

"Why are you telling me this?" she asked after a short time.

He turned and rubbed his face against her, his whiskers prickly on her skin. She squirmed beneath him but he only held her tighter and then went still. "This … this bond you have with the wolves. I don't understand it, don't bloody like it either; it's unnatural. But I believe it, I have to. I won't deny what I've seen with my own eyes."

He suddenly uncurled and in one smooth motion was on his side facing her, propped on an elbow. She shifted and turned to give him more room. Then he reached across her and pulled one of the blankets over, until she was covered almost to the chin. She took it as a gesture of kindness and then quickly reconsidered. Even with only the dim light of the lantern on the night table behind her, she could see the goose bumps raised up on him. But he hadn't moved to cover them both, only her. Reaching out from under the cover and laying a hand on his arm, Sansa knew with unexpected clarity what he had done. Though unconcerned with his own nudity, he was compelled to remove hers from his sight. Was it shame? Surely not, for he had done nothing wrong, and had given far more than he'd taken.

"Why did you –"

"You say they led you here, your pack. How?"

She answered him before she could consider her words. "I thought you didn't want to know."

"Don't mock me," he said. Though his tone remained level, the warning was implicit. "How did you know to come here?"

She blinked confusedly and shook her head. "I didn't. It was as I said. I did not know where I was being led, just that I must follow. I did not even know this cottage was your home until you appeared in the doorway. I swear to you, I don't know how they found you, only that they did."

"You say you know what they're feeling. So what did you feel in them?"

She was becoming uncomfortable with his sharp scrutiny and sat up, pulling the blanket with her, so he wasn't looking down at her anymore. She frowned at him. "I am not sure I can explain."

"Try."

"Why does it matter?"

"Because I bloody well want to know, that's why!"

She met his gaze and held it long enough that he dropped his eyes and scrubbed his brow. He muttered hoarsely to himself, "Still no manners."

She suppressed an unbidden smile. They may not have turned him to the gods, these monks he'd spoken of, but the man she had known a lifetime ago would never have voiced anything that sounded so much like an apology. Not without a dagger at his throat – and likely not even then. She touched him briefly on the shoulder and lay back down, staring up at the thatch and timber roof of his tiny bedroom.

"It's …" she began and then trailed off, searching for the right words. 'It's a … calling, of sorts. A need, an instinct. Like pangs of hunger or when you are drawn to a place or a person and you do not know why. But it's more than that because it is shared, felt equally among the pack. And through the sharing it grows larger and stronger and then there is only a sense that you must find the source of this calling and answer it. I'm sorry, I'm not explaining it well." She looked over to find him studying her, brow furrowed and his mouth set in a hard line. "What is it?"

"Are you saying this is my doing, that I somehow brought you here?"

"I don't know. I suppose it's possible."

"Bugger that, it's not me. And this," he spat out, suddenly angry again, "what happened here; how much of it was this calling you speak of? Or is it just coincidence I've a dog in heat and the next I know, you've got me balls-deep in you?"

Her hesitation was miniscule, or at least it seemed that way to her. But it lasted long enough to bring him to his feet. He strode to where their clothing had ended up on the floor and pulled on his breeches, his movements sharp and jerky.

"Sandor, wait."

"I've heard enough," he snapped. "Over half my life's been spent under one Lannister's thumb or another, subject to their whims and doing as they bid - no matter how vile. Well, I'm my own man now and I won't be used again, not by you or your bloody damned wolves. I had the right of it: they're hellish creatures if they can do such things. And what does that make us?"

"Sandor, please, you don't understand."

"I understand plenty well." He yanked on his tunic and then his boots. "I'm leaving. There's a village not far from here and I'm in need of supplies. I'll be back on the morrow."

"You're leaving? Now?"

"Yes, leaving. Still the chirping little bird, aren't you?" He stopped in the doorway and swung back to glare at her. "Stay or go, girl, it's your choice. But I want those fucking wolves gone before I'm back, else I will cut them down."

Sansa waited until she heard the labored creak of the wagon wheels outside the window and then padded slowly into the dark of the main room. There was a tender ache between her legs and her thighs were sticky with Sandor's seed. The door of the cottage stood ajar and she stood and listened to the crickets and the night birds as they sang their peculiar songs. Dropping the blanket from her shoulders, she folded down onto it, crossing her legs in front of her. A sharp breeze whistled through the doorway and bathed her exposed skin in its cool breath. She shivered once, deeply, as her skin pricked and her nipples pulled tight. Then she hung her head, a curtain of red falling all around her, pooling on the floor, and closed her eyes. And then she reached, and all else ceased to exist.

She felt them some unmeasured time later, and heard their answering cry coming from far to the south and deep within the wood. Her sense of them grew stronger and soon the hounds in their kennels found their voices, adding their mournful bays as the pack came ever closer.

The wolves slid easy through the open door and surrounded her, sniffing at her hair, tasting her skin with rough tongues. She greeted each in turn: the black and silver male, the two fawn-colored females, the young gray. Touched them all, stroked along their coarse, thick pelts, rubbed noses and ears. Eventually they settled around her in a crude circle, panting softly, their breath hanging misty in the air.

She had not been entirely truthful with Sandor, for she was able to more directly influence her pack than she'd claimed. But her omission was, in her mind, necessary, and done to protect them both. Telling all would only lead to more questions for which she hadn't answers and the possibility of having to explain what the pack had done for her, what she had asked of them. She knew herself no less a killer than Sandor had been when wielding his sword in service to the crown – perhaps even more so, for he at least had a cloak of sworn duty in which to drape himself. She had only her need for vengeance and an oft-repeated bit of advice.

Whatever you do, Alayne, make certain your hands are clean.

She thought back on Sandor's threat and knew it for bravado. He had seen the pack's ferocity and what they were capable of. If they sensed true danger to themselves they wouldn't hesitate to rip him apart, sword or not. In the end, he was no wolf, only a man. She would not allow any harm to come to him. The pack had brought her to Sandor and she would not watch him die, as she had so many others. Still, she well knew the futility of trying to stop him if he let slip clear thinking and went to make good on his word. There was only one way to be certain all remained safe. Sansa came up on the balls of her feet, hot tears blurring her vision as she swiveled slowly and laid her hand upon each wolf's tufted brow, and did what needed be done.

…

He came back late afternoon the following day, the hounds in their pens announcing his arrival well before the wagon was visible. It finally appeared, creaking and groaning, as Sandor steered it around the thick stand of trees just past the edge of the yard. She stopped her digging and watched as he passed her on his way to the stone shed just to the side of the cottage. He did not offer a greeting and barely even a look.

The small wagon was loaded with crates and sacks and barrels - enough supplies, it seemed to her, to last him a goodly amount of time. Or two people for a lesser period. He jumped from the wagon, tied the horse to the cross post and then began unloading what he'd brought. Curiosity got the best of her and she pushed to her feet, swiping the dirt from her hands as she joined him.

"Might I help?" she asked.

Sandor straightened from the crates he'd been stacking and gave her a cursory glance. "Never took you for one to play in the dirt. What are you doing over there?"

"There are some lovely wildflowers growing back behind the cottage, just inside the tree line. I thought to clear a spot there by the front door and move a few. They have glorious blooms of red and white. I thought perhaps …" She couldn't quite figure out the sideways look she was getting and wanted very much to reach and touch him, but she didn't. "I don't know what I thought."

He snorted and spat. "Flowers. For all the good they will do. You're wasting your time, little bird. The ones you saw out back will die if you see fit to bring them round here. They won't grow in the sunlight. They're wood flowers, they need the shade."

"Oh," she said, disappointed.

He wiped an arm across his brow, reached under the bench of the wagon and brought out a sagging skin. She caught a whiff of wine as he worked the cork loose. Not a sweet gold of the Arbor but a sour red. He took a long pull and then silently offered it to her. She shook her head and he shoved the cork back in and laid it aside.

"Are they gone, then?" He made a show of looking around, turning a slow circle before coming to a stop facing her. He weaved a bit as he went still and she saw that his eyes were heavily hooded.

"You're drunk."

He laughed. "Not yet. But I might be before the night's over. Are they gone?" he asked again.

She gave a terse nod and turned away, walking back in the direction of the cottage. She was halfway to the door when he called out to her. "Girl! I thought you wanted to help."

She turned back around. "I've changed my mind."

That elicited a louder and longer bout of laughter. It eventually trailed off into a coughing fit as he rummaged through the wagon and pulled out a canvas sack. "At least take this in with you. And don't drop it." He swung it underhand and loosed it into the air. She managed to catch it with her fingertips and drew it up, hugging it against her chest. Whatever was in it was lumpy and soft, except at the top where it was cinched closed, and at the bottom. There, something hard poked her in the arm she had wrapped around it.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Open it and find out," he answered. "Now go on with you. I needs get this put away."

She left him to his work and settled into one of the oversized chairs that flanked the small hearth. As she untied the cord at the top of the sack she heard Sandor begin to sing, raspy and off-key. It was a ribald tune she soon recognized as one sung often in the Great Hall at Winterfell, when it was just the men left there after a feast of some sort and they were deep in their cups, the gentle ladies elsewhere and the children put to bed. All except for the ones who would sneak barefoot back to the hall to peer around a corner at the noisy groups of fierce and bearded Northmen, as she and Arya had often done.

"They're like wild animals," her sister had once remarked, giggling and unaware of how close to the truth she was. Sansa's fingers stilled as she allowed the pang of sadness at the thought of her sister to move through her and then to slowly dissipate. Where once she had shoved away all thought of her family, determined to avoid the pain, the last several years had taught her that even a sense of loss was a better thing than feeling nothing at all. And yet sometimes now, with the advent of her nascent gift, she wished she couldn't feel quite so much.

Amused by her own inconstancy, Sansa pulled open the sack and peered inside. She let out a gasp and rose from the chair, moving quickly to the wash basin and pitcher on a side table. She poured just enough water in the bowl to scrub the remaining dirt from her hands and then settled back in the chair, placing the sack between her feet. She reached in and pulled out the silver hairbrush and comb and laid them in her lap. Next came an oval bundled in a length of silk the color of lilacs. She knew before it was completely unwrapped what it was. A looking glass with a slender handle, also worked in silver, the back finely engraved with flowers and vines that matched those on the brush and comb. A set made for a dressing table, and much like the one her lady mother had owned.

Sandor had no mirrors there in the cottage - a thought which snuck up on her even as her hand flew up and covered her mouth in a gesture of delight and sadness both. Of course he would have little desire for anything that would cast his reflection back at him. But it had never been a thing she'd pondered before then, and one that might never have come to her if not for the gift she held. Hesitantly, Sansa lifted the glass in front of her and saw herself clearly for the first time in months.

She looked a fright. Untamed curls, lightened by the sun, framed a face smudged with dirt and tanned a golden brown. Darker still were the generous dustings of freckles across her cheeks, nose, and brow. Her eyes appeared an unearthly blue against her skin and the rounded face she'd once worn had been chiseled by hard travel. Her cheekbones stood high and sharp, their edges a stark contrast to the fullness of her lips. For just a moment, Sansa saw her mother reflected back at her. Sighing, she set the mirror aside and dug deeper into the sack.

Before long her lap was filled with two new gowns, simply cut but easily altered, and of a softer fabric than the rough wool she owned. There was also a plain brown cloak within, and a round brooch of tarnished bronze to fasten it. Along with the length of lilac silk were several more besides, dyed soft green and silver gray and the reddish-brown of autumn leaves. At the very bottom of the sack was a plain wooden box, filled with needles and thread, buttons and ribbons, pieces of embroidery cloth and frames, even a pair of shears.

She was happily poking through the contents of the box when she glanced up and found him standing in the doorway, his large frame blocking all but a little of the light from without. She found herself instantly abashed.

"Forgive me, I've forgotten my manners. I should have come to you right away, to thank you. Instead I've been sitting here thinking only of myself and how lovely …" She trailed off as he folded his arms and cocked his head. She couldn't see his eyes for the light behind him, but she could feel them and her stomach was suddenly aflutter. "This was very generous of you, Sandor. Thank you."

"No need to go on about it. I'm sick of seeing you in the same gown, is all. Ugly one at that. Make yourself something pretty instead. If you truly want to thank me, you'll have supper on the table when I return. I have to tend to the dogs."

And then he wheeled around and was gone.

…

She tried her best, recalling the few times she'd watched Sandor as he'd prepared their meals. She stoked the fire and hung a pot of water and then tossed in chunks of dried beef. After that she carefully cut up an onion and a few limp and wrinkled carrots, along with a potato sprouting eyes. She added them to the pot and wished for some fresh herbs from the garden to go along, but couldn't be sure which she'd seen him use and didn't want to chance ruining the stew. So she left it to cook and settled back in a chair, draping a length of silk around her neck and carefully working the tangles from her hair.

She did not know this man whose home she had invaded, not really; she had only fragments to piece together. She pulled from her memory moments from the week she'd spent there and mulled them over, struggling to understand why it was that her pack had led her there and why she was so drawn to Sandor, where once she'd been much more cautious.

That he cared for her in some small way was evident. She had known for many a year – though she had discovered it only in retrospect, as she'd thought back to their encounters in the capital. That he desired her, too, was an unmistakable truth, and she suspected he always had, even when she was too young to understand it for what it was. He did not frighten her anymore, for she had dealt with men who were truly evil and knew the difference. His gruff behavior, she had determined, was a facade and one dented and worn thin over the passing years, more easily penetrated than before. He was suspicious of the means by which she'd come to be there, but not of her - only the wolves. He didn't strike her as the superstitious type, but he was the sort who mistrusted things he could not easily explain. And that was all she really knew of him. She yearned for more.

There were moments of clarity with Sandor, fleeting and jagged, that came to her. But they were exceptions and seemed to happen only when she could be touching him. And what she felt then was not like that of her wolves: fundamental and easily grasped. There were layers and depths to Sandor that were beyond her ken, and too brief to grab hold of and examine.

She closed her eyes for a moment and reached, but she could not sense her pack anymore. They were too distant. There was a small place inside her hollowed out by their absence, a connection lost, and she felt less for it. She did not dwell on it though. Sansa had become adroit at accepting the lack of precious things. Besides, she knew a part of her would remain always with the pack, as they would with her, so she had not truly lost them.

Sandor came back just after dark, as the stew bubbled away over the fire and the rich aroma of meat and vegetables filled the small cottage. He'd bathed in the stream, it seemed, for he was wet and bare-chested, fresh wineskin in one hand and his soiled jerkin and tunic in the other. Rivulets of water streamed down his neck and chest and his hair hung in thin ribbons around his face. He gave her a glance as he tossed his clothes onto a chair and made his way to the hearth. Pulling a large wooden spoon from a peg on the wall, he squatted down and dipped it into the cooking pot. Dripping broth, he brought it to his nose and took a deep whiff and then a bite, teeth bared and lips pulled back so as not to burn them. He chewed and grunted, pushed up and told her, "Needs salt. There in the green jar, the one with the cork. And next to it, the brown one? Throw a small handful of that in and it might be worth eating." He raised the wineskin for a good look, shrugged, and then uncorked it, pouring a large measure into the pot. Then he disappeared into the bedroom.

He came out in a fresh tunic a few minutes later, scrubbing a cloth over his head as she finished stirring the dried herbs and salt into the stew, and sat down in his usual chair at the table. Folding his arms upon the pocked and dented surface he watched as she gathered bowls and spoons and went for the ladle. "Never mind that," he said. "Bring cups and come sit for a minute, girl. Share some wine with me."

She sat across from him as he poured out the red and pushed a cup her way. He took a healthy drink and studied her as she matched him. She grimaced at the sourness but swallowed it down anyway, and then fixed her features into placidity and waited him out. Sometimes he would prattle on with no prompting on her part, other times he kept his thoughts to himself. But she recalled from King's Landing that wine seemed to loosen his tongue.

"How long to work the rat's nest out of your hair?" he finally asked.

Self-consciously she tugged at a lock and then pushed it behind her ear. "Till just now," she admitted. The wine sat warm in her stomach, pleasant even, and she took another drink.

"Time well spent, I'd say." He drained his cup and refilled it and then added a splash to hers. "And you'll make use of the rest?"

"The dresses and silks and things? Yes, of course." She almost allowed another word of thanks to leave her mouth but bit it back, remembering what her initial courtesy had brought. Instead she asked what had been on her mind since she'd first seen the contents of the sack. "How did you know I would still be here?"

"I didn't."

"But you hoped I would," she pressed. "Else why bring back items that would be of no use to you otherwise?"

"Easy enough to return them next trip, exchange for things I actually need," he countered.

"What did you give in trade for them?"

"Pick of the next litter." He said it casually enough but she knew how dear the cost. His hounds were known to be the best in the Barrowlands, he'd told her, and she suspected a prized pup would normally bring him much more than a few garments and a looking glass.

"You're not bothered by my being here, then?"

"Were I bothered, little bird, you wouldn't be here and we would not be having this conversation."

They exchanged a long look and she downed more of the wine, even though it had already begun to go to her head. "It was just the wolves you didn't want." His mouth drew tight and she impulsively reached across the table and laid her hand on his arm. "Why did you insist I send them away?"

He moved his arm out of her grasp and drained his cup a second time. Reaching for the wineskin he retorted, "Why did you want me to fuck you so badly? How much of that was your need and how much the bloody wolves'?"

"Some of both," she confessed straight away, despite her embarrassment at his blunt inquiry. He lowered his cup, his ruined face tinged with unease. "But they cannot make me desire something I don't want to begin with. I knew their urges and they, in turn, felt the same in me. The sharing makes the sense of it stronger, more immediate, that's all. Why did you want them gone?"

"They led you here, didn't they? Who's to say they couldn't just as easily lead you away?" He turned his face from her as soon as the words left his mouth, unwilling to meet her astonished look. Gruffly he said, "Are you going to feed me or not? A man shouldn't have to go hungry at his own table."

Sansa rose without a word and filled their bowls. What he had unexpectedly given her was much more than she would've hoped for, and she tucked that knowledge and his confession close, and let it warm her like wine.

He didn't say much as they ate, reverting to grunts or short exchanges as she shouldered the weight of the conversation. She told him about the glass garden at Winterfell and how she would help her mother tend to the flowers. Shared memories of harvest feasts and the beauty of sudden summer snows. She spoke of her brothers and Arya and how she had both loved and feared her father and admired her mother. And all the time he spooned stew into his mouth and grunted at her and kept their cups filled with sour red. By the time he'd cleaned his third bowl with a final chunk of hard bread swept around the edges, Sansa was drowsy and feeling the sort of capriciousness one finds in the bottom of a wine cup.

"Tell me something," she blurted.

"What should I tell you?"

"Is it such an impossible thing to imagine, that I might want you?"

He chuckled low and gazed at her with sleepy eyes that matched her own. "Look at me, girl. What do you think? Think I've spent much time fighting off pretty highborn women eager to warm my bed? If I had back all the coin I've spent on whores over the years I'd be lord of my own keep by now, raising dogs in proper kennels instead of the shit-for-sheds I have now."

"Some women might find you attractive." She smiled at his outburst of laughter and went on despite it. "Though there is much to be said for a handsome face, appearances are not the proper measure of a man."

"Tell me that when you're faced with the Knight of Flowers. Don't think I've forgotten the way you'd swoon over the splendid noblemen in their fancy clothes and their perfumed skin. Pretty girls like you all dream of shiny knights and comely princes, don't they?"

"I had a prince, if you'll recall, a king in fact. And look what it got me: fearful for my life and married off to a Lannister, followed by a succession of other handsome men eager for my lands and my title. Those were the dreams of a child, Sandor, and I am not that anymore."

Her proclamation earned her an extended and probing study. She held very still, not daring to move, as he hesitantly reached across the table and ran his fingertips gently down the side of her face.

"What do you dream of now, little bird?"

She caught his hand as it fell and clasped his fingers as they came to rest on the table. The contrast of his large calloused hand held by her much smaller, delicate fingers was a revelation to her, a thing of beauty she had not expected.

"I dream of freedom and of wild things. I dream of my family and of Winterfell, always. And I dream of having a home again and a man who is gentle and brave and strong." She looked up and found his eyes on her, deep and languorous pools of gray.

"I can take you there," he said. "A week's ride and we could be-"

"No. Winterfell is gone. All that remains are its bones and the blackened ground where it once stood so strong. And all that remains of House Stark sits before you in a ragged gown. The bloodline will die with me. I am the last of my kind."

"But there could be … children … someday."

She dropped her eyes and shook her head, his rare and tender offer of hope leaving her feeling suddenly maudlin. "Are you foolish enough to believe my lord husbands did not take advantage of every opportunity to put an heir in my belly? Their seed would not take. It seems I am not meant to mother any man's child. It's probably for the best," she finished, quickly swiping away an errant tear. Disturbed by her show of weakness, she rose from the table and had to stop a moment to get her bearings as the room threatened to spin on her. Too much wine. She gathered their bowls and spoons and turned to set them in the dry sink.

She heard the scrape of the chair and startled only a little when his arms came around her waist and he pulled her against him. Dipping his head and brushing the hair away from her neck with the tip of his nose he murmured, "Just because you can't, it don't mean we shouldn't try. There's the fun in it."

She sniffed and gave a chuff of laughter that caught on a sob. Leaning back in his arms, she wrapped her own on top of his and tilted her head, giving him better access to her neck. He nipped and kissed and licked there, until she shivered and guided his hands up.

Sandor enthusiastically took over and she stood languid in his arms as he filled his hands with her breasts, his thumbs circling her nipples, urging them erect beneath the rough wool of her bodice. She could feel him growing hard against her bottom and arched her back as one hand left a breast and slid down her stomach. She gasped at the suddenness of his fingers shoving between her legs and the heel of his hand pressing hard against her mound. Even through the barrier of her dress she could feel the heat of his skin and her answering warmth as it gathered and expanded where his fingers worked against her folds and the sensitive nub of flesh above them.

"Do you still want me as much, Sansa," he rasped in her ear, "now that your wolves are gone?"

"Yes," she sighed.

"Then say it," he demanded.

"I want you. Just as much."

He let go and spun her until she faced him. That was dizzying enough, but not half so much as when he brought his mouth down upon hers and kissed her quite soundly. He gripped her hips in his hands and then reached around and smacked her on the bottom.

"Best you take off that ragged gown of yours and come fuck me proper, then. The way a noble girl should."

He turned and walked toward the bedroom without another look. All thought of propriety swept away by desire and sour red, Sansa followed hard on his heels.