On days when the weather was fair, Sandor would take Sansa up onto the deck. She'd take his arm as they reached the surface, and he'd stand close to her in case she lost her balance.

Karbo's sailors were the friendly sort, some rougher than others, but they were men. And Sandor had no intentions of letting them get too friendly with his little bird. A man as large and ugly as he found no trouble in doing so.

Often they'd stand silently beside one another, watching the waves crash upon the ship, or they would look outwards for anything they could see across the great expanse of water. Sometimes they'd spot the silhouette of another ship, but mostly for as far as the eye could see there was nothing to actually be seen. As the afternoon began to break, yellow light sifted through the spattering of gray and purple storm clouds across the sky. The strong scent of seawater and rain filled their noses and lungs. The afternoon light fell upon the deck, making it glisten from the rain of a previous storm.

From the corner of his eye Sandor could see wisps of fiery hair whipping in the seabreeze. He found Sansa to be more captivating than the scenery in front of him, so he gazed at her profile, taking in each of her features.

I loved a maid as red as autumn

with sunset in her hair.

Sandor recalled the Myrish song, finding it most suiting to her.

Her cheeks and nose were flushed from the wind, and he could faintly see the curve of a little pink ear peek through the movement of her hair.

However, her eyes looked sad and as distant as the horizon. Those eyes were once a bright, shining, Tully blue. But as of late, they had become a deep, turbulent blue. She was far away, he knew, and wondered where her mind had sailed off to.

"Are you worried?" he asked, trying to pull her back to reality.

"How could I not be? Aren't you?"

"I'll worry about it once we get there, little bird."

"What if Braavos isn't the right place for us?"

"Then we'll just go somewhere else. We have Stranger and plenty enough coin to get by."

Sansa sighed and linked herself closer to him, resting her head on his large bicep. Looking out into the dying sunset, her chest filled with worry. She knew only of Braavos from the great big books that filled Maester Luwin's library, or from stories she had heard. Books and stories are not the truth. Sansa recognized that more than anyone.

At night, she and Sandor would sup with Karbo in his cabin. They ate meals of seasoned fish and grains, with wine to wash it down. Sansa would probe the captain with all of her many questions, speaking a crude mixture of Common Tongue, Valyrian, and Braavosi, trying to learn as much as she could about the language and culture.

Karbo spoke fondly of his homeland, informing her of certain customs that Westerosi like herself could find strange. He described Braavosi cuisine in great length, along with places they could stay and see once they reached Chequy Port. Sansa was most fascinated of his descriptions of the great canals and architecture. In her mind she could not possibly picture it. How different it sounded than anything she had ever seen in Westeros. At night when sleep would not come to her, she'd think of the stories Karbo told her and tried to envision them as best she could.

On days when it rained heavily, Sansa and Sandor were confined to their quarters. Both were unwilling to walk up to risk catching a cold or slipping overboard.

Sansa nested in the corner of the bed, opposite Sandor. She wore her thickest dress, stockings, and shawl, and had pulled the blanket they shared over her feet, for the inside of the cabin was damp and awfully chilly.

She'd often pick up her embroidery and sigh, putting it down, unable to become absorbed into her work. From what Sandor could see she was embroidering simple, small fish onto a handkerchief. On days such as these Sandor would polish his beaten armour, and sharpen his blades, but had nothing to do once he had finished. From the other side of the bed he'd stare at the wall listening to the rain, or watch Sansa work.

When Sandor attempted to make conversation it would end in an awkward silence, for they had nothing in common. They did not speak of King's Landing, or of their travels, for each story, no matter how lighthearted the recollection started, would end in woe. Sandor could see sadness beneath the stillness of Sansa's expression with each recollection, and he would then feel sorry that he had said anything at all. Besides, he was a physical man. When it came to social cues and courtesies, he was lost.

Sighing, Sansa put down her embroidery for a final time, her fingers feeling cold to the bone. Cupping her hands together, she blew into them, trying to warm herself from the cool clamminess of their quarters. Lifting her eyes from her hands, she caught Sandor's gaze.

"You're cold," he noted.

"I can't seem to shake off this cold," she replied.

"Come here," he gestured.

Nervously, Sansa crawled towards him as he placed her in his lap, wrapping the old wool blanket around them. Taking her hands in his, he blew on them, and then rubbed them, trying to warm her up.

"You'll warm up faster this way," he rasped.

Sansa at first thought it improper to be sitting in a man's lap, but she then remembered that he was her lord husband. She tucked the tips of her toes under his thigh and rested her head on his shoulder, feeling cozy. And warm, she thought contentedly. The ice that had clung to Sansa's skin melted away by his touch.

He traced her fingers with his, beholding the delicacy of her small, white fingers. With his thumb he felt her palm, and then the top of her hand, enjoying their softness. The skin at her wrist was softest, and he thumbed her pulse soothingly.

In contrast, his hands dwarfed hers. They were hard with callouses, and Sansa noticed faint, silvery scars across his fingers, through the hair on top of his hand, and palm. Sansa traced a finger across each one.

"I'm surprised I still have all of them," he said, noticing what she was doing.

"It's a good thing that you do," she smiled. With that he pulled her closer to him, her head laid atop his chest, with her torso flushed against his. Her heart began to race and her face flushed at the contact.

"Have you done this before?" she stammered.

"What do you mean?" he asked, looking down at her. Her eyes were an innocent blue, as if he were looking at the maiden herself.

"This," she gestured with her hand. "I had never shared a bed with Arya because Winterfell was always so warm, with the spring water flowing through its walls… I never thought someone else could be so warm," she remarked fondly.

"No, can't recall that I have little bird."

"You haven't shared a bed with anyone?" she asked. The kind of sharing that immediately came to mind was much different than the sharing she was referring to. Whores, for a night at a time maybe, he wanted to tease, but didn't want to spoil the moment. No one had rested with him this way before. He had never fallen asleep next to anyone but Sansa.

"No, you're the only one, little bird," he replied. "Thought we could just share each other's warmth for a while." He pulled her closer to him in hopes she'd stop chirping such questions.

One night Sansa woke to find Sandor sitting at the edge of their bed, with his back facing her. It had been a cloudy night. No moonlight filtered through their little window, making the room almost completely black. All she could discern was his hand moving in between his legs, and the sound of heavy breathing.

A queer feeling began to fill her stomach, an unnamable sensation she had never felt before. She knew what he was touching but didn't understand why.

All of a sudden his head tilted back, and she heard him suppress a groan deep in his throat. Quickly, Sansa buried her face in the pillow and pretend to be asleep, not wanting to get caught peeping by the Hound.

Sandor could not recall the last time he took himself in hand. Too bloody long, he thought.

He couldn't sleep, especially not with his little wife pressed flushed against him while she slept so innocently. Bugger her, bugger this. Making sure not to wake her, he sat up slowly and made his way to the edge of the bed.

Once he was freed, he stroked himself slowly, trying to relish in the feeling, but was quickly overwhelmed with how much he needed his release. It startled him. Knocking his head backwards, he suppressed a moan that came from the back of his throat. Too soon, too bloody soon, he panted.

Wiping his release on a nearby cloth, he looked over at his little bird, still sleeping soundly. He crawled back to her, pulling her close. Sansa tried very hard to remain still, so that he'd think she was still sleeping. It didn't take long before Sandor was storing softly beside her.

Sansa sighed, and fell back asleep.

Author's notes.

A voyage by ship seems awfully dreadful, so I felt pretty bad for these two. I'd get terribly bored just like them.

I give you some fluff! And a little more! (You're welcome ;) ) I've never written anything close to smut before *wipes brow* so it was pretty intimidating to write that little Sandor bit! I hope you enjoyed!