A better meal Sansa could not remember. The food was very good and the relaxed atmosphere and easy manner of their conversation reminded her of the family meals she enjoyed at Winterfell. Absently she pressed her fork tines against the meat, as though she were trying to also force down her old memories away from her along with the steak. That all seemed like such a long time ago to her now, almost like something out of a dream, and the memory sent a fresh pang of sorrow to her heart. One day soon, her memories of Sandor would be the same, when he was gone. Sansa did not want to feel that now, she wanted to be happy with Sandor and so she resolutely pushed her thoughts away.

What would Sandor think if he knew how my life once had been before Joffrey? He would probably mock me for it, especially after the bitterness and cruelty that clearly marred his own upbringing. She would keep her own memories of her childhood to herself for now, for it hurt far less for Sansa to not speak of it than it did to remember. A pain both sharp and dull, one that once experienced could not easily be forgotten, was all she had left of those days, and she would not allow the same misery to sully her memories of Sandor.

Will it hurt to remember this night? In January, February, March when I have not seen him? She wondered as she watched Sandor shake the snowflakes from his shoulders with a wicked grin, the man oblivious to her dark thoughts. Yes, and a more bittersweet pain she could not imagine. When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives. Sansa remembered her father's words, a portend of the things that came after for her family. Also, it laid bare her future feelings for Sandor as well, for undoubtedly she and Sandor would feel like a true pack after this night, mated for life as both northern women and wolves were known to do. Silently she prayed to her father to still her anxious mind and instead focus on the man he had given her.

Much to her delight, Sandor opened up a bit more to Sansa about his experiences in Afghanistan. It was obvious by his stinted speech and tense manner that it took tremendous effort on his part to do so, and Sansa came to regretfully understand that she was not the only one whose memories were tinged with sorrow. After listening to him, Sansa asked questions thoughtfully, never pressuring for more details that he was willing to offer, and gradually Sandor told tales of close calls and terrible firefights, of lost brothers in arms, and, improbably enough, many humorous experiences as well. All the while, she made it a point of studying his expressions as well as his mood as his spoke, the young woman striving to discern the manner in which he expressed himself as well as commit to memory the many things he shared in hopes that over time, it would help deepen her understanding of him.

No, she would not let the past overshadow this night, or her memories of home, she decided as she laughed heartily at one of his few attempts at a joke. And she wanted to remember everything, the laughter and the happiness both in Winterfell and that was forming between her and Sandor now. She would remember the good times and not close off her heart or force happiness away, despite her fears.

After they finished, Sansa tied a dish towel around her waist, cleared the table and put the dishes in to soak while Sandor served the lemon pie. Smiling to herself, she soon discovered his idea of serving dessert entailed hastily wiping off the dinner dishes with a paper towel and then setting them down to use again for the pie, much to Sansa's amusement and horror.

"You needn't clean up now, lass," Sandor grumbled as he cut the huge pie into four giant slices. "You aren't the bloody maid. I'll do it later."

Sansa's really Monica Geller, her brother Robb used to tease her when she would pick up after the family, and the memory drew a giggle from her throat.

"Sandor, you really don't know me at all if you can say, 'Sansa you needn't clean up now, lass,' and think that will suddenly allow me to ignore a sink full of dirty dishes and just hang out with you," she teased, imitating his Scottish inflection and deep voice as she quoted him.

"Oh aye, you like things clean, do you?" Sandor smirked at her.

"Yes," Sansa blushed as Sandor raised his eyebrow at her. "Don't you?"

He shrugged. "Depends on who's doing the cleaning." Sandor pulled her closer to him. "I liked it when you cleaned yesterday but not now."

"It's just that, um, well, cleaning helps me relax when I'm nervous." Sansa bit her lip then, instantly regretting her choice of words.

His deep gray eyes lit up mischievously as Sandor regarded her for a long moment. Suddenly she found herself flush against him, gripped in his strong grasp by the dishtowel at her waist. "I'm sure we can find something else to help you with that," he grinned at her, kissing her softly at first, then deepening the kiss when a small "hmm" resounded from Sansa's throat.

Satisfied with himself, Sandor then let her go and held up a forkful of pie to her mouth. "Try this. Hot Pie made it just for you."

"Hot Pie?" She asked, only to be silenced by a piece of pie being placed in her mouth. "It's very good," Sansa murmured, delicately wiping the corners of her mouth as she daintily ate what was offered. "I love all things lemon."

Grinning, Sandor affectionately seized Sansa's hands and raised her fingers to his lips, carefully licking clean each one while staring heatedly into her eyes. Smiling, Sansa daringly leaned in and nibbled on his lips once more, the man letting out small contented noises as she did so. When he finally pulled away, Sansa laughed softly as a rush of heat flooded her cheeks, and Sandor's mouth twitched into a small smile in return, the fierce man clearly savoring her innocent reaction.

"This is the best pie I've ever had." Smirking, he caressed her face with the back of his hand and then placed her plate in front of her.

Turning toward the window, Sansa tugged on his arm. "Come outside, it's snowing harder!" Delightedly she held out her hands to him when he hesitated.

"Just about never snows here this early," Sandor grumbled, looking up at the sky. "Not in October, for certain."

"Winter is coming." Sansa whispered her father's words as she watched the flakes dance in the firelight. Suddenly she shivered, for it recalled the last time she heard those words from his lips.

"Aye but not for a bit yet," Sandor wrapped his arms around her, mistakenly thinking her shivering was brought on from the cold. "Come on in, let's get you warm. Wouldn't stand for you getting sick standing out in the weather at my place."

The dichotomy of Sandor's character astounded her, and Sansa could hardly contain the smile on her lips as she regarded him. He's so very different now; it is as though he truly does become another man, the Hound, when he or those he cares for are threatened. Shaking her head slightly, she tried not to be bothered by her somewhat disturbing musings and instead gave herself over to the feeling of happiness he brought to her heart. Swallowing hard, Sansa squeezed his hand and moved toward the couch, casting a shy glance over her shoulder to see if Sandor would follow her.

He did.

"What do you want to do tonight, lass? Look at the T.V.?" Sandor reached out and twirled a lock of her hair through his fingers while raising his brow suggestively at her. Resting against his powerful chest, Sansa snuggled down closer to him; it was beginning to feel cold in the house. She wanted him to turn up the heat but she also didn't want anything to take him away from her arms right then.

Sandor stared at her red strands, fascinated by them, and Sansa watched as his hands began to tremble as she met his gaze. In Sandor's eyes she saw desire, certainly, but also fear-fear she might reject him. Altogether stunned to discover they both were feeling the same thing, Sansa settled her hands on his chest reassuringly. I have to quit being so silly about making my needs known.

"I-I," Sansa bit her lip nervously, at once thrilled and nervous for Sandor's response. I want you to hold me, like you did this morning. I want to finish what we started.

"We can watch television," was all Sansa managed before she paused, swallowing hard, her nerves clearly catching his attention. "I would like you to-"

"What?" Sandor leaned in closer, the man clearly intrigued by her bashful hesitation. Brushing aside her hair, he rasped into her ear: "Tell me what you want, Little bird. Name it." Much to her surprise, his voice was devoid of the usual teasing tone that accompanied his words while his eyes watched her as a dog would his treat in the hands of his master: desperate, wanting, and afraid to be denied.

"I'd like you to hold me the way you did this morning when we woke up together. It felt so good…so right; don't you think?" Flinching, Sansa squeezed her hands and waited for him to make one of his jests.

Instead, Sandor took her hand into his own and pressed it lightly over his heart in an almost instinctual manner, all the while never removing his eyes from her own. "Aye, that it did, lass. Gods knows why you would want such with the likes of me…"

Fear, vulnerability, hope all shined desperately in his eyes, and in that moment, Sansa could not bear to hear him give voice to his self-doubt. She pressed her fingers to his lips, stilling him. "Because I love you, and because I am yours. I want more-I want everything with you, if you'll have me," Sansa reached up to his face, cupping his cheek gently while running her thumb over the scarring, all her doubt chased from her mind as she stared at him. "Tonight, I mean. That is, I mean, if you feel ready, too." Nervously she giggled, and Sansa was certain her face would explode she was so embarrassed as she waited for him to say something-anything.

"So, tell me: how do you remember us this morn?" Sandor rasped low, allowing is eyes to range over her figure, the heat emanating from him making Sansa feel flushed all over.

Shyly, Sansa reached forward and put her arms around him. "Like this." His eyes darkened as she slowly allowed her hands to begin roaming over his back, taking in the muscles in his arms and the broadness of his his t-shirt clad torso.

Sandor leaned in and hoarsely whispered, "Aye," as he nibbled at her ear, just below her pulse. Giggling, Sansa sighed under him.

Sandor kept his weight on his forearms, allowing Sansa to rest her palms on his chest and then trail them lower while exploring the hard muscle beneath his shirt. "You weren't wearing your shirt, as I recall."

Sandor grinned at her. "True. Best do something about that, then."

"Come closer to me." Delicately Sansa moved her fingertips down to his stomach, took hold of the edge of his t shirt, and pulled it up until she could touch the warm, supple muscle of his abdomen. Sandor pushed up on his hands and knelt as he pulled the garment over his head and tossed it onto the cushion.

"No fair, Little bird," Sandor grunted as he leaned in and pressed his lips against her fluttering pulse just above her collar. "You're more dressed than me, and far more so than this morning. Might be you should do something about that, too."

Withdrawing from his grasp, Sansa guided his hands to the hem of her sweater. "Might be you want to do something about it," she teased him back all the while forcing down her embarrassment. "Will you help me with this?"

Without a word, Sandor's hands were under her sweater then, and he let out of frustrated grunt when he reached for her waist and felt her lace slip rather than bare skin. After studying her sweater for a moment, Sandor yanked it over her head, tangling her earrings in the knit until she let out a squeal of protest.

"Never mind, Florian." Sansa pressed her palm against his chest lightly, settling him back on the sofa. After shaking out her hair, she then removed her earrings and started unbuttoning her sweater.

"Who's that?" Sandor glared at her.

"A romantic hero in the stories from my home," Sansa laughed out loud. "Don't you have such here?"

"Stories about chivalrous knights, I suppose. Bugger that, and bugger Florian to the seven hells, lass," Sandor settled back among the cushions while his eyes roved hungrily over her as she worked the buttons. Her bravado waivered just then, for his lascivious stare rendered her unable to focus on the job at hand. Before he could take Sansa into his arms once more, she stood and methodically removed both her sweater and her skirt as well. His mouth drooped open as he watched her, the man gaping with all his might until she stood before him in nothing but her slip and underclothes.

When she moved back into his arms, Sandor fingered the lace of her slip ruefully. "Well, you going to leave on the rest?"

"They were on this morning."

Flushed, her eyes fell to the hardened shape of his manhood jutting out from his pants; Sandor grinned as he followed her line of sight. "So was I."

Nervously Sansa took the hand Sandor held out to her and settled onto his lap as she had been that morning, with her cheek pressing against his chest and her hands trailing through the thick hair above his waistband.

"Sansa, gods, lass but you feel good," Sandor curled around her once more as she leaned forward and trailed light kisses along his temple, his jawline until finding a spot at his throat; when she circled it with her tongue, Sansa felt a sharp tremor wrack his body.

Daringly she laid her hands on his bared waist and glided them slowly over his back, marveling at the muscular feel of him, up over his sides until she could grip his shoulders. Sandor's breath was a quiet moan against her throat, and he tightened his grip on her waist until they were flush against each other among the pillows.

Feather light, Sansa drew her nails down the length of his back, and at once he arched his hips into hers. "Gods, little bird," Sandor's breath came in short rasps and small, content noises by turns until finally he lowered his body onto hers for a moment, pressing his manhood hard against her thigh.

Sansa giggled, flustered and reeling and thrilled, and the sound of Sandor's responding chuckle made her break into a devilish grin of her own. "Come to think of it, I didn't have on my slip this morning, though," she purred against his ear, her words drawing a guttural moan from Sandor's throat.

Something seemed to break free in the man then and in an instant Sandor's hands were in her hair and his tongue in her mouth while pressing his body further against hers as he leaned her back into the sofa. At first she was taken aback by his ardor but Sansa found she didn't mind; in fact, she was both relieved and triumphant that Sandor at last was giving himself over to her as she longed.

With great deliberation, he then kissed her temple, her neck and each cheek before he lolled his head on her shoulder. Sandor's uneven breathing warmed her bare skin, his fingers tracing the straps of her slip before he pushed them off her arms and over her hips. The sudden vision of her in her bra and panties drew a slew of curses low from the back of his throat as he drank her in. She shivered in delight at his touch and the reaction she was drawing from him. Gently, almost reverently, Sandor laid her down and then pulled her against him before wrapping a nearby throw over their bodies.

"Warm enough, are you?"

Shakily she nodded as she laid her hands on his stomach, her fingertips working their way over the muscles toward the waistband of his pants. Sandor all but fell on her then, his mouth taking her own breath from her as he deepened their kisses until she raked her nails over his back again.

"Sansa," he brokenly whispered against her neck, "Let me have you, lass."

"Yes, Sandor, I am yours." Sansa laughed softly. Her fingertips grazed his skin as they traveled back up toward Sandor's neck. The heat emitting from his naked upper body against her skin nearly took her breath away; Sansa never felt anything like it. She was so warm that she eagerly wriggled beneath him, desperate to feel still more of his skin against her own.

Languidly Sandor cupped the back of her head with one hand while his mouth melted against her own once more, nibbling lightly at her lips before gently coaxing them open to accept his tongue. When Sansa eagerly responded, his hands quickly cupped each breast and then unhooked the front of her bra. The coolness of the room kissed her overheated skin, a sensation Sansa barely had time to register before Sandor's large, calloused hand slid down to cup her breast. Slowly he began running his thumb over her nipple in small circles, causing her to alternately arch into his hand and gasp as he did so.

Staring down at her, Sandor made an appreciative noise before taking Sansa into his arms and guiding her onto her back.

"Gods but you are a beauty." He licked his lips as he looked her over, desire raging in his eyes. His words warmed her heart, and also made her redden with embarrassment but Sandor didn't seem to mind. Before she could say anything, he pushed against her once more and began sucking on the firm bud of her nipple, the pleasure of his warm mouth on her tender flesh warming her, and she sighed contentedly in response. Sandor took his time savoring her, the languid pace of his lovemaking at once maddeningly arousing and yet frustratingly not enough for her. Squeezing her legs together, Sansa let her hands trail down to his waist and before lightly resting them on his buttocks.

She could hear him murmuring against her skin as his lips trailed over her skin. "You're beautiful." "You're perfect." "You feel fucking amazing." Each world swelled her heart but in her emotional state and haze of pleasure, she could not reciprocate. Everything feels so good, Sansa thought to herself as she closed her eyes and allowed herself to be completely enveloped in the sensations Sandor was eliciting from her body. His short hair tickled her neck as his warm mouth lavished attention on her breasts, drawing up ever higher swells of passion.

Yes, she would remember this, Sansa promised herself, no matter how badly it hurt, no matter how lonely she was when he was deployed. She would cherish it, guard it in her heart and savor it, this precious time with Sandor. No matter the pain, how could she even imagine herself capable of forgetting the immeasurable happiness and pleasure he was bringing to her now?

The memory of Sandor's warm skin, the fevered desire emanating from his deep gray gaze, the hardness of his manhood insistently rubbing against her inner thigh would forever be seared into both her mind and heart. His words of love and commitment, promises spoken as a prayer and whispered softly against her skin as he loved her, would become precious, sacred covenants between the two of them that would irrevocably bind them together while they were separated.

Yes, she would commit to memory these things, these acts of love. She would not fear the pain, but embrace each moment, savor them in her heart and parcel them out to sustain herself during the long winter ahead when Sandor would return to war, and she would return to being alone in the world once more. I will treasure them, hold them close to my heart, and memorized every detail of this night, she swore to the old gods as he finally slid his hand down her thigh and deftly slipped off her panties with one sweep of his large hand. She was his as he was hers, and she would cloak herself in him, huddle beneath the warmth of his memory and draw strength from Sandor. And she would pray-gods, she would pray as she had never prayed before, that he would return to her safe and sound.

Tearing himself away from her breasts, Sandor lowered his head to kiss her. Moved to tears, Sansa smoothed her hands over his hips and backside and then up his back until she cupped his face and slid her tongue into his mouth once again. Sandor pressed against her harder and then broke away, falling to her side and panting. "Tell me now, Sansa, if you don't want to go further," Sandor rasped into her ear. "Tell me now that you aren't ready, my shy little bird; tell me and I'll stop."

Gasping, Sandor's voice sounded pained as he spoke while he deliberately slowed his movements, stroking his hands over her nude body in an almost worshipful manner, all the while he watched her expectantly. Overwhelmed, Sansa could only stare at him and so he went on: "It's alright if you feel it's too soon. I know you've not been with a man before. I can pleasure you without-"

Suddenly Sansa answered him by pulling him down onto her once more and pressed her breasts against the solid wall of his chest, warm and soft, and it all felt so wonderful that she pressed up against him still more and wrapped her legs around his waist. "Shh no more such talk," Sansa kissed his temple softly. "I do want you. And who is to say what is too soon for us?"

Shrugging, Sandor brushed her hair out of her eyes. "Sansa, I've been with women before, but never like this…" he gestured between them and then ran his hands back through his hair. "Bloody hells, this is a first for us both, believe that."

Sansa stared at him quizzically for a moment. He's telling me that love has never been part of the equation in his past sexual experiences. The realization both startled and touched her even more deeply, and so Sansa reached out and cupped the scarred side of his face and smoothed her thumbs along his jawline.

"Then we will both be first for each other. Let yourself go, Sandor, and leave the fear outside." To reassure him, she smoothed her hands firmly against his skin and slid them back down to his waist before squeezing his sides.

Chuckling in relief, Sandor rested his head on her shoulder as he squeezed her against him and then moved lower, making space for himself between her legs as he trailed kisses from her breasts to her stomach. Sansa expected he would stop there, but he did not; slowly he traced his finger over her folds, teasing her, and then stopped as he stared into her eyes. "Then let's take this to the other room; what say you?"

"Aye," Sansa giggled teasingly. Grunting, Sandor swatted her bottom as he easily lifted her over his shoulder and carried her to the bedroom.