Summary: As the wine went to her head she felt a new wave of desperation; there was no home, there was no safe haven for her. Suddenly she looked at the Hound and a strange calm came over her.

Sansa

She watched him eat, fascinated by his lack of manners and the utilitarian way he consumed what was brought to him. She accepted the offered wine, knowing she needed the false courage it gave. She had imbibed with Myranda enough to get drunk a few times, and longed for the feeling of invincibility it gave – even if it was only fleeting.

His story painted a picture of her sister in her mind; a brave girl, a survivor amongst the wreck of the realm. Arya wouldn't have meekly accepted her fate in King's Landing, she wouldn't have tolerated Petyr's attentions and accepted his plans as docilely as she had. Anger welled inside Sansa. I am such a weak little idiot. I should have fought harder. It is time I let go of the foolish dreams of a foolish girl and stand on my own two feet.

She had come to his tent with the intention of facing the reality that was him. To let go of a false dream. Hearing him, instead of it crushing something inside her as she had expected, it made her feel stronger. To her surprise she could face the Hound now; his face, his anger, his rage. He was just a man.

Watching him in such close quarters she paid attention to things she had been too young to notice in King's Landing. The flex of his muscles when he moved his arm to hand her the wineskin. The broadness of his shoulders, and how his upper body narrowed towards his hips. The veins in his arms and the dark hair covering them, continuing all the way to his knuckles and fingers.

Later in her confinement in the Vale, when she had learned about the ways of men and women, her dreams of the Hound had acquired a new exciting element. Being a bastard daughter meant that she was not protected from bawdy talk as noble maidens were, and from her friend Myranda Royce she had heard everything there was to know about what took place between the sheets. Myranda was completely uninhibited and happily shared with Sansa her latest adventures with a man who had caught her fancy. Blushing furiously, Sansa had heard all about cocks and cunts, seed and teats, how to pleasure a man with her mouth and hands and how to guide a man to do the same for her.

Her friend had not believed that Sansa was still innocent and so Sansa had invented a man from her past. It was not a coincidence that this imaginary man was tall and muscular, had long black hair, grey eyes, a hooked nose and a fierce temper. She hadn't said anything about the scars or other specifics that might reveal who he was. As Myranda had interrogated her about what exactly had happened between her and this mystery man she had gotten tongue-tied and eventually had to admit that they hadn't actually lain together. Myranda had consoled her and assured her that she would soon find somebody else, although the man Sansa described sounded altogether delicious and it was a shame she hadn't done it with him.

More illuminating than words was the time that Myranda had taken her to the barn, up to the hayloft, and giggling told her that it was a good place to observe couples in action. Soon enough a stable boy and one of the kitchen maids had sneaked into the barn and made passionate love right before their peering eyes. Sansa had been both mesmerized and horrified by what she saw, how vulgar it had seemed, but couldn't help peeping through the gaps between the planks nonetheless.

After that her memory of the night of the battle took on a new meaning as she evoked his weight on top of her and his face so close to her own. Again she refused to acknowledge the dagger at her throat or the drunken slur of his speech, preferring to think only of the press of his hips against her thighs. Had he been hard for her? Had his manhood been as thick and heavy as what she had glimpsed of the stable boy's? She couldn't remember, wasn't sure if she would have even recognised it at the time.

Myranda had told her enough about how a woman's body worked, so immersed in such thoughts she had slipped her hand between her legs and felt her own wetness; had slid her fingers across her folds and explored what felt good. That it felt better when she closed her eyes and conjured the Hound of her imagination on top of her had only encouraged her.

Sometimes Sansa thought that for a maiden she knew all there was to know about carnal affairs, but it still didn't make the prospect of her future under Petyr's care any more bearable. On the contrary, imagining his sweaty hands on her body and his manhood in her folds made her feel sick. The only safety was to be found in her imagination and especially in the Hound of her dreams…

She had been comforted by her firm belief that the man she was dreaming about was long gone, dead, and she would never have to face him again. Yet here he was, very much alive. Worse than that, she knew that he spoke true, as he had always done. Yes, her chances were slim. Whatever happened there was always going to be somebody taking advantage of her. Petyr, a mountain man, unknown traders.

As the wine went to her head she felt a new wave of desperation; there was no home, there was no safe haven for her. Suddenly she looked at the Hound and a strange calm came over her. He didn't lie to her but told her exactly how it was. Nobody had ever done that, not even her beloved parents. They had wanted to save her from the harsh realities of life, and how well had it served her?

When he grabbed her she didn't fight back. It was scary, his body on top of hers, his muscles tensing against her and his fingers pressing into her wrists forcefully. At the same time she was reminded of the nights in her featherbed in the Vale when precisely this scenario had played out in her head.

His lips were hard and unyielding, his kisses rough. Cold rusty metal brushed her cheek when he moved his hands and the clank of chains sounded loud to her ears. Sansa closed her eyes and tried to breathe through her nose, hard pinched under his grip. She opened her mouth to better catch some air.

Her movement alerted Sandor and he rose to his elbows and looked at her. She stared at him, trying to communicate through her eyes that he could loosen his grip, she wouldn't scream.

"If I lift my hand, will you scream bloody murder or stay quiet? If you scream, you will regret it, I swear." His voice was low, hardly audible. Sansa blinked her eyes and nodded her head.

He did as he promised and slowly removed his hand. She did as she promised and stayed quiet. They stared at each other wordlessly. Then he did something strange.

Sansa was still lying on an angle on the pallet, her hips resting at the ledge. The position was anything but comfortable, but whether it was because of this or for some other reason Sandor moved his body and lifted her higher so that she could rest more comfortably. He also grabbed a thin pillow from behind her, scrunched it and pushed it under her head, not ungently. Then he swiped her hair, spread in disarray, away from her face in a few smooth strokes.

His touch was oddly tender, like it had been when he had touched her in King's Landing. Remarkably soft for such a big man.

That touch unmade her. She closed her eyes and slackened in his arms.