Author's Notes: In the spirit of the challenge, things get murkier still. Please don't hate me…

Summary: Sighing deeply, Sandor turned his head and nudged his horse ahead. The little bird would have to take care of herself the best she could. He had nothing to offer her. Nothing.

Sandor

Sandor sat on the pallet for a long time examining his hands. They were calloused and uncommonly large, and webs of thick veins were clearly discernable at their backs despite dark hair covering them in one continuous line traversing from his arms up to his first knuckles. They were strong and sure; killer's hands, capable of holding a deadly weapon and squashing an opponent's face with one blow. Simply thinking of where they had just been made him shudder; the incongruity of the girl's soft flesh having been defiled by his ruthless touch…

Tentatively he lifted his fingers and sniffed them, smelling the traces of the little bird's musky scent. Hesitantly he licked one finger, suddenly regretting that he hadn't put his mouth on her. Normally he didn't care about such things, not wanting to dwell where hundreds of men had unloaded their seed, but with her and her virgin cunt it would have been different. She had smelled good, she had felt good, she sure as hells would have tasted good.

Cursing, he shook his hand as if to dispel any regrets. Too late, dog, too late. Everything was too late for him now.

He stood up and started walking restlessly within the confinements of the little area his chains allowed. Sandor hadn't really had time to digest the news the girl had brought about his intended execution the next day – not that it had required much imagination to guess what was going to happen. During what little he had, he had already decided that he was not going to go down meekly but fight with all his strength until he was overwhelmed. The dog's last stand, he sneered. And what good will it do?

In frustration he kicked the sturdy pole once more. He had examined it thoroughly when first left alone and had concluded that his jailors hadn't exaggerated when they had snickered that any attempts to escape would be futile. That kind of confidence was gained only from experience, from tens or hundreds of prisoners languishing in this same predicament, not being able to break free. Hells, he had heard the guards leaving their post next to the entrance for the comfort of the fire pits further away, so confident they were about the security of his confinement.

From the looks of it the wooden post had been standing there for a long time, embedded deep in the ground. The iron rings were as thick as two of his fingers put together, and the chain and the manacles were of simple and heavy construction with no weak points. Once again he kicked the shaft as hard as he could, cursing his powerlessness. To his surprise he felt a tiny movement; just a subtle shift that was almost unnoticeable – but the pole had moved a little.

Sandor fell to the ground and attacked it with renewed vigour. He set his broad back against it and braced his feet on the hard ground and pushed and pushed until he felt as if a vein would pop in his head from the exertion. But again it shifted. Almost imperceptibly, but nonetheless…

He stopped to catch his breath and swept his gaze around the tent. Was there anything he could use? He noticed the crude earthen platter forgotten by the guards, who had come earlier to collect the remains of his meal. He reached for it and smashed it to pieces and started digging up the ground around the pole with the biggest shard. Slowly and meticulously he scraped the pressed earth away, every moment expecting to see yet another iron fastening – yet none came to view.

Frantically he shoved the dirt away, a vague hope rising in his mind. What if there were no other bindings securing the two halves of the post together, locking his chain irrefutably between the upper and the yet-unseen lower ring? If he could lift the stake from the ground, mayhap he could slide the chain free from underneath it? His hands would still be shackled but he would be free to leave. He could always worry about the chains later.

A new, stern resolution took over Sandor. He didn't want to die - especially after the experience he had just had; the ecstasy of living found between the legs of the Northern girl. It had been about more than just a crude satisfaction of the basest of urges; he had experienced a vague sensation that there was more to life than the meagre everyday existence of eating, sleeping, shitting and fighting. The girl had reminded him about something he had thought he had long forgotten.

All the time at the Quiet Isle, he had snuffed out the memory of her like everything else from his former life; the cruel masters, the senseless intrigues and buggering mockery of knightly values. And all it had taken for her to invade his mind was to show up. What had followed after…Sandor shook his head, still in awe of what had transpired. Had he really fucked her? Had he really plunged his cock into Sansa Stark?

He had nothing but time to think of her and the strange experience they had just shared as he toiled relentlessly at scraping the dirt around the pole, then kicking and pushing it to make it move in a gradually widening arc. Scrape… scrape… scrape… thump… thump… scrape… scrape… scrape… Slowly the hole got deeper but still the post refused to loosen enough for him to lift it out.

Sandor continued in that vein for hours, doggedly determined to give it his best shot. His fingers were bleeding, his back was aching and his shoulders and arms protested against the monotonous task, but he didn't stop. His newly awakened urge to live - the same desire driving all living things when trapped - coursed through his veins and nourished his tiring muscles when in any other circumstances he would have admitted defeat a long time ago. And all the time he was thinking about the girl. If he got himself free, what of her? She was caught between two worlds, two fates as much as he was, truly having place in either. Would she go to the North to chase her foolish dream of resurrecting House Stark, or would she choose the easier option and go back to Littlefinger and place her fate in his hands?

Earlier Sandor would have assumed her to be tempted by safety and protection after all she had gone through – and he couldn't have faulted her for that. Exotic little birds were not meant to fly in the cold and take on the eagles, crows and other beasts of the forest. Yet her behaviour that night had shaken his assumptions about her. The girl – nay, the woman – who had hissed into his ear the command to take her, the woman who had not flinched or cried, the woman who had not tried to justify their actions afterwards with empty babble – she was not one to depend on faulty comfort supplied by false friends.

Still, how could he help her, even if he wanted to? From what little Sandor had seen of the village, the hut the girl had slipped into was right in the middle of it. Besides, who knew who shared her abode? He was going to be hard pressed to escape with his own hide intact, especially if he couldn't release Stranger from their captor's grip. Silently Sandor offered a fleeting plea to whichever buggering god might be listening that he would find his stallion – on foot he would be disadvantaged and easy prey to anyone sent after him.

The first signs of dawn were clearly visible through the tent fabric by the time Sandor felt the pole loosening enough for him to rotate it fully. Despite his exhaustion he resumed his feverish attempts and gripped it fully in his embrace. He straightened his back, dug his feet firmly onto the ground and yanked the stake upward. Every fibre of his body protested against this new demand on his fast-dwindling reserves of strength, and his legs trembled with the effort, but he didn't give up. Slowly, agonisingly slowly the hard wood started to rise, reluctantly giving up its resting place. He wasn't able to remove it in one pull, but he inched it upward little by little, taking a deep breath between each exertion. When the full length of the pole was finally up, he let it fall on the ground and collapsed beside it, panting.

After collecting his breath and with his heart thumping loudly in his ears, Sandor crawled alongside its full span, almost the same as his own height, tugging his chain between the halves. He held his breath, afraid that his hopes would be slashed at the last minute by some infernal construction at the base of them. Yet there were none and after slowly and tediously pulling his shackles through the dredges of dirt and soil accumulated over the years, the irons finally slid out and he was free. Free.

Sandor stared at the manacles and shook his hands cautiously. Luckily the span of them was wide enough for him to move his arms, and the weight he could carry despite the tiredness of his heavy arms. He would have liked nothing more than to rest a while to gather his strength but he was racing against time; a break was a luxury he couldn't afford.

The rest of Sandor's escape was relatively straightforward; he slipped under the canvas at the back of the tent, relieved that it was not heavily guarded and was situated at the edge of the village. An even better stroke of luck was when, after crawling a while in the direction where he had seen the horses being taken the previous day, he found Stranger alone in a small paddock. His temper made him no more tolerant towards other horses than to men, other than his owner, and that had worked to Sandor's advantage.

He whistled softly and Stranger lifted his head and turned first his ears, then his eyes towards him. True to his thorough training as a war horse he trotted softly to Sandor, who scratched his forehead and spoke soothing words to his best friend.

Getting astride was a clumsy pursuit with his shackles, but he managed. He had no halter nor reins, not to mention a saddle, but he guided Stranger with his knees and his weight and they started a slow walk down the sloping paddock. After he judged them to be far enough to be hidden from the casual gaze of an onlooker, Sandor stopped and turned to look over his shoulder.

The little bird. He felt torn; part of him wanted to go back and find her and offer her again what he had so many years ago; to take her with him, take her to the North. Another cool and calculating part told him how dangerous and stupid that would be. They both could be caught and then he was sure as hells going to be killed, then and there.

Yet there was another notion at the back of his mind that refused to go away. Would she come with me if I asked? She hadn't, the last time. And she had changed, she was not a helpless maiden anymore. Adding to the equation what he had just done to her… Although ultimately it had been at her behest, Sandor didn't fool himself into thinking that it had been completely voluntary. What woman in her right senses chose to lie with him?

Sandor stared towards the village for a long time, deep in thought, when finally Stranger snorted softly and he noticed movement at the outskirts of the settlement. People were starting to stir to meet a new day.

Sighing deeply, Sandor turned his head and nudged his horse ahead. The little bird would have to take care of herself the best she could. He had nothing to offer her. Nothing.

Two days later Sandor was well out of the mountain ranges. He had sneaked into a small village further down the slope and stolen a halter and a saddle, and a day's ride further he arrived in a busy trading post where he found a smithy. The smith unshackled him with no questions asked in return for a few of the coins Sandor had secured in the lining of his tunic and which had luckily not been found by his captors. The smith was also happy to receive a quantity of good iron, selling him a sword and dagger into the bargain.

Once again Sandor had to make a decision. Would he continue with his original plan and seek service with Littlefinger? He now had something worthwhile to bargain with – should he make it known that he knew the hiding place of Sansa Stark, he was sure that Littlefinger would reward him handsomely.

Or should he abandon Westeros altogether and ride to Maidenpool, there to take a ship across the Narrow Sea and seek his fortune in the new lands?

There was a third option, one he didn't really want to consider, shaking his head angrily and pushing it away every time it entered his mind. I could go back for the girl. With better preparation and the time that has passed since my escape, I could catch her and that one-eyed monster unawares. I could take her to the North if that is where she wants to go.

Every time it came to him he sneered and berated his own stupidity. By now she would have moved on with her plans, mayhap already joined a group of merchants. Somehow Sandor doubted she would choose to return to the Vale. Yet… if he hadn't taken her, if he hadn't been so enraged by the unfairness of the situation he had found himself in… If he had offered her his protection when she first came to him, he could perhaps go back – but not now. Not after what had happened.

The ghost of the young girl he had tried to reject had well and truly vanished, only to be replaced by the image of a warm-blooded woman; seductive with the alluring combination of innocence and world-weariness - and all too real. Sandor relived the brief moments they had shared over and over again – if 'sharing' was an appropriate description of him threatening her and forcing himself upon her until her resistance had been whittled away.

Three days Sandor stayed at the trading post, drinking in the cheap tavern in the evenings, relishing the taste of strong wine after being without for so long. He slept in the barn with Stranger and every morning he swore he would leave, in one direction or another, and every evening he found himself still there, unable to make the decision about which way. Towards the Eyrie, to Maidenpool – or back where he came from? Every evening he fell asleep on his bed of straw and was assailed by visions of red hair, long limbs and soft skin.

On the morning of the fourth day he got up once again, thoroughly annoyed with his dithering. Bloody hells! It was high time for him to go forward. Stranger seemed to feel his mood as he, too, whinnied and pawed the ground with his hoof.

"I know, boy, I know. Time we move on," Sandor murmured to his restless mount as he saddled him. He was all set to go, had been for days, having bought food and supplies to last him a while.

At the intersection of the three roads leading west to the mountains, north to the Eyrie and south towards Maidenpool, he stopped once again and stared at the paths. Whether his decision was correct or not, he had made it and now he had to go through with it. Any chance of him being able to help the little bird he had crushed with his own actions. He had hurt her, he had raped her, he had sneered at her predicament and because of all that there was no way for him to return to her now.

Sandor turned Stranger to the south and urged him into a trot.

His progress was good but gradually the clarity of mind with which he had woken up started to get muddled as the morning progressed. It was as if Stranger sensed it, as he slowed his steady trot to a brisk walk and Sandor didn't even notice.

The path was wide and clear, the air fresh and suffused with scents of forest and the sun was peeking through the wispy clouds. Maidenpool was only a few days ride away and he had evidently succeeded in his escape. Why didn't he rejoice?

Mid-morning Sandor suddenly halted, cursing angrily. Bloody buggering seven hells! Stranger snorted agitatedly but followed his lead when he turned him around and started to gallop back in the direction they came from.

He passed the same intersection as earlier but this time he didn't stop. All Sandor could think was to hope that he wouldn't be too late. If the girl had left…he would follow the trail and it might be even better to snatch her on the road. He would sneak into their camp after nightfall, hoping like hells that she would still be sleeping alone and had not yet followed his advice on the best way to secure her safety.

The thought of finding her in the arms of some burly mountain man disturbed Sandor, he couldn't deny that. Yet he couldn't fault her for that either. Life was too short and hard to be concerned about things such as propriety. All men – and women – had to use the tools in their possession the best way they could. Sandor had always been pragmatic in his views – buggering knights and songs of their valour meant nothing to him when he knew that in truth they were all cold-blooded killers. A maiden's virtue was worth scrap if it meant that the maiden herself would be kept against her will, unable to ease her own plight.

Yet the further he rode, the more doubts started to assail him – again. If she had progressed in her plans, who was he to come and spoil them? What could he provide, besides temporary protection? He couldn't change what had happened, no pretending he could. And once they reached the North he would become a liability to her; the hated retainer of hated enemies. And the biggest misgiving of all; does she want me there? Would she direct at him the same hard gaze she had given just before she had left, not saying a word?

Sandor's thoughts started to go around the same well-trodden ground as the last several days, and he slowed his pace. Never in his life had he been so indecisive and hesitant in the face of action. He missed the lucidity of purpose he had enjoyed earlier that morning and started to regret his impulsive decision to turn back.

As the midday sun burned hotly right above his head he finally stopped and let his horse graze while he walked back and forth along the short strip of the path. He knelt, lowered his head into his hands, took a deep breath and jumped up again, roaring his frustration. Stranger stopped and eyed him curiously for a moment before going back to his interrupted foraging, obviously not too disconcerted by what was bothering his master.

"BUGGERING HELLS!"

That was it, he couldn't go on like this, Sandor cursed. The modicum of peace he had acquired at the Quiet Isle was fast dwindling. Once and for all, he needed to stop his vacillation and go on with his life. His life.

Once more he turned his horse around, rode towards the south and didn't look back. Across the Narrow Sea it is.

Two days later Sandor stopped in yet another small, nameless village. He topped up his supplies in the local inn and on the spur of the moment took a room for a night. While eating his meal in the corner of the guest hall he eyed the buxom serving wench who went about the room in her tasks. A short, plump, dark-haired girl, not pockmarked or toothless, so overall not a bad looking offering.

Sandor was not really in the mood for wenching but he decided that it was time for him to try to move on with the rest of his life and forget the surreal and unexpected incident in the mountains. A chance encounter that was not going to happen again, so he had better wipe his memory of any notions of high-born women and little northern birds with auburn hair and supple limbs.

He started to bargain with the woman. She pretended to be horrified by his suggestion, he pretended to believe that she was not that kind of woman, but in the end the coins he offered did the trick and the wench agreed. Why he had bothered with the charade he didn't know – in his previous life he would have hated the pretence of the interaction. Still, if the wench wanted to feel better about herself by not declaring openly that she was, in fact, a woman to be bought, who was he to argue otherwise? Sighing, Sandor concluded that he must be getting old.

The woman slipped into his room at the end of the evening as agreed and without waiting for his command laid down on his bed. She unlaced and opened her blouse, revealing heavy breasts that spilled on both sides of her body, and lifted her skirt up to her waist. She wore no smallclothes and Sandor regarded her bosom, her belly, her wide hips and the curly bush between her legs. From the faint webs imprinted on the skin of her lower belly he could see that she had given birth. As he didn't move, the woman lifted her head and glanced at him expectantly. Her eyes were big and brown and only slightly hesitant.

With grim determination, Sandor set to his task.