Beyond the Ice & the Fire How Fragile is the Heart

by CaroH99

Sansa escapes with Sandor during the Battle of Blackwater, little guessing that it will change both their fates forever. Far away lands and a journey of self-discovery for both await them.

27. Chapter 27

A/N: Disclaimers
- I don't gain anything by this. The characters & story are the brilliant work of GRRM. And the title of the fic is taken from Loreena McKennitt's, Dante's Prayer which is a huge inspiration for this story ;) and there will be times when her lyrics are used here.

*Thank you for everything my excellent betas: onborrowedwings, nysandra & swiftsnowmane! :D

- The story though mainly book canon, can still apply for the HBO show (I don't anything from the tv show either).
- The story will contain dialogue from both the books and the show.

*I would like to dedicate this chapter to onborrowedwings thank you for being with me since the start of this fic, my friend!

27. The Fading Night

Sansa woke up to the sound of a horse neighing nearby. The sound had startled her, and she had opened her eyes quickly, only to find that her auburn curls were all about her head, obscuring her vision. She knew at once that she was sleeping on her bedroll on the hard ground, but by the sweet dreams she'd been having, she would have bet she'd been resting back in her old bedroom in Winterfell, with a feather pillow and a warm blanket.

No matter how much she wished it, Sansa knew that trying to fall back to sleep would not help one bit. Since the moment she had woken up, the sharp pain on the muscles of her legs due to riding all day long yesterday was returning quickly to her body. Giving a resigned grunt, she propped herself up on her elbow, thinking that Sandor would still be resting, but apparently she was the last person in the caravan to have woken up. He was not sleeping beside her, though the large bedroll to her right was proof enough that the comforting warmth she'd felt in the night had indeed come from his arms.

Shaking some of her hair out of the way, her blue eyes started to roam all around her, seeing how the travelers seemed to have been up and about for quite some time, as they packed up their baggage, or brushed the hair of their horses, ponies, or donkeys. A family nearby was eating cold mutton, the remains from last night's dinner, while a couple with a baby three fires to the left was trying to teach their child how to call them "Mama" or "Papa." By the look of it, they were at the very end of the caravan, with all the people who struggled to keep up because they were traveling with children, wagons, sheep, and even some piglets.

She smiled, for the couple with the baby reminded her of Frema and Vintos. They'll be good parents. I hope they reach their village safely.

Sansa stretched out on her bedroll, upon a forsaken and forgotten piece of land at a small valley at the foot of a small hill. It's a pretty place, she thought, gazing at the green grass and blue of the sky, the way the air made the leaves in the trees whistle, or the birds singing nearby.

She stood up, hands on her hips, her head turning right to left and back to front, searching for Sandor. She found him brushing Stranger's coat, talking to the horse as if he was an old friend. She smiled, and tried to smooth the skirts of her green gown–which was sadly already starting to turn very dirty–and to untangle her hair with her fingers. In order to give Sandor a bit more privacy with his horse, Sansa busied herself with rolling the bedrolls up, and carrying hers towards where Nan was tied up. She ruffled her mare's hair, wondering if she'd already eaten, when Sandor stepped up beside her, his own bedroll under his arm, and rasped, "I've already given her some oats."

Sansa looked at him, smiling. "Good morning."

His eyes rested on her quietly. "Good morning, little bird," Sandor replied, returning her smile with a grin before he began to tie the bedrolls to Nan's saddle. Sansa caught sight of Sandor briefly having trouble with carrying the weight of it with his left arm, and she said, "Sandor, you know you shouldn't carry heavy things at the moment."

"I'll be damned when the day I can't carry a bloody bedroll comes," he growled, not listening to her and grabbing her own bedroll as well.

Sansa sighed. "I woke up in my bedroll, but I didn't go to sleep on it. I was sitting by a tree with you beside me when I drifted off. You carried me to my bedroll and you also never woke me up to do second watch."

Sandor turned to meet her stare. "Why are we talking about all this shit, Sansa? My arm is not about to break just because I carried you or a bloody bedroll. It's time we got further ahead to the front of the caravan. Could you wait a while and break your fast as we ride? The lazy buggers we are with will take at least another hour to depart."

"I won't move till you let me change the dressing on your wound," she said, crossing her arm in front of her chest, and raising her eyebrow. "And I thought my name was Jeyne, Byan Storm."

Sandor couldn't help it anymore. He shook his head and with an amused grin on his face, he followed her over to sit beside the remains of their fire, so she could get a good look at his wound. Her water skin would need to be refilled the moment they reached a stream, but for now she used the remaining liquid to clean Sandor's elbow, thinking that maybe having some wine would be more helpful.

That made her remember that she had to talk to Sandor about what getting drunk had cost them both. I'll do it later. He must know that it was wrong to behave like that, and he must know that I won't let that matter be forgotten. She quickly glanced up at Sandor as she bent over his arm; he was staring with dislike at the people all around them, with no idea of what was passing through her mind.

"Done," she finally said, wrapping a fresh cloth around his wound.

"I have something that belongs to you," he told her, and from under his breastplate he brought out the handkerchief that she'd given him two days ago.

"Keep it," she replied, recalling a day so very long ago when he had gently dabbed blood from her lip after Joffrey made her see her father and septa's heads. "I am sure you will need it again."

Sandor laughed. "I will, won't I? And may I ask who you expect me to fight against for you now?"

Her cheeks blushed and she lowered her eyes, trying to hide the smile that came to her face at his words. "You have Protector to help you with that. But I want you to have the handkerchief. One day I'll give you one with a hound and a bird embroidered on it."

Sandor's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Thank you, little bird, but I think I would prefer to keep this one. Nice and simple, the way I like things. And who is Protector, by the way?"

"All great swords need a name. It's not just a knight's custom, so surely you cannot find any fault with it. My father was not a ser and his sword was called Ice. The sword Burnek gave you will live to see great deeds, I am sure of it. Thus, I shall think of it as Protector even if you do not like it."

Sandor stared at her, his mouth beginning to twitch. "Seven bloody hells," he said at last.

"Sandor," Sansa said, lowering her voice and looking about her just in case, but no one was paying them any mind. "Before you say anything, I wanted to thank you for what you did. Risking your life and all the rest. You have done so much for me I can't begin to imagine what I could do to… No one... It–it was so good of you to–"

"Of course I'd risk my life for you, little bird," he told her, sparing her the need to go on when expressing herself and finding the right words were turning out to be difficult. Sandor understood. He always did. "And I would again."

After that, they packed up the rest of their belongings, and tied Nan again to Stranger's saddle. Sansa didn't feel like riding on her own just yet, seeing as she still felt weak regarding the strength of her legs, and the tiredness that had taken over her limbs, so Sandor sat her on Stranger before him, took the reins of the destrier in one hand, and wrapped the other around her waist.

They rode beside the long queue that made up that caravan. The travelers spared them looks while they walked on and on, following the direction the people before them took, never asking a question, and winding their way slowly up the long steep path that led out of the vale. Near the start of the caravan, they found the men who were thought of as the "leaders," grown men with families who had taken the route to the north from Norvos many times before. Sandor paid them the fees for him, Sansa, and the horses, and started asking questions about everything he could think of, to be sure that they had taken the right decision in joining the caravan and going north.

Sansa was pleased with what she learned, and for a time she let her mind drift to the places where she would like to head for next. I think Braavos, Lorath and Westeros are the only places we could go to next. Where do I want to go now? What's best for us?

She still wanted to see her family again, and settle down in Winterfell, but now that she knew her love for Sandor could not be put aside, it was not easy to think of what would be the wisest course for them to take. I still have some weeks to think about it, at least, she told herself, as she heard the leader of the caravan telling Sandor how long it was likely going to take them to reach the Shivering Sea.

The following fortnight passed by slowly. Sansa and Sandor did not find much privacy among the caravan, and thus they had to restrain themselves from holding on to each other during the nights, and other such gestures. They did not even find the right moment to start having a private conversation about what had happened between them the night they had kissed. The caravan consisted of around five-and-twenty families, of varying ages and numbers. Since they were never alone, all Sandor and Sansa did for most of the day was ride silently, and tiredly fall asleep under bushes or the shadow of some tree during the night, when they didn't have to keep watch.

Though they were surrounded by people–and despite the enjoyable novelty of traveling with others in comparison to the endless journey to Norvos from Pentos–Sansa and Sandor found that they were really sharing this humble path alone, for most of the time they didn't understand many of the words they heard the families around them exchanging, and the Rhoynish folk didn't fare any better with the way the foreigners in their midst spoke. Their fellow companions were lowborn people from villages settled in the Hills of Norvos, whose most valuable possessions were made of copper, and thus they spoke Valyrian with an accent with flavors of the Rhoyne, very different to the one Sansa and Sandor had acquired in Norvos.

Only about three men and one woman among them understood a little of the Common Tongue, leaving Sandor and Sansa to speak to each other alone most of the time, but the leader of the caravan was born and raised in Norvos, and they could communicate with him whenever the need arose. Yet Sansa thought it nice to travel in a caravan, even if they didn't really come to know anyone.

When her moonblood visited her some days after they had escaped Norvos, she no longer had to tear the hems of her gowns to use as a cloth between her legs. Now she could buy enough cloths, of poor material. And whenever they needed a sack of oats for the horses, a sack of flour to cover one of the places where they hid some of their coins; or when they wished to eat meat instead of bread and cheese, they only had to pay or ask for it, and they received it. At first, they thought it was because the peasants were afraid of Sandor, but after they grew used to his presence and realized he was not interested in them, they still behaved shyly around them.

It didn't matter. It was nice to share a fire with others, even if they all minded their own business. There were even some nights when people would sing old tales of haunting spirits and of legendary wars well known in this part of the world yet new to Sandor and her. The only time Sansa did not find it in the least pleasant was the night they had rested in a high place that looked over the lower lands they'd been traveling the previous couple of days. She had been sitting beside a tree, massaging her tired feet–that thankfully had no blisters on them yet–when out of a nearby bush a beautiful brown and white rabbit poked his head out to stare at her.

She had giggled, and remained very still as the animal approached her, but the moment she tried to caress it, it spun away and disappeared. That was the last she thought she'd seen of it, but later that evening she saw the men who hunted for the caravan grabbing the poor rabbit by the ears. They'd killed it. Sandor only sighed when she confessed why she didn't feel very hungry that night, and took a bite of the greasy roasted hare.

One night, after a particularly tiring day of riding Nan up high slopes, the caravan had settled under the shadow of some ancient ruins that seemed to have been built out of the very stone of the hill behind it, and Sandor and Sansa were resting on their bedrolls staring up at the stars shining bright in the dark sky, talking, enjoying the peace of the mountains around them, and watching an eagle flying high above them. Sansa would always remember that night, because that was the time she learned that the Cleganes came from a line that could be traced back to the First Men, like the Starks and all the old families from the North.

The following morning they set out after a good sleep, and made their way across the extensive range of the high hills located at the north-western end of the mainland of Essos. It was madness that Sandor and she found stability in this journey. The sunless days turned out to be hard and dreary. It was a slow going, but soon they left the headwater of the river Noyne behind, and they turned their direction towards Lorath Bay, traveling at the foot of the mountains upon narrow overgrown paths little known to the rest of the world, shunning roads as they plodded along at a slow walking pace.

There were less and less terraced farms and small villages to be seen the further they advanced into the rough and barren flatland country in between the mountains, but whenever the people of the caravan gave a thankful prayer to their river gods for managing to live another day without the presence of unfriendly eyes, Sansa would wonder what could they mean by that, for there was not a single soul besides them to be found in these forgotten places.

After almost three weeks on the road, there came a night when unexpected events came to pass, breaking the monotony of the caravan and of the life to which Sandor and Sansa had momentarily settled in. They had been traveling silently, as they always did at dusk, too tired to do much else, when they came upon a large lake in the middle of a valley surrounded by tall mountains, and decided to settle there for the night. The leader of the caravan said this had always been a good place to rest, since the ground was smooth and the lake provided them all with water to refill their skins.

Sandor got off Stranger and lead both horses across an old bridge that led to the lake, with Sansa walking behind them. When her eyes finally fell on the lake, she held her breath, for it was the most beautiful landscape she had seen in weeks. There was a waterfall on the north bank, and the distant mountains were veiled in the deepening dusk in such a lovely way that she stood still, letting her eyes take in everything around her as a cold wind rose. She shivered, remembering cold nights long ago and summer snows from her childhood in Winterfell, as well as the words of her house. Winter is Coming. Had snow already reached the south of the Seven Kingdoms? Was Westeros already in winter's tight grip?

She had last seen snow the day she'd left Winterfell. Robb had melting flakes in his hair when he hugged her, and the snowball Arya tried to make kept coming apart in her hands. It hurt to remember how happy she had been that morning. Hullen had helped her mount, and she'd ridden out with the snowflakes swirling around her, off to see the great wide world.

She was sad to think how wrong she'd been to think King's Landing would be where she'd love to spend the rest of her life, but in the end she had survived the lions of Lannister and the High Magister of Norvos, and here she was now, having seen much of the great wide world, with Sandor as her faithful companion.

It would be so lovely to be back in Winterfell with Sandor, she thought, before a more practical wish took hold of her mind. I wish I could take a bath there. Cleaning herself up had to be reduced lately to washing her face and hands and feet whenever she could. She was sure she looked as dirty as she'd ever been, and she could do nothing about it till they reached some inn near the Shivering Sea. Sighing, Sansa looked away from the lake.

The caravan settled on the south edge of the river, and Sansa made her way towards where Sandor had decided they would be resting tonight. Some hours later, they had a warm dinner by a fire, and after they'd settled their bedrolls on the soft ground side by side, Sansa went away to relieve herself to the place the leaders of the caravan had decided would be used by the women, excusing herself with a blush.

She made her way through the already sleeping forms of people scattered everywhere after she'd washed her hands on the lake, very quietly, so as not to wake her neighbors. A man's raised voice was suddenly heard, breaking the tranquility of the place and the moment. Sansa turned around to see that some distance away from the caravan, the crude man who was always getting drunk was once again yelling at his poor wife.

Sansa clenched her hands into fists as people all around her began to stir and yell at the man to shut up. At times, she felt that she detested that man. Over the past weeks, she had seen how he mistreated his wife. He never hit her, but he ordered her around as if she were livestock, and once every week he always decided to start screaming at her for no reason at all. The poor woman would simply do her best to try and calm him down, to no avail. Sansa felt very sorry for her. She had thought of befriending the woman, but the couple was the least communicative of the group of travelers, and in any case, her husband was always close to her, making her wish impossible to grant.

Sandor was unsaddling Stranger when he saw the little bird coming towards him, an angry frown on her face. He tried not to smile as he raised an eyebrow at her in question, for even angry she looked pretty.

Sansa spoke in the Common Tongue, once she was beside him. "That horrible drunken man is once again yelling at his wife."

He shook his head and took a deep sigh, turning towards Nan to unsaddle her. The bloody man had chosen that moment to say, "Fuck, so now you're crying! What a stu–"

"I can't stand him," Sansa shoot an angry look in the direction of the couple. "I wish we could–"

"Sansa," he said, interrupting with the rough rasp of his voice, straightening up. "They are no concern of ours."

"But–but you've told me yourself that you don't like the man either," she said, perplexed.

Sandor grunted. She was right, he didn't like the bastard and all his bleating when he drank more than he could handle, but he wasn't about to intervene in whatever the man and his wife were doing.

"I didn't like the lions either, and I nonetheless guarded them for years. Little bird, you can't save that woman. No one can."

Sansa wasn't going to give up that easily apparently. "They can, they just haven't tried."

"Exactly. No one here will lift a hand to help the woman. She isn't the only woman with a husband like that. And she won't be the last. The only thing you can do is pray to your gods for her, but that won't do much good, because there are no gods. It's like I told you once, remember? If there are any, they made the weak for the strong to play with, and that's what's happening with them."

The disbelief in Sansa's face increased. She regarded him with hard wide eyes, and a pursed mouth, waiting for him to shut up. When he did, he heard the rage inside her in her icy low tone, as she said, "You are a fool, Sandor Clegane…"

And without a further word, she turned around and went to lie down on her bedroll, her back to him, after she'd dragged it as far away from his as she thought prudent. Sandor blinked, surprised by her reaction. His eyes followed her, and he cursed out loud. What the hell did she expect him to do about it? To save the woman from her halfwit husband the way he'd saved her once from Joffrey?

I should have ignored her, he thought. She'd complained about the man before, but he'd always tried to change the conversation. And now he saw the wisdom behind his previous actions.

He walked over to his own bedroll, and knowing that Sansa was not sleeping, he shot a sullen glance in her direction. He bowed his head tiredly on his arms before he lay back on the bedroll.

Seven hells, this was such a stupid reason to quarrel about. The man wasn't even screaming anymore. After a time, Sandor fell asleep despite everything. But when he woke up again long hours after midnight, he saw that the little bird was not asleep on her bedroll anymore. He sat upright in a heartbeat, and looked around him, but there was no sign of her nearby.

Sansa had been having a dreamless light sleep when the sound of a wolf howling up in the mountains woke her up, every nerve atingle. Or at least, that's what she thought it was at first. She sat on her bedroll quickly, but besides the men charged to keep an eye out for the caravan at the four points that enclosed the space everyone had settled in at, there was nobody else awake. Did I hear the wolf in my dreams? she wondered, yet she had no recollection of having had any dreams tonight. No, that's silly. There are no wolves prowling the wilderness in this part of the world.

Sansa blinked and stood up. Dawn was still some hours away, and she realized she wouldn't fall asleep again. She looked at Sandor, snoring and lost to the world.

Her feet made no sound as she made her way to the lake, and passed the sentinel guarding the caravan from the east bank. She nodded her head at the man, whom she knew, and drifted past him, away from the caravan, along the edge of the lake, hugging herself as she played back in her mind what Sandor had told her about the poor woman and her drunken husband.

She knew he was right. Many men were nasty to their wives, and not only commoners. Even King Robert had tormented Queen Cersei and Joffrey had tortured her. She didn't know if her father's friend had ever hit the Lannister woman, but she had seen them arguing more than once after the king was way into his cups. Maybe that's why this affects me. They remind me of the nightmare King's Landing became after Father died.

Sandor's defense had only left her confused, for he'd started talking about how the strong ruled the world, nonsense that had nothing to do at all with their present argument. Sansa had seen that he would be unreasonable tonight; so, gathering her dignity, she had turned around and walked away from him.

With a heavy heart, she wondered when the time for them to settle everything between them straight would come, since this row only seemed to have delayed that from occurring. Sansa looked back at the caravan, and saw that she'd walked all the length of the edge of the lake, and now she was on the northern bank, with the beautiful waterfall before her. It doesn't look so big up close, she noticed, looking up at the cliff from which it was falling down.

She watched the way white mist and foam would appear the moment the water hit the lake, sighing. Besides the sound of the small waterfall, there was stillness in the air that she found quite lovely and soothing.

The air was warm and heavy with the scent of strange flowers, and there was something about the lake that made its beauty special, unlike anything she had ever seen before, as if it was ethereal somehow. This is a pure world. She stayed there for a long time, with a small smile on her face, until she heard heavy footsteps coming up to her. Before she even turned her head to look around, she already knew it was Sandor coming towards her. She closed her eyes, steeling herself for what was to come.

Sandor had started looking for Sansa, his heart at his throat and his longsword slung on his back, before a sentinel he knew by name told him he'd seen Jeyne walking over towards the north bank of the lake. And why the seven hells did you let her do that, bloody idiot? He thought, as he passed him towards the direction where his little bird was supposed to have flown to. In a matter of minutes, he found her. Sansa's auburn hair stood out vividly from a distance, and the closer he got to her, the more he felt that he'd stepped into one of his dreams. When he was almost upon her, she turned her head and looked at him, rooting him to the spot even as he drew an intake of breath at the way she looked beside the waterfall, so utterly innocent and pure, making him feel momentarily unwilling to disturb such perfect beauty. Without a word, Sansa turned around and headed over to a very small grove that was nearby, and sitting herself gracefully on a large rock in front of it, she glanced once again at the lake, and waited for him.

Gulping, Sandor ran a hand through his hair before he made his way to where she was sitting, wondering how he could explain his previous behavior, and the reasoning behind his actions. Not that she asked me for an explanation. But still, he knew it was the right thing to do. Yet the little bird spared him that with her first words…

Sansa sat upright below the shadow the trees cast, gazing across the lake at the eastern shore, until Sandor was standing before her. She looked up at him expectantly with a rigid countenance when he didn't start speaking. She saw that he was staring at her intently, and it dawned on her that this was the first time in weeks when they were finally completely alone.

At long last Sandor growled in a deep voice, "I'm sorry, little bird."

Sansa sighed resignedly. She didn't want to fight over the way they had behaved in the past. Deciding that talking calmly was the best course, she admitted, "I know you weren't being mean, Sandor. There is wisdom behind what you told me, except for the bit about the gods. But seeing that defenseless woman only makes me remember King's Landing."

Sandor regarded her silently for a moment. "I was not only talking about what happened earlier, little bird, but I do understand you now."

"Then what else are you sorry for?"

She thought she already knew what he was talking about, but she wanted–needed–to hear him say it.

"For what I did when I came home that night," he snarled.

Sansa shifted a little on the flat stone she was on. She did not need to ask what night he meant. There was a certainty on the back of her mind that told her that maybe the time to talk about what they felt for each other had arrived. And so she asked him, being the first of the two to acknowledge out loud what had transpired between them, "Are you apologizing for kissing me back?"

Sandor made a sound that might have been a laugh if his voice hadn't sounded so full of pain. "No. I am sorry for kissing you while I was drunk, when I could've done it any other time, when I was sober and had my wits about me. I am so sorry for leaving you alone after that. And I am sorry for not being there to stop Nervere when that bugger forced you to kiss him."

Sansa gulped, her heart starting to beat faster. She didn't know what she wanted to do, so instead she asked, "And why did you react so strongly when he kissed me?"

Sandor shrugged and twisted his mouth, his scars pulling tight across the burned side of his face. "Because it was clear that you didn't want to do so, and yet he insisted. He hurt you, and I had made a promise to you that no one would ever hurt you again, or I'd kill them. And it was too much for me. But I will never do anything so foolish again. I should've known the trouble it would cause us. I'm sorry."

Sansa was certain that something in her eyes must have disarmed him, because before she could even answer him, Sandor had fallen to his knees before her, without a word, bowing down so that his head rested on her legs. For a moment, she stood still, startled, and then her hands started moving of their own accord. One moment they lay at her sides, and the next they were resting on his shoulders, before her fingers slowly crept to the back of his ear and neck, brushing softly with her fingertips the sensitive hot skin there, and she toyed with strands of his dark hair. She was afraid her legs would start to tremble, unaccustomed to the heavy weight now upon them.

When she felt a light wetness on her gown, Sansa did not need to ask what it was. She knew it was the same salty water that she had felt with the palm of her hand long ago back in her bedroom in King's Landing, when green fire lit up the sky instead of a clear crescent moon, and she sang a song for her life.

Drawing some courage from within her at those memories, Sansa's hand began to slowly, but firmly, caress the perfect mass of muscle that was Sandor's back, soothing the tension away with every movement of hers. My dark, brooding, sullen big man.

"I am so sorry, too," she whispered, after she'd kissed the back of his head. "For not having kissed you before."

This encouraged him to hug her legs closely, as if she was the last pillar on this world he could hold on to in order to avoid falling into the deep void of darkness and despair from which he'd risen months ago. One of his hands slid up her thigh to the small of her back, while the other remained holding her behind her knee. Her hands meanwhile busied themselves with sliding across the long wide length of his back.

Sansa found herself murmuring to Sandor that everything was all right, before she brought her upper body down to rest on his, and returned his fierce possessive embrace, hugging him tightly, and resting her cheek on his right shoulder blade. It's as if we were one, she dimly thought through the haze of thoughts that were now trying to invade her conscience and her senses. Yet she paid them no heed. They stayed like that for long moments, till numbness possessed their limbs, making it hard for her to distinguish which were her arms, and which were her legs.

When they felt their bodies betraying their hearts, as they unwillingly started to pry apart in an attempt to draw back blood to their extremities, they found that their hands were refusing to let go, burying fingers into the fabric of his warm tunic and her woolen dress. But they both knew they had to let go. They were not as alone as it appeared. The caravan could be seen if they turned their heads in its direction.

So they broke apart, Sansa straightening up while Sandor disentangled himself from her, leaving only his huge hand to linger on her knee. He didn't need to crane his neck to look up at her. Now that he was not bending over, his eyes almost reached the same height as hers, and when she smiled warmly at him, Sandor sat down on the flat rock beside her, returning her smile.

He stared at his hands for a moment before he cleared his throat, and once again looked up to meet her gaze. "Sansa... I–I love you. Now and forever."

Sansa's smile grew wider. She could not remember the last time she had felt like this: completely and absolutely happy. She blushed from neck to ears, and lowered her gaze. When she glanced up at Sandor and saw him drawing closer to her, without another moment to lose, Sansa closed her eyes and waited for Sandor to claim her mouth.

This he did slowly, almost shyly, as if giving her the chance to draw back if she wanted to, but when she didn't, his scarred lips started to caress her own, as he cupped her cheek with one hand and the back of her head with the other. Sansa knew this kiss had none of the desperate urgency they'd known in the previous one, so she brought her hand to rest against his wide shoulders, her finger lightly playing with his neck or hair. Sandor's mouth was gently yet firmly claiming her own, nibbling softly at her lower lip, making her smile into the kiss.

With every moment and exquisite gesture they drew confidence; she threw her arms around Sandor's neck, hitting her hands against the longsword at his back as she encircled him, while the hand he had at the back of her head slid down to the small of her back before it pushed her closer to him, bringing her into the intimate space that had served as a gap between them. Sansa would later think of this as a pure moment, marveling at the tender way the ferocious man Westeros knew as The Hound, had treated her.

It was just as wonderful as their first kiss. The noises he made were sounds that she alone was supposed to hear, and such intimate gestures as the ones they exchanged once they opened their mouths to let their tongues caress the length of the other, were something Sansa only wanted to do with Sandor, the man who had grown to be her best friend as well as her love.

As with the first, she never knew how long it lasted, but when this sweet kiss ended, Sansa was certain that this time Sandor would not leave her side. When they drew apart and the shining blue eyes looked into the deep grey ones, Sansa cupped Sandor's unburnt cheek lovingly, feeling his beard tickling her, and he closed his eyes, leaning into the caress, only to end up kissing her outstretched palm. Sansa leaned over to him and kissed Sandor's burns, before she pressed her cheekbone against them and whispered, "Sandor."

"Hmm?" he groaned, as if in a dream.

Sansa straightened up, wanting to tell him this while she looked at his face. When his eyes met her again, she said in a voice soft as a caress, "I love you, too. Now and forever."

Sandor laughed with pure joy and swiftly kissed her again; they held hands and she leaned her head on his wide shoulder, as they stared at the lake before them, noticing that dawn was not so very far away now. This long beautiful night was fading.

Sandor would not have minded staying here like this with Sansa forever. The whole world could go bugger itself with a hot poker, and he would never even spare it a look. He wanted to preserve this moment till the end of time. Nothing like this had ever happened to him, and his chest hurt painfully–but the pain was a sweet one. He'd finally told Sansa how he felt about her, and then they'd kissed. The first kiss they'd shared had been fucking incredible, wild and passionate, and the constant thought of taking her had been at the back of his mind as they pressed their bodies against the wall, against each other.

This kiss had been different, but just as good. Sandor didn't even know till now that he had it in him to kiss like that. He had tried to be gentle and slow, to show Sansa a side of him he knew she would appreciate, and in doing so they had assured each other of their love with every touch of their lips and tongues. Sandor would've laughed had he imagined some years ago the way Eddard Stark's daughter would end up affecting and changing him. He'd lived with hatred for so long, it always surprised him the way Sansa brought out something relatively good in him. I will make it up to her. I will try to be a better man for you, Sansa. She had been born for great things–to be his queen–but if fate had thought it best to have their paths combine like this, then he was eternally grateful.

And when he finally heard his little bird saying that she loved him as well, Sandor could hardly believe it. Fuck, what else could he ask for? He could think of other things, of course, but doing that was not meant to happen tonight. From now on he would simply enjoy this new change of circumstances, and he'd learned patience as well. There was no need to rush or hurry things. Whenever Sansa was ready and decided to ask him for anything else, then he would be beside her to willingly and eagerly give it to her.

The one thing that could dampen his spirits now was still at the back of his mind, but Sandor didn't want to think of that tonight. He did not wish to ask Sansa right now if she would be willing to spend the rest of her life with him–whether it was back with her family or in Essos. They would start this new day and live with their revelations and the kiss, and nothing more. One day, maybe sooner than he thought, Sandor would have to tell Sansa that he would not take her choice away, and would not–no matter how much it hurt him–go against her decision, but that day was not here yet.

"Sandor," his little bird chirped beside him, breaking his train of thought.

"Yes?" he asked her, drawing little circles on the smooth soft skin of her wrist.

"Do you remember everything that you told me the night we first kissed?"

Sandor gave a snort. "No, little bird. Not everything. I gather I told you too many bloody things while I was drunk. I'm sorry if I hurt you by something I said."

Sansa laughed. "Yes, you do have that tendency. You've told me a few things over the time I've known you."

Sandor kissed Sansa's head and rested his forehead against hers when she looked up at him, her beautiful eyes a pool in which he could drown himself.

"You know, you really need to get your beard trimmed," she said in jest, stroking his neck. "It's growing quite unruly."

"What did I tell you that night?" he whispered, closing his eyes and smelling her hair, after he'd chuckled at her comment.

He didn't get his answer. In that exact moment, the loud sound of several horses galloping nearby startled him and Sansa out of the pleasant intimacy they were sharing.

"What the fuck?" he rasped, standing up at once and stepping in front of a startled Sansa to shield her. Sansa stood up behind him, and Sandor cursed out loud when he saw what was happening. A band of thrice-damned outlaws were riding fast across the west bank of the lake, heading for the caravan. Some of the men had torches in their hands, so it wasn't hard to see that there were around five-and-ten men. They were less than the ones in the caravan, but the outlaws had horses and were bound to have weapons on them, while the caravan also had women, children and elderly people.

"Sandor," the little bird exclaimed beside him. "They're going to attack them. We must go and help!"

He turned to look at her. "Listen to me, Sansa. I have to go there for Stranger and Nan. But you are to stay here. Hide in the trees, and do not leave this place till I come back for you. Do you hear me?"

Sansa's eyes had grown big as saucers. "Are you expecting me to wait here, not knowing what is happening to you while you–"

"I have to get Stranger," he told her, firmly grabbing her by the arms. "These are mountain outlaws. They are not only looking for plunder. Every horse they think fit to serve them will be stolen, and Stranger is a bloody warhorse, Sansa. The best of his kind. They even take women if they fancy them. I won't let you risk yourself. Please, wait here, little bird, and hide."

And without giving her time to respond, he turned around and ran quickly towards the commotion that was stirring through the caravan, as he reached for the longsword at his back. Sandor heard women screaming, babies crying, children calling for their parents, pigs squealing and sheep bleating, and he thought that he was not really surprised by this attack. Throughout time, highroad bandits had made a living out of attacking travelers to rob them of their belongings, and he'd never forgotten this, so he'd been on the lookout when he could, or when the people around them started to thank their gods for delivering them to a new location safely.

Sandor had kept his worries to himself, not wanting to trouble Sansa or tell her that her plan to join the caravan had flaws, but now he cursed himself for a fool for not preparing her for this. As he finally reached the place where the attack was happening, he heard some dogs barking, and realized that the outlaws also had hunting dogs with them. Seven hells, if one of them sniffs after Sansa's trail…

He never finished that thought. A young outlaw who had lost his horse suddenly appeared before him, clutching a sword. Sandor would've laughed at the way the green boy pissed his breeches when his eyes caught sight of his burned face. Instead, he opened the boy's throat with a swift stroke of his longsword, fleetingly recalling that Sansa had named the blade Protector. Sandor ran towards the tree he'd tied Nan and Stranger to, and found that only the chestnut mare was there.

"Bloody hells!" he roared, looking around him, seeing horses, and hearing the thunder of their hooves everywhere. Some with riders upon them, and others were simply galloping heedlessly away from the caravan. "Stranger!"

Some distance away, his attention was momentarily caught by a tent on fire, but Sandor had faced the fires of Flea Bottom the day the people rebelled against Joffrey to find his beloved warhorse, and a miserable tent and a sorry bunch of outlaws were not going to take his destrier away. He'd hunt them down if any of them dared.

"Look at that!" someone shouted behind him, and Sandor swirled around the moment he heard a familiar loud snort and saw that Stranger was cornered between a well and four enormous brown hunting dogs, while a man in black untied a rope from his belt behind the dogs. Sandor was about to step ahead and help his horse, forgetting about poor Nan in the process, when he stopped dead in his tracks and a beaming grin slowly appeared in his face.

His bloody warhorse had gone mad, his eyes rolling to the back of his head, going white. In the blink of an eye, he stood on his hind legs and kicked the first of the dogs with his strong legs, breaking the animal's jaw. As the remaining three dogs attacked him, Stranger struck at one with his hind legs as it sought to leap at him from behind, while the other dog made a mad attack at the horse's head and ended up being beaten for his troubles.

Sandor watched with an approving look as Stranger killed three of the four hunting dogs, and would have finished off the last one if her bloody owner hadn't stopped her. The man yelled in a commanding strong voice that Sandor noticed spoke in the Valyrian of Norvos, "Mipa, stay!" and he started advancing on the warhorse, calling out soothing tones to try and calm him down. "Come here, horsey. Everything's all right, horsey."

Sandor started laughing harshly. Go on, idiot. Get yourself killed. He had trained Stranger well. Why was I bothering about him? He'll bite the man's head off before he takes another step.

And sure enough, the moment the stranger was less than twenty steps away from him, Stranger charged at him. The man jerked back, using the rope as a whip to try and scare the horse, but the black destrier kept on galloping his way. The outlaw then raised the rope high before him with both hands, yelling, "Oi, you, stop it!" before Stranger was on him. Sandor gathered that the outlaw must be out of his wits, for he tried to jump on Stranger, but the horse shook him off and started stomping on him the moment he hit the ground. Mipa the dog ran away at that and was never seen again.

After that, the poor bugger was deserted by his fellow outlaws as he tried to crawl away from the attack, shielding his face with his arms. Sandor never saw the bandits fleeing, but when he looked away from the fight between beast and man, after he heard one of the man's bones breaking, he saw that the tent on fire had been extinguished, and all around him the people of the caravan were starting to quickly form a circle around the fight, cheering Stranger on, now that the threat of the outlaws had passed.

He then started to move towards Stranger. The poor bugger was so crazy he had amused Sandor, and the sight of the bloody pulp his horse was making of him was not something he wanted to feel sorry about. Better if we interrogate the outlaw and learn what other bandits are near. The rest can hang him or drown him or whatever they like after that, but I don't want Stranger to go mad when Sansa will possibly be riding him again soon.

And so he stepped forward into the ring the travelers had formed, his hands raised to the level of his shoulders; before the black destrier smashed the man's head, he called, "Stranger!"

The horse recognized his master's voice quickly. He stopped attacking the man, and raised his head in his direction, breathing loudly.

"Stranger, come here," Sandor instructed him, his eyes fixed into those of the warhorse. It took him a few moments to make up his mind, but in the end with one last kick at the unconscious figure of his enemy, Stranger walked over to Sandor, shaking his head. The crowd had gone silent. Sandor spared one last look at the outlaw, sprawled on the ground now washed with his blood, and saw that he was still breathing. A bit laboriously, but breathing nonetheless.

Sandor took his horse's reins and led the animal to the tree where Nan was still tied up. With a pat on the horse's flanks, Sandor strode over again to the place where the outlaw was, thinking that it wouldn't be good for Sansa to see this, or see what Stranger could do. The deep cut on his elbow which Nervere had given him weeks ago had almost healed, but the force he'd put in his arms as he cut the young outlaw's throat had apparently been too much, for an annoying itch was returning to his arm. He ignored it; Sansa could see to it later.

I'll go for her in a moment, he was thinking as his eyes suddenly caught sight of the little bird joining the ring of travelers who were starting to mutter about what they would do with the bandit.

Sansa stood staring with her mouth open at Sandor's retreating back. She'd wanted him to stay here and hide with her, but he had to go and save their horses. Gods, don't let him get hurt. She'd gulped and followed his advice of hiding behind the small grove, nervously trying to distinguish what was happening back at the caravan. Screams wrenched the air, from both people and animals, and when Sansa caught sight of a tent on fire, she'd almost fainted as she imagined what that could mean to Sandor.

Yet the attack by the outlaws didn't really last very long. Some minutes after she'd hidden in the trees, squatting on the ground, she'd seen the bandits rapidly heading towards the direction from which they'd come from in a mad, desperate gallop towards the distant mountains, and the moment the last rider disappeared from sight, Sansa had run as fast as her long legs would carry her towards the caravan, searching for Sandor and Nan and Stranger.

Seeing their fellow travelers gathered around a corner of the place where they had settled at for the night, Sansa made her way towards them, and stopped dead as her eyes saw what they were all staring at. The body of a man lay broken on the ground, bloodied all over, his left arm twisted grotesquely. Sansa covered her mouth with her hands and turned around, only to find the wide chest of Sandor before her. Without a word, Sandor hugged her, and said, "I told you to wait for me."

"What happened to the man?" she asked him. He didn't answer. She raised her head from his chest to look at him, and saw the muscles of his neck tense as he gulped. She didn't think it possible, since Sandor wasn't even covered in blood, but just in case she said, "Did you do that?"

Sandor met her eyes and shook his head. "No, Stranger did."

Sansa drew a surprised intake of breath, and Sandor quickly told her everything that had happened. When he was done, they realized that the men considered to be the right hands of the caravan's leader were already kneeling beside the outlaw, trying to identify him. Why did this night have to end in bloodshed? She wondered, as the first signs of dawn appeared, the sun rising in the horizon.

"Mother Rhoyne save us!" one of the men said. "I think this is none other than Hagen Edar!"

A loud murmur started at that, and a baby began to cry in her mother's arms.

"The fabled outlaw? Come on, don't jest. Do you think Hagen Edar would be that easy to catch?"

"Well," said the man who'd spoken first, affronted that they didn't believe him. "Come and have a closer look yourself then. This man has the same description as the stories say of Edar, and he even has the black skull necklace on him. Look!"

"It's true," the crowd now started to exclaim excitedly. "You can't really see it because of all the blood, but this man is dressed all in black, and if you've heard the tales, you know Hagen Edar always dresses in black. I'm telling you fool, this is him!"

"And did you see the way he jumped into the charging horse?" a woman asked, with wide eyes. "I've never seen a crazier thing in my life. Byan Storm's horse had already killed Edar's dogs, but he actually kept his ground and tried to tame the beast. What other outlaw would do that? This is clearly mad Edar himself."

The leader of the caravan stepped forward towards the outlaw's body, with raised hands. "How many men did we lose?"

"Three. But one of the old men died when the first shouts of outlaws were heard. Another was that bastard who was always screaming at his wife; but his widow doesn't look too sorry because of that. We've counted the other bodies and there are five outlaws dead."

The leader nodded, with a solemn look on his face. He spared a look over at Sandor, standing behind Sansa, his hands on her shoulders, and said, "Whoever he is, we should hang him. Does anybody have a rope?"

"I think Edar himself had one. Oh, yes, look, here it is," said a young eager man, a bit older than Sansa.

"No," Sandor rasped, surprising Sansa and everyone else. She tried to catch his eyes, but he walked past her into the ring, "We shouldn't hang him at once. We should learn as much as we can from him. What if he knows where the next band of outlaws means to strike at us?"

"But, Byan, look at him," the leader declared. "Look at what your wonderful horse has done to him. He's practically dead already."

Sandor spared a look at the figure of the outlaw everyone believed to be Hagen Edar, before he rasped in a voice that sounded like two wood saws grinding together, "He isn't going to die. Stranger just left him unconscious. He looks like shit because of all the blood that's covering him, but I'm willing to bet he only has some bones broken."

"Well, since the outlaws abandoned Edar to his fate and it was your horse the one that saved us, we should do as you tell us. It's sensible advice… You–you don't think the outlaws will come to avenge themselves for their fallen leader and their dead?"

Sandor shook his head. "Not likely. The leader is the clever one among these groups, and now that they've lost him, they'll probably scatter to the four winds or hide away in some cave with their tails tucked between their legs."

The leader of the caravan patted Sandor on the back while the travelers cheered Stranger's name with beaming faces. Sansa was trying to adjust her mind to everything that had happened, not wanting to believe that Stranger was really able to leave a man so badly wounded. He scared me once, but he's been so gentle with me, and let me ride him up to the High City, and I can't believe he would be capable of doing that. Sansa decided that it was best if Sandor never knew she'd ridden Stranger twice on her own. He'll go on and on about it for ages.

The leader ordered the oldest women to clean up and try to heal the outlaw, while everyone else settled back to their campsites, repeating the details of the attack they'd just lived to their companions as if they hadn't been there as well.

Sansa and Sandor didn't feel like doing those things themselves. They walked silently over to the place where their horses were tied up, and were glad to see that in the commotion of the attack, their saddlebags had luckily been overlooked by the outlaws and were still beside the tree where they'd left them. Even their bedrolls had survived the bandits' raid.

As dawn broke on them and the darkness faded way, Sandor and Sansa mostly just sat on their bedrolls, their hands entwined and caressing each other, not really talking much. She had cleaned Sandor's wound and wrapped a new cloth around it, happy and proud of the progress of Sandor's injury healing.

Despite this, from time to time Sansa's eyes would shift to look at Stranger, who was standing as if nothing had happened beside her chestnut mare, and when Sandor told her that it would do no good if she started fearing the black horse again, she was brave enough to go pat Stranger's barrel, with Sandor standing protectively beside her.

Sansa longed for the caravan to set out at once and leave this beautiful lake, because she was eager for the event of the outlaws' attack to pass. She was sad that they had interrupted the wonderful moment she and Sandor had been sharing, but she took comfort recalling that at least the bandits hadn't made their appearance while they confessed their feelings to each other, or while they kissed. And at least that woman won't be bothered by her husband anymore.

An hour after the sun had risen, they heard that the outlaw was now coming back to consciousness. She and Sandor stood up quickly and made their way to the edge of the lake, where the old women were tending to the man thought to be Hagen Edar.

When they arrived, Sansa saw that, with the blood washed away from his face, the outlaw's looks were easy to distinguish. She gathered he was five-and-thirty, and that standing up he would be just a little taller than her. He had wiry blonde hair and dark eyes surrounded by crow's feet. Sansa did not find him handsome, but if she overlooked the broken nose, he was pleasant to look at.

"How is he?" she asked the old woman she had bought the cloths for her moonblood from.

"He isn't faring very well right now, but he'll be all right. He's got a broken rib, a broken arm, a broken nose and a purple eye for his troubles, but he'll live."

Sandor and Sansa stared down along with other travelers at Edar, who was now trying to shield his eyes against the brightness of the sun, while he looked confusedly around him.

When he tried to speak the first time, only a grunt of pain came out, and after trying four times, he at last managed to say in a weak voice that sounded strange due to the broken nose, "Oh, no, you're all peasants!"

Sansa blinked at that, and looked at Sandor, but his eyes never strayed from the bandit. He continued, "I–we thought you were merchants."

Sandor snorted, "Then you and your friends are fucking blind."

"But you come from Norvos, don't you?"

"We do. What of it, Edar? Do you only attack caravans out of Norvos?" The leader said, standing beside Sansa.

"I only attack merchant caravans out of Norvos," Edar corrected. "I'm sorry to learn that you were not one of them. Fuck, it was all for nothing."

"What was all for nothing?" Sansa heard herself asking.

"Everything," the bandit responded. "The attack; me getting beaten to death's door by a horse, and getting caught also."

"What difference does it make who you attack?" Sandor rasped suspiciously. "I don't suppose it makes much matter to you and the others who you kill, so long as you get what you came here to steal."

"That would be wrong, burned man," Edar replied, once again wincing as he shifted about on the grass. "If you had all been merchants, then not only would my friends be getting richer, but I would be getting closer to my goal."

"What goal?" the leader of the caravan asked.

"Since I do not mind the world learning about my enmity with that worm, I shall answer you truthfully. I ordered the attack upon your caravan because I believed that by attacking caravan after caravan of merchants trying to make their way from Norvos to Braavos, I would be able to provoke my enemy into leading a party to put an end to my provocations, but not before my blade killed him first!"

Sandor started to laugh as the leader replied, "Stupid little shit. You are going to get your heart's desire by that piece of information you just gave us. Tell us who is your enemy and we will send you to him, bound as our prisoner, and we'll collect the gold your head is worth."

It was Hagen Edar's turn to laugh. He did so as openly as he could, and then replied, "I doubt that the honourable worm would pay you a quarter of the gold you think I'm worth. He wouldn't bear to have his bloody honor tainted by having his city learn about his transactions with the likes of you and me."

Sansa started to grow uneasy as he revealed more and more clues about the identity of his enemy. The funny feeling in her tummy increased when Edar added, "Trust me, peasants. The High Magister is not going to pay you as handsomely as he has promised. I know Arman Nervere enough to be sure of that."

A/N: I hope you all had a great beautiful Christmas with your loved ones. Now the time has come to wish you all a Happy fantastic New Year, and I wish for you all tons of blessing on 2013! I thank you very much for reading my story, and I will keep my fingers crossed you all like what's going to happen to these two now :D