Author's Notes: Sorry for the delay, I got…ummm…distracted by certain recent WWE events…

Once again many thanks for all who have read and commented! After this, only one more chapter to go!

As before Sansa knew exactly what she was doing and soon enough only the remnants of the fabric lay heaped around the Hound's legs. With alarm she noticed that despite leaving his smallclothes untouched she couldn't avoid seeing movement under them, a growing outline of something stiff and straight extending towards his belly. She knew what it was – she was not some silly young girl anymore, after all. What she couldn't understand was how he could be aroused at a time like this. Was he truly? How was it possible? She knew some things about men but not much. People spoke more freely in the presence of a bastard girl than with a lady and she had heard many lewd and ribald tales about men and their inclinations – but not enough to solve the riddle almost literally staring her in the eye.

As before, she stared at his prone body with curiosity. Thickset thighs, legs pulled slightly apart by the binds securing him. Hair, hair, once again hair everywhere. Every angle and line looked exaggerated and hard, unyielding. There wasn't anything soft in him, only hard planes and bony outlines and firm skin tightly pulled across strong muscles, not a visible layer of fat anywhere. The shadows thrown by the torchlight danced on his skin, weaving their whimsical shapes here and there.

"Take it all off, why don't you? You know you want to. You have seen cocks before, haven't you? The Imp's – was it as grotesque as the rest of that vile dwarf? I bet it was but you were a dutiful wife for him anyway, of that I am sure. Opening your legs and letting him fuck you as a lady should. Tell me, did you close your eyes and dream of the Knight of Flowers, little bird?" The Hound's tone was bitter and mocking but Sansa tried to ignore it.

"How about Littlefinger's, is it as little as the nickname suggests? That mummer's play about you being his daughter, even a blind septon sees through that. He was leering at you already back in King's Landing – but you knew that, didn't you? Is that how you got him to rescue you after you killed that little shit of a king? Not that I care about that, mind you. Quite the opposite; well done, girl."

Shutting her ears didn't work and the Hound's vile accusations against her made Sansa's blood boil. How did he dare to pretend to know anything about her; her unconsummated marriage to Tyrion or Petyr's plans for her, plans which required her to be able to proof her maidenhood to the Faith in due course? He was just a hateful man, thinking everyone to be as horrid as he was!

"Shut your mouth, just shut it. You know nothing," she hissed at him, angry for real, momentarily even forgetting the obscene sight of his manhood in the constraints of the fabric.

"I know enough. I know that I am lying here trussed like a pig to slaughter, with Lady Sansa fucking Stark ripping clothes off my body. Never took you for a lusty wench, little bird. Or if not lusty, then revengeful."

How was it possibly when she was the one with control, having him shackled so securely that the only thing he could move was his head and his filthy mouth, he still seemed to have an upper hand? Sansa pressed the blade harder on his thigh, where it had stayed forgotten after the last cut.

"Go on, make me bleed. You need more force, press the tip harder," he growled and she did as he bid. A bright red drop of blood emerged from where the tip pricked his skin and she observed it in a trance-like state, and others that followed. So beautiful, so bright, drop after drop, soon smeared into the ever-present hair on his thigh. How was it possible for a man to be so hairy, she didn't know. He was truly a dog, a hound, a wild animal.

Without a conscious thought she lifted the tip of the blade to her lips. Sharp, coppery taste, hint of iron. She closed her eyes. She had tasted it before – on the night of the Blackwater. After he had left her room she had stared at her hand, stick with his blood – and something else. Something wet, something like water – but when she had tentatively licked the tip of her finger she had recognised the saltiness. The taste I knew too well by then.

Waking up from her reverie she put the blade down, embarrassed. Following the trail of blood again as it trickled down the side of his leg she noticed a deep gash and puckered skin; yet another wound. Many scars, old and new, covered his chest, shoulders and arms, but this was worse than the others – even the angry burn on his forearm. A big chunk of flesh had been eaten away, leaving only undulating skin and tightly pulled flesh stretched across the hollow dent.

Suddenly Sansa felt ashamed. He was crude and coarse, that much was true, but was it a wonder? His face and the uncounted other signs of his past life mapped his body and told his story as clearly as if read out loud. This was a man whose life had been marred by hardship and cruelty and yet he had once been kind to her – in his own way. And here she was, cutting into him.

She put the blade aside and wearily wiped her forearm across her face. Luckily she had only succeeded in nicking him slightly, the trickle of blood already halting. Sansa let her gaze travel down all the way to his ankles covered with iron cuffs. She had indeed never seen anyone as big and strong, bar his brother the Mountain – but that thought made her shudder in disgust. To wipe away the image of the monster she looked at the Hound again, all the way from his toes to the top of his head, only to be taken aback by the expression on his face. His eyes were half-closed and his mouth slightly open. His breathing was uneven and ragged, but his gaze did not drop when her eyes met his.

Never seen anyone so strong – and unlikely to see ever again. Myranda Royce's breathless giggles, all a woman needs is a man that can carry her and hold her and fuck her like there's no tomorrow came to Sansa. Her friend had always ogled after the soldiers of the Vale, the bigger and stronger the better. Randa would have a field day with him, she sighed and sat down on a low stool next to her victim, drained of all energy. Her plan of trying to intimidate him felt foolish and childish. Trying to give the Hound a lesson, what utter stupidity!

Her shoulders slumped and she lowered her head, staring at her hands and the useless dagger still dangling in them. What had she thought, what madness had taken over her? She was supposed to bring him clothes and something to defend himself with, unlock his cell and chains and the door to the bailey, then leave. He had saved her life once – or twice if Sansa was honest to herself, remembering the day when Joffrey had forced her to look at her father's head on the spike – and all she had meant to do was to return the favour. And yet…

As horrified as she had been at the thought of someone setting eyes on her most private parts she had let him to do just that. The heat had travelled from her chest down to her core, and despite having been tense as a bowstring she had spread her legs and allowed his gaze to penetrate her secret place, feeling wetness that had been all new to her.

Later Sansa had learned what it signified, and it had come back to her on those restless nights when the memory of that incidence had haunted her dreams. Wetness, and an odd sensation in her woman's parts that only gave respite when she rubbed her thighs together – but even that was only temporary and the stirring came back twice as bad after that. She had not known what to do and in the end her only recourse had been to get up and walk around her room, reciting to herself the tasks she needed to do the next day. Dull, unexciting chores that however soothed her mind so that she could get back to her bed and sleep.

Maybe it was no wonder that the Hound had reacted as he did, Sansa understood then. And blushed. And bowed her head even lower and panicked. He must not see that I know.

Pretending confidence she most certainly did not feel she stood up and glanced across the cell, trying to locate where she had dropped the key to the chains. It was not too late, she could still let him free. And pray he would not attack her for her impudence. Maybe if she only opened the lock and let him to untangle himself free on his own, she would have time to dash through the door and run away before he could catch her?

Spotting the rusty key on the floor where she had dropped it Sansa took a tentative step towards it before being halted by his voice.

"Little bird."

He spoke low, but rather than angry or mocking he sounded solemn and serious. Sansa wanted to ignore it and do as she had planned but something in his tone made her stop. Yet she didn't look at him, still lying prone on the bench only in his smallclothes, the visual clues of his disturbing state still obvious.

"Why not finish what you started?"

Sansa jumped. He can't mean…

All she wanted to do was to forget that any of this had happened, that she had been this stupid and vengeful. She wanted to run away to her room and burrow herself deep under the covers and close her eyes and… what? Dream? Let her mind wander far away from her cage of pretend-care by her pretend-father? Imagine something else; feelings and emotions and strange sensations she would have never been exposed to except for…

"You want to pay back what I did to you. Can't blame you. I just stood there when they beat you – and did worse myself."

Rattle of chains, a huff.

"I deserve everything you have coming for me."

Sansa shook her head in confusion. Something was not right. The Hound she had known could not be asking to be humiliated like this. He could not be asking for his punishment from her. She stood where she had stopped, unable to move back or forth.

"Little bird…" Low, rasping, taunting.

Sansa swayed on the spot. That voice… his eyes. She had actually never realised that they took on a darker grey when he was really, really serious.

She turned to face him. None of his current predicament could diminish the sway he still had over her. She was not a scared little girl nor a prisoner of a court anymore. She had grown, she had become a woman. And the woman in her was curious, much more than the lady should have been.

And so she approached him once again, unable to help it. Like then, when he had wordlessly asked her. And as then, she could not refuse him this time either.

Hands shaking Sansa reached for the ties of his smallclothes, which were simple peasant-style, only one piece of cloth brought together on the sides with cords. Her nimble fingers made a quick work of them and as soon as she started to tug at the fabric the Hound let out a shuddering gasp and pushed his hips up thus making it easy for her to pull the cloth away.