Author's Notes: And this is it, the end of another sansan fic… How come I ended up writing endlessly about these two, I will never know! I have a few older tales in need of some polishing and possible posting, but my fingers are itching to write other, different stories too. So we'll see…

Thank you all for joining me on this ride – I have enjoyed it thoroughly and I hope that so have you! I guess we can consider these two now to be even, eh?

Sansa really didn't want to look at him there, she truly didn't. She stared at the cloth on the floor and willed herself not to raise her eyes.

"Look at me."

That same serious tone. Sansa turned her head and carefully avoiding his manhood looked straight into the Hound's eyes. He always wanted me to look at him, that's all he ever asked. Why was it so hard then? His eyes caught hers and pulled her in and she felt herself sink into their depths. All the rage and mockery had left him and for the first time Sansa felt that she could see through his defences all the way to the core of this strange man. He blinked his eyes once, twice and swallowed hard.

"Look at me, Sansa."

Sansa understood then that he wanted more. He always wanted more. And by some curious power he held over her she submitted to him once again.

His manhood was big and jutted upwards from a thicket of dark hair, resting against his stomach unashamed and insolent. She couldn't really tell whether it was unusually big or not – she had heard giggles and japes about bigger being better but none of that really mattered at this moment. The vague recollections of Tyrion were pushed aside in Sansa's mind in front of this new reality. It is so ugly, she thought but forced herself to look again in any case. And was surprised.

Thick, straight, smooth, a faint web of veins circling the shaft, the end swollen and round yet a curious ridge of skin on the underside parting it in two. It was the most peculiar thing Sansa had ever seen and for a moment she forgot the situation and only marvelled at the strangeness of it. At the very end of she saw a small opening and a drop of clear fluid. No sooner had she spotted it that she became much too aware of the wetness in her own smallclothes, and hypnotised by that and the display on front of her she couldn't tear her eyes away from the Hound's…cock.

"Touch me." His voice was hardly a murmur.

Sansa couldn't believe her ears. She shot a look up at him and blushed deeply.

"I am not touching you, I told you so."

"Please."

Please? The Hound pleading at her? Sansa shook her head affirmatively. As fascinating as the sight of him was after she had gotten around her initial aversion, she couldn't imagine actually touching it. Although…the rounded head looked awfully smooth, unexpectedly so. She bit her lip, bewildered. What had she expected, scales?

"Your hair..." A deep growl, almost a sob.

Sansa couldn't explain why she felt so compelled to do as he begged but without a deliberate decision on her part she had already leaned above him, rising from the low seat she had slumped back on after undressing him. She closed her eyes and shook her head once more, feeling her long hair falling down on both sides of her face like a curtain. From the hissing sound and a moan she guessed it must have made contact with his flesh. Eyes tightly crunched shut she moved her head to the side, leaning forward just a bit more. The scent of him met her, a scent of a human body that should have made her wrinkle her nose and yet she inhaled it in. A hint of sweat, a hint of something she couldn't define but which reminded her of the last time she had been so close to him, when the sky had been green and the shrieks of dying had pierced the night.

The time before that also came to her and she took a deep breath and opened her eyes – and softly blew a gush of air down towards his manhood. So close up it was still the oddest thing she had ever cast her eyes at, but something in it appeared to her as vulnerable, bare.

"Fuck, girl!" Jangle of iron and muffled curse were followed by a thrust of his hips and Sansa scrambled back, stunned by his reaction. His member twitched and for a moment she was afraid of what she had just unleashed.

The man in front of her breathed fast as if struggling against an invisible foe. His eyes were closed, deep creases radiating from their corners, his brow was deeply furrowed and the grimace on his face was agony personified. Sansa stared at the sight astounded, not being able to reconcile this image of a man brought so low with the one who just a short while ago had taunted her and seemed so strong and confident.

Watching him shudder and writhe Sansa suddenly grasped fully what she was witnessing. Maybe it had not gone exactly the way she had expected, but here they were, the fierce Hound quivering in front of her - because of her. If she had wanted to make him feel helpless and weak in her hands, what she had just observed was more than a proof that her plan had been a resounding success. To get the final confirmation she bowed her head once again and exhaled towards his still twitching member – and was rewarded with a groan, a curse, a deep sigh and an uncontrolled buck of his hips.

"Gods, woman! Don't stop…just…don't…"

There was no mistaking it, he was begging. Despite the hotchpotch of emotions chasing each other in her head Sansa felt a surge of pride blooming inside her chest. She had done it!

She stood up, a new spring in her steps. The key she had spotted earlier was lying on the stone floor and she bent down to pick it up. Her hands were steady as she slotted it into the old lock; one turn, stiff and jerked, but she saw the chains released and knew that her task was done.

A few hasty steps and she pulled the counter lever and the horrible sound of iron screeching hastened her as she darted towards the door. And ran.

Petyr Baelish was angry the next day, his lips pressed together into a thin hard line. When Sansa asked him what was the matter, he only muttered something about intolerable brothers and refused to tell her more. She didn't press him further, relieved that her own involvement in the case didn't seem to have been discovered.

She saw groups of men riding out of the keep, one after another. Much later she saw many of those same groups returning, empty-handed. She guessed some were sent all the way to the Quiet Isle to wait for the return of their prisoner, and part of her rejoiced knowing that he was sure to be already far away in the other direction and their search would be fruitless.

For the whole morning Sansa simply refused to look back on the events of previous night, her denial made easier by the many chores she needed to attend to. When she had woken up, tired after another restless night, she had been horrified to face her own actions in the clear light of day. Had it been really she who had restrained the Hound, cut his clothes on him and revealed his nakedness to her eyes? Had she finally lost her mind – what on earth had made her do that?

However, avoidance worked only so far. After eventually finding it too hard to control her nerves under Petyr's observing eyes she retired to her room in the middle of the day pretending to feel unwell. The enormity of her actions, so unladylike and unkind, haunted her. And yet… somewhere behind her horror resided a small sense of satisfaction – she was ashamed of it but couldn't deny it either. She, Sansa Stark, a pretty little talking bird repeating pretty little words others had taught her to recite, had shown the big angry Hound how it felt to be subjugated against his will. There!

That in the end she had done his bidding she dismissed, deciding that it had been her own wish to strip him completely naked and torment him with her attention to…that part of him. The thought made her blush and she buried her face into the pillow and rolled over in her bed and felt once again the delirious feeling of being seized by something outside her control, being hot and cold and sweaty and shivering, all at once. When she closed her eyes she could see him; naked and hairy, powerful and vulnerable - and completely under her control. And his manhood…it hadn't been all that ugly after all. Sansa wondered what had made it look so different to Tyrion's, then how it would have felt to her touch - and then she shrieked and giggled out loud at the thought and clutched her pillow even harder.

After the evening meal, during which she was subdued and distracted by her thoughts and replied to Petyr's queries about her day only in monosyllabic sentences, she returned to her room. Despite her weariness she didn't rate her chances of falling asleep highly, and after some fruitless tossing and turning she got up, dressed and descended by now the familiar route into the old cell.

Inside everything was outwardly just like the previous night, bar of course the absence of its occupant. Only one torch shed its light to the chamber, its flickering light throwing deep shadows into the corners. Sansa sat down on the low stool and sighed. What had she expected to find here? The Hound returned, hunched against the wall – stretched on the bench – naked? She sent a silent prayer to the gods that his journey would be safe and he would find whatever he wanted to find. He hadn't told her where he was heading – a natural and understandable precaution – but had muttered something about the North. North, might be. Could be.

Suddenly Sansa wished she had left with him after all. Took her chances, wherever it might have led her. Forgot about Sweet-Robin, forgot about Petyr's plans, forgot about everything but the man who had promised to protect her and take her home. And now it is too late.

Absentmindedly she reached for one of the iron cuffs abandoned on the bench. He must had left them in a tangled heap in his haste, and Petyr's men had not wasted time putting them away as it had been blatantly obvious that their prey had flown the nest.

The bands were thick and wide, the wrist-cuffs heavy in her hands. She studied them, observing how the two half-circles were joined together on one side by a hinge with alternating knuckles with an iron bolt through them, and on the other side by two larger coils through which the heavy chain looped. After she had opened the lock and released the chains, all he had to do was to pull the chains through the coils to free himself.

Sansa furrowed her brow and turned the cuff in her hands, taking a closer look at it. Her heart started to palpitate and soon she reached for another, then the leg-cuff and its pair. Her mouth was dry as a parchment and heavy thumping of her heart against her ribcage made her feel dizzy. No, it can't be. It couldn't be.

And yet it was.

The chains were still as neatly looped through the coils as before, all four cuffs tightly secured on that side. However, the hinges were open, the bolts supposed to secure them having rusted through and broken into pieces leaving only the ends intact.

Cold sweat trickled down her forehead as she twisted and turned the iron objects, refusing to believe what they told her. He must have looped the chains back after he freed himself. Or Petyr's men must have done that. Even when she ran through those options in her mind she knew she was only fooling herself. Why would he have bothered, why men of the Vale would have cared? And those rusted pieces of bolts couldn't have kept a man of his size in check in any case.

The truth stared her in the face unambiguous and clear. He could have got up at any time. He was never bound and under my control. The reality of her discovery hit her hard and for a moment she felt like fainting. Bending down, resting her head in her hands and taking a few deep lungfuls of air eventually saw her strength restored.

He was free all that time when I was taunting him. She remembered the roil of muscles in his arms as he had – as she had thought – struggled against the chains. A mummer's play. Or maybe he struggled to lay still, not to give away how easily he could have ended it? But he hadn't – he had allowed her to cut his clothes, pierce his flesh and taunt him in the most reprehensible way…

For a moment Sansa felt sick. He could have gotten up at time, even in the state he was…He could have… The thought of all the things he could have done to her, she being there all alone, nobody knowing her whereabouts and the room secured so that her shouts for help would not have travelled far…But he had done nothing, not even when her blade had pricked his skin.

Why? Why had he let her do those things to him? Why hadn't he stopped her? Sansa was puzzled. Was she ever going to find it out? Was she ever going to see him again?

"I owed it to you. That and more." A quick sideways look from her erstwhile lord husband and a slow grin spread into his homely, scarred face. "And I was curious to see if you were going to pierce my guts in earnest as I deserved, little bird."

And so - after many years, after their world had turned upside down once more, after the ghosts from their past had been laid to rest and intimacy and trust had bloomed between unlikely lovers - Sansa finally had her answer.

THE END