A/N: I still don't own Game of Thrones, or anything related to it, unfortunately, but I do present you with the new chapter of this story! Warning: graphic sexual themes take place in this chapter, so feel free to skip to the next chapter if that is not your cup of tea. If you're sticking around for the ride, then I hope you enjoy the read!

Two letters can be awfully difficult to sound out when a person is presented with the offer of a lifetime. These two specific letters nearly choked the Hound, catching in his suddenly dry throat, and he was rendered speechless. The silence was heavy, hot, nearly palpable as he stared incredulously at the young girl standing before him, her head held high and confident. She looked at him with a steady gaze, daring him to refuse her order. Those Tully blues were what the Hound focused on, resisting the urge to look at her soft curves and wet, transparent smallclothes.

"No," the Hound finally declared, his voice firm and flat, gaze unwavering. Sansa pouted at his reply, her plump lower lip begging to be bitten, and she looked utterly unsurprised of the rejection.

"That wasn't a request, it was an order," she stated, toying with the ends of her wet hair. First the Hound scoffed at her, but then he laughed. Her sultry eyes suddenly burned with irritation, believing him to be mocking her, and he laughed again, a bitter bark.

"Since when do you give me orders, little bird? Don't be a fool, change into dry clothing before you worsen the infection in your leg," he said, an infuriating smirk twisting at his lips. Sansa wanted very much to slap the smirk off his face, her cheeks burning with embarrassment as he not only refused her but mocked her as well. Her hands curled into fists at her sides.

"You will sit in that chair right now," she said. But this time her voice didn't carry the same seductive commandment as it did the first time she'd given the order. Her words were quieter, more casual, as if she'd asked him to hand her a book.

"Oh, but I won't," the Hound replied, that smirk still on his face, appearing almost amused at the situation. He crossed his arms over his broad chest and leaned against the wall. Bronn's snoring was muffled and steady on the other side of the wall, reminding him that there was another drunken fool to take care of. Between the two of them, he wasn't sure which would get him killed first. At least, he wasn't until Sansa reached up and untied the fabric around her chest, letting the ruined shreds fall to the floor without a second glance. She was most definitely going to be the end of his life. Her shoulders were pushed back confidently, and she tilted her head to one side with an imploring look, easily meeting his eyes. His heart accelerated, pounding in his chest like a war drum, and he couldn't resist the temptation of lowering his gaze this time. The room was only dimly lit with the yellow glow of the lantern on the desk, but her full breasts, stained with wine and blood, invited more than just his eyes. Her nipples were hard, standing attentively upon the supple skin, and he swore his soul left his body when Sansa slowly brought her hands up, giving them a feathery graze of her fingers. He couldn't speak or move, frozen with burning lust and crippling desire, eyes lifting from her offering to meet her gaze. He wanted her more than she would ever know, had wanted her for quite some time. But it would be an absolute sin to taint such perfection. It wasn't possible that she'd actually desire him; no woman in her right mind would. There was no ignoring the scars and mangled skin. Not to mention, he was merely a crude, beastly knight while she was destined to be a queen. The Hound did not budge from his stubborn position, though the smirk had dissipated and the amusement in his eyes was replaced with warning. Sansa didn't heed his warning, wasn't affected by his refusal to move, or react; her fingers curled around the elastic of her panties tantalizingly.

"Enough. Stop it, Sansa. Put some damn clothes on," the Hound snapped, void of all humor and teasing. His response seemed to light a fire within her; she stiffened, gaze hardening, and she deliberately disobeyed him. She slid the silk down those long, slender legs of hers, the legs he'd fantasized wrapped around his waist many a night and kicked it at him. The Hound groaned and shut his eyes, letting his head fall back against the wall as he pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn't feel right leaving her wet, drunk, and naked in this godforsaken room where anyone could come waltzing in and take advantage of her, but he also didn't feel right being the one to stand there in such intimacy.

"Don't tell me what to do. I'm so sick of everyone telling me what to do." Her words were so soft and quiet he almost wasn't sure if she'd even spoken them aloud.

"Every moment of every day, I am acting and speaking as I am expected to do. I chirp those pretty little pleasantries that you love to mock me for, attend every sickening meeting held in the Keep, standby silently as my fiancé abuses every living creature that crosses his path. Oh yes, my fiancé. The man I remain engaged to even though he's slaughtered my innocent father and threatens the rest of my family every waking moment – because that is what I am told to do. I say such horrible things about my father, awful words I don't believe in, to please my fiancé. I dress in the Lannister colors and fashion, as I am expected to do, and I never step a single toe out of line for fear of my life and the lives of my surviving family members."

Sansa's voice was sad but steady, and she crossed the small room to grab the wooden chair and pull it from the desk, facing it towards him. She bent over the back of the chair, crossing her arms atop it, and arched her back prettily, her breasts pressing against the wood. The Hound knew his body was betraying him; his cock throbbed painfully against his pants, hot and hard. There were many things he wanted to do to Sansa Stark, and not a single one was sweet and innocent. She deserved sweet and innocent.

"Sometimes I forget who I am, doubt my very existence. I don't dare to create my own identity or live as myself. Joffrey makes sure of that. He crushes my happiness into a miserable, bitter powder and blows it back into my face, and then tells me who to be if I want to live. I don't think I really do want to, anymore; live. What's the point, truly? There's only one thing I want, and it cannot be taken from me." Her lovely eyes lifted to meet his own that were very adamantly focused on her face and not her perfect body.

"You. I want you, Sandor. For the first time in too long, I'm doing and acting how I want to. I'm speaking freely." Sansa licked her lips and looked down at the damned chair.

"Sandor…I – I feel things I cannot explain toward you. I don't know what any of it means because nobody has ever told me…what to feel and why it happens. These…feelings are new to me. It's like there's a pool of heat in my -,"

"Don't speak. Stop talking," Sandor interrupted roughly. He scowled at the wall behind her, unable to tolerate her words of confusing desire. He certainly wasn't going to stand there and educate her about sex and what it entailed, let alone explain to her how it felt to be horny. She'd only heard crass speak amongst classless men and assumed what they'd meant; the girl was clueless. His lungs were still fighting for air after her previous admissions, and now she was expressing senseless desire. The girl was out of her mind, drunk; she'd never say such things sober. Sansa's mouth had fallen open in surprise at his frustrated command and now she clamped it shut.

"I just poured my heart out to you," she murmured, eyes suddenly drifting down at the chair demurely.

"Trust me, I heard you. I never asked you to do so; in fact, I told you more than once to shut your mouth and do the smart thing – get dressed and go to bed," the Hound growled, wanting to hurt her feelings, wanting to crush her childish, dreamy ideas right out of her skull so that she would hate him and abandon the forbidden thoughts she carried. He wanted to scare her, drive her so far away from him that she wouldn't even remember his name. He wanted to protect her from himself, the nightmare of his presence; he was poison that she didn't deserve to consume. But it seemed that the harder he pushed, the harder she pulled.

"Sit in the chair." Almost a plead. Words laced with frustration and stupidity.

"I said no, get it through your thick skull, child! Accept the fact that life isn't fair and never will be; princesses don't always get what they want. Don't you understand the danger you're putting yourself in? The stupidity of this entire situation?" the Hound hissed, resisting the urge to raise his voice; the last thing he wanted was to alert anyone of Sansa's state and his current whereabouts. But Sansa apparently didn't care like he did.

"Why do you refuse me?" she shouted, voice breaking. Her eyes filled with tears as she straightened her posture away from the chair, hugging herself tight with shame. The Hound did hate himself. Especially tonight.

"Quiet. You're drunk, little bird. Welcome to the beauty of wine," he replied bitterly.

"Hardly! What does it matter? I speak the truth. Do you not…desire me? Am I not good enough for you?" Her tearful voice was too loud in the small room and aggravated him. He was becoming impatient and was through with her stubbornness, though her words stabbed him.

"It matters," the Hound mumbled, looking down. "People say and feel things they normally wouldn't when they're drunk. I promise, you will thank me tomorrow when you realize what I've saved you from."

Sansa let out a bitter, unbelieving laugh.

"Oh, please. I've never felt freer, never been more honest than right now. What could you possibly think you're saving me from?" She swiped angrily at the few tears that had escaped her lash-lines.

"I'm saving you from ruin, you stupid girl!" the Hound snarled. The look on Sansa's face was positively murderous, a hot, twisted rage that flamed her face.

"It's too late for that. I was ruined the moment Joffrey took his first step out of his carriage into Winterfell. Do you believe it is fair for Joffrey to steal my maidenhead, after he's already stolen everything else from me? To give him another piece of myself against my will? I don't want him, I want you!" she whispered angrily, the new volume and tone more significant than any shouted word could've been. The Hound had nothing more to say to her. He was in anguish; he wanted nothing more than to take her right then and there, whether it be on the chair, in the bed, or even on the floor like the dog he was. But the rational part of himself nagged that she was a maiden, and if she threw away such a precious piece of herself on scum such as himself, she would never find happiness. Nobody worth her while would take her; she'd be shipped off to some old, lonely pervert of a high class, maybe a lord. He'd give her the most pathetic fuck of her life, an emotionless, weak pounding and she would lay there on her back, taking his seed until it filled her insides and created life, an heir to take over whatever forgettable land her lord ruled. She would never know anything of love or passion.

The Hound heaved a tired, irritated sigh and looked at her, truly looked. Wasn't she already in that position? She would never know anything of love or passion while married to Joffrey if she even survived long enough to provide him with a spawn. Nothing made sense. There was no happy ending for Sansa and they both knew it, only Sansa was crazy enough to speak it into existence. By the time her brother succeeded in his mission, it would be too late. Sansa would be dead, ruined, or pregnant. There was no time to save her, and that was what angered the Hound the most. He wanted to save her, but he couldn't. Not unless…Not unless he took her away, far away. He would have to put them on the run, risk her life and his own, to get her back to the North where her family and allies could protect her. It almost seemed plausible. It was absolutely insane, but maybe, just maybe it could work. The Hound wouldn't speak a word of his sudden idea to Sansa; she would run with it, and he couldn't have that. He couldn't risk her endangering herself. No, he needed to flesh this out and put time and thought into it. An idea like this needed a careful plan.

Sansa was through with the silence. She'd had her fill of rejection, refusal, and commands, and she would not tolerate it any longer. Here she stood, naked and bare to the man of her desire, in a small, private, quiet room while the rest of the ship slept in drunken stupor too far away to hear them. The only person nearby was Bronn, unconscious outside her door. But at this point, having spilled every confession and feeling to Sandor, she didn't care about the possibility of the drunk man awakening. He could watch, for all she cared. The only thing she cared about in this moment was the overwhelming heat that ate away at her intimate regions, the dampness between her thighs, the stickiness of her naked body. The Hound was silent and refusing to look at her, appearing deep in thought, exhaustion furrowing his brows, but Sansa saw his desire for her, the hardened bulge of his pants. It was far larger than Joffrey's had been, and she found herself aching for it, to grind against it and relieve the painful tightness she felt down below.

She didn't provide the Hound with a request to refuse or a plead to be scoffed at; she crossed the room so quickly and with such determination that he'd only had time to blink in surprise as she pressed her naked form to his clothed one. She fisted his shirt tightly in her hands, arching her breasts against his body, and looked up at him with heated stubbornness. He was so much taller than her; he towered above her, his cock not aligned with her intimacy like Joffrey's had been, but instead bulged against her stomach. The look of intense, fierce desire crossed Sandor's face and no matter how hard he tried to cover it, she'd already seen it.

"You don't want this, little bird, I promise." His voice was husky with longing, his body unmoving, hands stoically still at his sides.

"And I promise that you would never believe how much I truly do want it," Sansa whispered, looking up at him with a silent beg for approval and acceptance. He groaned, closing his eyes when Sansa took his calloused hand and brought it to her breasts, curving his fingers to cup one in his hand. And then the Hound was unleashed.

Sandor squeezed her breast, her hand still aligned with his own, and brushed his thumb along the hardened nipple, watched as relief and bliss fluttered across her features.

"Please, Sandor," she whimpered, her hand tightening against his, forcing it to squeeze harder. He smiled darkly and leaned down, nudging his nose along her temple, the wet hair framing her face smelling of wine.

"Please what, little bird? I'm touching you, like you wanted," he murmured innocently, sliding his palm to her other breast, out of the grip of her hand. His gaze didn't leave her flushed face, watched her trembling lips part as she drew in a shaky breath.

"More…I need more," Sansa begged, writhing against him as he massaged her breast, the movement rubbing his cock along her stomach.

"Like what? What do you want, Sansa Stark?" He suddenly cupped her face in his hands and tilted her head back, forcing her to look at him. She was so beautiful in the dim light, face and neck flushed, pupils dilated, her fiery hair down and free of braids and twists. There was no shyness in those pretty eyes, no uncertainty in the way she pressed against him. Just raw, unabashed desire.

"Make me feel good, Sandor," Sansa said, the words coming out as a breathless order. She didn't need to say anything else; one moment she was standing before him begging to be touched, and then he was scooping her up with one arm beneath her ass, spinning her around to pin her against the wall. Sansa gasped, immediately wrapping her arms around his neck, long legs around his waist. His free hand traced down her throat, between her breasts, down her stomach, a slow, agonizing drift until the tips of his fingers reached her pelvic mound, soft with light red hair. Her chest rose and fell quickly, heavily, eyes watching his hand meet an intimate part of herself that nobody had ever fondled, not even by her own hand.

"Is this where you feel so hot, little bird?" Sandor rasped, tilting his head down to mouth at the area connecting her neck to her shoulder. Her head rolled to the side, giving him more access. His mouth was so warm, his tongue swirling the skin before suckling it deep. With Joffrey, it had hurt, his teeth had dug into her flesh, and he hadn't soothed it. But Sandor made it feel so unbelievably good. He would nibble the skin and soothe the spot with his tongue, trailing wetly across her collarbone, slow, steady, unrushed. The heat flared deep in her groin, stirring the almost painful ache she'd described earlier.

"Gods, yes," Sansa barely managed to vocalize, eyes closing as his lips wrapped around one of her nipples. He didn't seem to care that she was a mess; he explored every inch of skin exposed to him, wine stains and blood be damned, and for some reason that knowledge fueled her lust. She gave a single rock of her hips forward, a bump to his torso, uttering a whine as he continued to patiently taste and ravish her breasts, throat, collarbone, anything he could reach. Without a word, Sandor dragged the rough tip of one of his large fingers along the slit of her core before delving between the slick folds and entering her, gently and slowly pushing in and out with half his finger, no further past his knuckle. The small simple action drew a loud, immoral moan from Sansa's throat, the sound nearly killing Sandor as it was even better than he'd ever dreamt. Still, his dark eyes flitted to the door.

"Quiet…Bronn is on the other side of this wall," he said, purposely withdrawing his hand, sliding it instead along her hip and leg, kneading into the muscle. He smirked as she writhed against the wall, trying so hard to rock her pelvis against him but failing as he leaned back.

"I don't care. Don't stop," she commanded, one arm leaving his neck to grip his exploratory hand, shoving it between her legs again. He laughed, quietly, stroking the area with the lightness of a feather, brushing his fingertips so gently though the soft hair. Her hand gripped his wrist, urging his fingers closer to her destination, her other hand tangled almost painfully tight in his hair.

"If you insist," the Hound practically purred, sliding his finger back inside of her, to his knuckle yet again. The gasping, pleasured little breaths she emitted encouraged him to pick up a steady rhythm, in and out, shallowly, until he felt that she was relaxed enough for more, and thrust his finger all the way in. Sansa's body reflexively shuddered and rocked against his hand, leaning forward to nestle her face against his neck. Her soft lips brushed tentatively against his skin, the action causing goosebumps to scatter over his flesh, and her tongue mimicked the swirls and suckles he'd given her moments ago. Sandor carefully slid a second finger through her folds, pushing in and out with the same steady rhythm, and Sansa bit down against his neck, her moan muffled by his skin and muscle.

"You'll leave a mark if you bite that hard," Sandor warned, curling his two fingers upward inside of her to nudge the sensitive little bud nestled within. She gasped at the sensation, any remark she might've had dying on her lips as he continued to stroke her clitoris with his wet, rough fingers.

"Oh, oh gods," Sansa whimpered. She found that she couldn't formulate a sentence as his fingers continued to caress her new favorite spot, and she bounced lightly against his hand, forcing the fondling to hit more directly, stronger, and the action gave her a dizzying wave of something she'd never felt before, stealing her breath away. It felt like something was building up inside of her, hot and coiling. But then Sandor withdrew his hand before Sansa could discover what was beyond that wave and she protested against his neck, nipping at his throat unhappily. His laughter rumbled against her mouth.

"You're going to learn what pleasure is, no coming just yet little bird," Sandor said, an amused grin on his face.

"Coming where?" Sansa asked naively as he carried her to the bed as though she weighed nothing. Her question made him laugh and she glared at him as he set her down on the mattress.

"I'll show you what coming means, don't worry," Sandor promised. She watched without shame when he undressed, eyes exploring every ridge of muscle that lined his broad chest and shoulders, every scar of various sizes and stages of healing. His clothing was tossed unceremoniously to the floor piece by piece, until he was just as naked as she, and her eyes locked onto his erect cock, a smile tugging at her lips.

"It's bigger than Joffrey's," Sansa commented, having once heard that men take pride in the size of their cocks. But the comment only made Sandor laugh again, this time so loud that she swatted his hip to quiet him.

"I would certainly hope so," Sandor replied, still chuckling as he knelt at the end of the bed. She gazed at him hungrily from where she lay against the pillows, propping herself up on her elbows, and let her legs fall open to show Sandor exactly where she wanted his focus. But he'd always taken joy in teasing her, pushing her buttons while feigning innocence, and it didn't stop in the bedroom. He sat back against his heels and took of her legs in his hands, curled his fingers around the stocking at her knee and slowly began tugging it down. As the stocking rolled agonizingly slow from her limb, Sandor's mouth left a trail of hot kisses in its wake, from her knee down to her toes, Sansa watching with heated curiosity, her clitoris throbbing. Sandor took the next leg and started to do the same to this one, but then paused, raising his lips from her knee.

"Touch yourself," he said, a simple and quiet command, glancing from the wetness between her legs to the confused, embarrassed look on her face.

"Wh-What do you mean?" she asked, face flushing. He trailed his tongue down her leg, continuing to unravel the stocking.

"You know exactly what I mean. Do it. Take your fingers and stroke your pussy while you wait for me," Sandor said, a crude smirk against her leg. Sansa's mouth dropped open as she began to protest, but Sandor sat back and gave her a hard, serious look.

"Sansa, if your fingers are not knuckle deep within your pussy in the next five seconds, I'm going to punish you," he said patiently. She stared at him, bewildered.

"Punish me?" she stammered, licking her lips.

"One," Sandor counted, his gaze traveling the naked, perfect body sprawled before him.

"But -,"

"Two."

"Do it for me," Sansa pleaded, hands curling into the sheets.

"Three."

One elbow still propping her up so she could see Sandor, Sansa removed the other arm from the mattress and slowly reached between her legs, embarrassed. Her fingers hesitantly stroked the sensitive skin, sliding into the wetness, petting the inner walls with a timid curiosity. She'd never touched herself, had never even thought of doing it. But now she was laying naked on this bed, legs wide open for Sandor, her fingers slowly exploring as he watched.

"Four," Sandor continued, his eyes heavy on her hand. Sansa closed her eyes and slipped a finger inside. She imitated what Sandor had done to her against the wall, pushing the digit in and out, slowly, and lightly at first, but then picking up a steady pace as confidence settled in. Her pleasured breaths were audible to the Hound as he watched her, her second finger joining the first and she thrust a little harder, her cheeks now colored for a different reason. He went back to her leg, taking his time with removing the stocking, his lips chasing the garment until it was finally removed.

"You can stop now," Sandor said, pushing her legs further apart as he moved up the bed to hover over her. He brushed her hair from her glistening face.

"Maybe I don't want to," she breathed, giving him a heady look and a wicked smile that went straight to his cock.

"Maybe I don't care what you want," he said, taking her wrist and pulling it away from her pussy, delighted by the disappointment on her face. She watched as he brought her hand to his mouth and slid the two fingers that had once been inside of her into his mouth, suckled them clean. Her heart skipped a beat.

"Why did you do that?" Sansa asked, tracing her palm down his firm torso when he freed it. Her fingers explored his torso with great interest, squeezing the hard muscle, leaning up to trace scars with her tongue, breath hot on his skin. He cupped the back of her head, holding her face to his body as she lapped at a sensitive spot on his hip, eyes fluttering closed.

"Because I'm a dog, remember?" he mocked. Her soft, warm lips teased the skin above his cock, making it twitch with anticipation, and she wrapped her fingers around it to his profound pleasure.

"Then act like it," Sansa said mischievously. Her hand rolled around his cock, inexperienced and unsure of what to do with it to make him feel good. Her innocence was endearing and amused him; he took her hand and silently guided it up and down.

"What do you mean by that?" Sandor asked, eyes glued to her hand gliding up and down his cock, understanding dawning her face. She pumped it in her warm fist, in and out, a tantalizing rhythm, her eyes glancing up at his for approval. He brushed his thumb across her nipples in silent approval, his chest rising and falling quicker with each breath, pleasure clouding his eyes.

"I mean…Well, I heard – um," Sansa stammered, cheeks coloring. Her rhythm quickened with her embarrassment, and he rocked his hips into the pace of her fist with a quiet groan.

"Speak your mind, girl," he said impatiently, squeezing her breast as she stroked him. He lowered himself down, bearing some of his weight onto her as she continued to stroke, and dragged a nipple into his mouth, rolling it around his tongue, between his teeth until she gasped.

"I – I heard that sometimes a man will kiss a woman's…Well, kiss down there, and that it feels really good. I thought that maybe since your fingers felt so good, I don't know, I thought maybe if you kissed my…my intimacy, it might feel just as good," Sansa stuttered, struggling to express her ideas while maintaining her famous modesty. She heated darker upon seeing the wicked grin spread across Sandor's face as he lifted his head from her breasts.

"I see. Sansa Stark wants the Hound to lap away at her pretty little pussy," Sandor teased dirtily, sitting up between her legs. He nearly laughed at the scandalized look on her face, but choked on that laugh when her eyes narrowed and drilled into him as she said,

"Yes, that's what I'm saying, dog. Follow your orders and put your tongue inside of me. I want to see what it feels like."

Sandor palmed his cock, throwing her a devilish smirk.

"What a sinful little bird. I'll do this for you, on my terms," he said. She crossed her arms over her breasts and lifted a brow suspiciously. He leaned forward and pulled her arms away from her breasts, dragged his tongue over one.

"You'll do as I say, no questions. And I'll show you what a good dog I can be," he said, nipping at her collarbone.

"Do as you say? Aren't you supposed to be the dog, not I?" she complained, tugging his head back to her breasts. He gladly accommodated the silent request, lavishing the sensitive skin to her murmured approval.

"Do we have a deal?" he asked, ignoring her questions. His kisses had started traveling down her chest and stomach, approaching her pelvis as she watched hazily.

"Alright, fine," Sansa sighed, curling her fingers into his hair as his tongue traced her hip bones. He smirked against her skin.

"Good. Now roll over and get on your hands and knees, facing the wall not me," he ordered. She barely managed to give him a bewildered look before his hands were gripping her hips and flipping her over onto her stomach. She spluttered noises of confusion and mild protest, and he grabbed her by the hips again, tugging her until she complied, supporting herself on her hands and knees on the mattress, facing the head of the bed.

"Did you not understand when I said to do as I say without question?" he asked.

"Well, I just feel ridiculous, this is -,"

Her words were cut off with a loud gasp as he smacked her ass – not hard, but not gentle.

"Sandor!" she exclaimed, glancing over her shoulder to shoot him a glare.

"That's what you get for not listening to me. Now stay like this and don't turn around or look back anymore," he explained patiently, rubbing the skin he'd smacked to soothe the sting. Muttering under her breath, Sansa obeyed and faced the headboard again, body tense. He slid closer to her and then laid down on his back, sliding himself back until he was positioned perfectly below her hips. It was a lovely sight that made his cock twitch and he stroked himself with one hand, his other hand palming her hips, her thighs, curving around to her ass. He massaged the muscles, relaxing the tension created by anticipation, and then wrapped his hands around her lower back, gently bringing her a little closer to his face.

Sansa shivered as she suddenly felt his warm breath against her intimate area, closing her eyes as he placed hot, open-mouthed kisses against her inner thighs, higher and higher until…

Sansa cried out as the Hound's tongue slid inside of her, hot, wet, stroking her inner walls with the perfect amount of pressure she hadn't ever considered. His fingers dug into her hips, a warning to quiet down, but she didn't care. All she could think about, focus on, was his tongue exploring her wetness, sliding in and out, curving up and down. He said he'd lap away at her and that was what he did. He practically drank her into his own being, sucking and nipping at sensitive skin, tracing her entire area of intimacy with deep tongue strokes and hot kisses. She was moaning, louder and louder as he tongued her deeper and deeper, and the Hound realized he didn't care whether Bronn heard or not, either. His tongue flicked at her clitoris, and she let out a quiet cry as he did it again. And again. She'd started settling back on her heels, squatting over his face instead to get better depth, her hands pressed against the wall to keep her balance. She bounced lightly on the balls of her feet, living for the way his tongue thrusted through her, penetrating over and over. She was practically seeing stars, her chest heaving with panting breaths. Sandor pulled her hips down until she was fully seated against his mouth, straddling his face, and then his tongue lapped steadily at her clitoris, rolling it side to side, giving it a deep suckle in between laps. Sansa was aware that she was crying out, the desperate noises echoing in the small room, her hands against the wall the only thing preventing her from collapsing face-first into the pillows. She ground herself against his mouth, his beard scratching so pleasantly at the skin, the stubble rubbing in rhythm with each lick.

The feeling from earlier returned, the sensation of something strong and hot coiling in her groin. Her vision was spotting in the edges, dizziness gripping at her mind as tightly as she gripped the wall. She felt like she couldn't breathe, couldn't control her movement as she rocked her hips against his face faster, forcing him to penetrate her deeper, forcing his mouth to take her in. As he sucked her clitoris in between his lips again, the coiling within exploded and she felt wave after wave of a sort of release. She was crying out, loudly and intensely, the fierce burst of pleasure driving her nearly to sobbing as her thighs tightened around his head. Her body trembled as his tongue passionately continued to stroke her through her first orgasm, vaguely aware of a burst of wetness suddenly squirted from her as she grunted with the effort of her intimacy contracting, the wetness splashing against the Hound's mouth, soaking into the sheet around his head. He licked her clean and she struggled to keep balance until the Hound was suddenly sliding back until he was equal to her body. His arms wrapped around her waist and tugged her down so that she was lying against his chest, her intimacy quivering uncontrollably as she panted for air. He smoothed her sweaty hair from her face. She felt warm, sleepy and pleasant, the best she'd felt in a long time, and she opened her eyes to look up at Sandor. He smiled at the dazed expression on her face and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"That was coming. How'd you like your first orgasm, little bird?" he said. Sansa propped herself up, searching his face. Before he could ask anything, she'd cupped his face into her hands and leaned down, capturing his mouth with her own in their very first kiss. Her lips were warm and soft against his own, and he tilted his head for better access, coaxing his tongue into her mouth. She tasted like the wine she'd consumed, and he tasted strangely salty, his mouth still wet and glistening from her orgasm. As they kissed, slow, deep, passionate, Sansa had slid the rest of her body on top of him, straddling his waist. His hands traveled up and down her back, gently kneading the muscle and capturing her sweet sighs with his lips.

At this moment, the door flew open, revealing Bronn in the doorway, wide-eyed. He stared for a brief moment, Sansa squealing in shock as she attempted to cover her exposed body with the nearby blanket, and Sandor threw him a murderous look. Bronn shrugged.

"I ain't seen shit," he said, stepping back out with a bow and shut the door. The night was approaching a risky hour and Sandor knew that perhaps this walk-in had probably been a blessing, fate's attempt to shake the two fools back into reality. It was impossible to know which men still walked the ship, awake on various levels of drunkenness. He'd better check on Joffrey and assume his post at the king's door.

Once the sheets had been changed and the two had washed and dressed, Sandor tucked Sansa into the bed. She was hardly awake at this point, struggling to keep her eyes open.

"What about Bronn?" she mumbled, hiding a yawn behind her hand.

"Don't you worry about him, he won't breathe a word of what he saw," the Hound said, pressing a kiss to her lips. Sansa's eyes fluttered open and gave him a hard, sincere look.

"I'm not going to stop, you know. I don't care how dangerous it might be. I spoke truthfully tonight," she swore. The Hound remained silent, sitting on the edge of the bed stroking her soft hair until her breathing became slow and steady. He watched her sleep for a moment, and then quietly took his leave, knowing he couldn't stay, and they'd already risked so much. A small part of him felt shame for the activities he'd not only allowed but encouraged. She was younger, more naïve; he shouldn't have given in the way he had. Another part of himself was relieved that he'd managed to avoid claiming her maidenhead, knowing full well that the entire situation at hand was very delicate and deadly serious. If he had any intentions on giving real thought to the plan he'd lustfully imagined of stealing her away to safety, he needed to at least play it smart while he drew ideas. Even if it meant satiating her insane hunger with little morsels that wouldn't leave permanent evidence.

The door clicked shut and the Hound looked at Bronn, who was already looking over at him with a stupid smirk on his face.

"I'm sure I don't have to say anything about keeping this to yourself, because I know how much you love being alive," Sandor said with raised brows. Bronn examined his nails.

"I don't even know what you're talking about. I've been sleeping. Just woke up," he said innocently. Sandor nodded, clapping his shoulder.

"Figured, heard you snoring up a storm out here," the Hound said with his own smirk. Bronn leaned against the wall, eyeing his friend.

"Liar. Ain't no way you heard anything over those delightful little cries," he replied, tilting his head back and mimicking Sansa's soft pants and moans. That was how Bronn earned a split lip that evening, though the next day whenever anyone asked, he simply said he couldn't remember what had happened, he'd been so drunk. Bronn glanced over his mug of water, tongue tracing the small cut and swelling of his lower lip, and dropped a wink at Sandor, who merely smirked over his plate of breakfast.

The day moved on normally, Sansa doting after Joffrey as though he hadn't nearly drowned her in wine last night and she'd subsequently seduced the Hound, and the Hound oversaw crew activity with Bronn, keeping everything on schedule and in line.

Normalcy ended quite quickly when the storm clouds rolled in, and the crew was forced to face a mighty storm and the sudden arrival of Tyrion and Podrick shocked the king. Yes, normalcy had ended and Dorne was still far in the distance.

A/N: Thank you for reading! Next chapter coming soon; in the meantime, feel free to favorite/follow/review!