His demons waited, like vultures overlooking a battlefield. At the edges of his consciousness they waited for the opportune moment to to swoop down and consume him whole. Sandor knew that this sanctuary he and Sansa found could not last.

It startled him how easy it was to forget the life they left behind, and assume the roles of Cederic and Alyssane. It was easy to think only of the beautiful girl who kissed at the festival. To think only of his wife, Sansa, the little bird, was easy. During his time in Braavos, he had grown soft, he knew. Here he was Cederic, a burned man looking for good work and a wife to provide for. Not a killer, a soldier, or a turn-cloak. There was no place here for The Hound, or Sandor Clegane for that matter. But, it had to end.

When they were returning to Westerns he did not know, and back to what? he was more unsure of. A wasteland, high lords and false kings bleeding the Seven Kingdoms dry until there was nothing left even for the crows. Joffrey was dead, that he knew. But who truly ruled?

Here, it was easy to pretend that none of it even existed. There was only work day in and day out, and his sweet little bird to greet him when he returned home—home. But this was not home, not Sansa's. As long as the blood of the wolf ran through her veins, home was The North and Winterfell, and that's where they'd return. And the last he'd heard of Winterfell it was burnt by the Greyjoys.

Old feelings would resurfaced again. The fire, fire, fire, fire, fire. He remembered a time when all he could dream about was the green fire, fire, fire. The memory ignited within him and it felt it hard to breathe. The entire earth split open before him and hell on earth was unleashed across the Blackwater again. He could live with the pain, and the demons, but never the fire.

"Sandor?" Her voice cut through his thoughts like a blade.

He turned over in their bed, "Hm?"

The moonlight filtered in through their window. It was a quiet night. A thick rain had past; clouds hung low in the sky, and drifted away like ships.

"What's been troubling you?" she asked.

Sighing and rubbing the memories off of his eyelids he said, "Don't worry your pretty little head-"

"It's my duty to worry-"

That word, duty, it opened a wound in him, and old feelings came pouring out.

"What do you know of your duty, wife?" Hateful, awful, spiteful, a drunk. Emotions whirled around him and pressed against the inside of his chest, wanting to burst. Sansa inhaled sharply. She had no patience for the Hound and his spitefulness. Turning towards him she touched his face, as light as a feather. Then kissed him the same way she did a week ago at the festival. But, it was much different this time.

Sandor almost allowed himself to give into the kiss, "Stop," he broke away. His heartbeat pounded in his ears like a war-drum.

"Why?" "You don't have to do that."

"But I want to," she pressed forward again.

"No," he protested again, his voice graver.

"Why?" she pushed him again.

"Because I know what will happen if I let you. Sansa—" he began, "This, I don't deserve- You don't deserve—"

"I like kissing you, I-I can't stop thinking about kissing you." Sandor felt her let out a shaky breath, as she trembled against him. She leaned forward and kissed him again, and this time he didn't hold back. Sandor took her lips in his, and wrapped his fingers in her hair. The sensation of her skin against his emboldened his actions further. Her kisses were like fire. He pulled her small frame onto his lap and kissed as if his lungs were filled with smoke and she was his fresh air. He kissed her everywhere. Everywhere and anywhere he could put his ruined lips on. Lips, cheek, nose, neck, and the spot behind her ear. Her hair was his favorite; like fire it was maddening to him.

"Sandor," she said breathily. Sandor was convinced he was dreaming.

"Sandor," she said again, but this time more firmly. Lifting herself up from his chest she got a better look at his face. Even after all the time they had spent together, reading the expression in his eyes was almost impossible. Words seemed to evaporate into air around them. When Sansa's hand reached for his face in the dark, and traced the contours of Sandor's face. She touched him the way one would run their fingers over their favorite book of poems: fondly, lovingly. Her delicate fingers moved across his brow, the ruined planes of his cheek, lips, chin, jawline, until she rested her hand just above his heart. When she touched him there his chest tightened. Do you know where the heart is? Taking his hand, she guided it to her chest, and placed it on her own heart. Inching closer, she rested her forehead on his, and placed a kiss on his nose, on his cheeks, on his chin,and took his lips in hers once more. She only wanted for him to understand how much she felt for him, but she coulnd't find the words to express it.

"Sandor-" she started. "I think we've both had enough for one night," he said before she could ruin him with her words. Sandor puller her into him so that her head laid on his chest; and they fell asleep that way.

He was woken up by feeling the weight of someone else on top of him. Hot-open mouthed kisses were being placed on his neck and chest.

"Good-morning," he grumbled as he opened his eyes to see the face of his loving wife.

"Good-morning," she whispered in his ear, and planted a kiss there. He knew exactly where this morning was going.

After their lovemaking, Marga rolled off of her husband, breathing heaving.

"You know.." She started, propping herself up on her willowy arms.

"What?" Rhyco asked, kissing her beside her ear and cupping one of her bear breasts. She giggled, and swatted his hand away. To him, she'd always be beautiful.

"I don't think Alyssane is who she says she is." Pulling away from her and he raised his brow. He didn't think their pillow talk would veer in that direction.

Rhyco could tell much his wife cared for the young woman by the way she incessantly spoke of her.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, her name isn't even Alyssane, that I am sure of," she said, tracing his chest with her fingers. "I've heard Cederic call her 'Sansa' dozens of times now. And she even calls him 'Sandor.'" Marga's best quality was her perceptiveness; she could see through anyone. Rhyco was surprised that she hadn't told him sooner. Who were these strangers then?

"Well if they're not who they say they are, who are they? Outlaws? Thieves or Murderers?"

Marga laughed, "I doubt very much that Alyssane is a thief or a murderer- Cederic on the other hand.."

Rhyco chuckled, "True. But why lie?"

"I've been thinking and, they practically begged for us to let them stay here right? So I assume they fled Westeros for some extreme reason and had to change their identity."

"Could be.." Rhyco speculated.

"So what will you do?" He asked her, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Are these strangers to stay under our roof?" Marga smiled widely, "Only if you let me allow them to," she kissed him chastley on the lips.

"When you find out their real story, do tell me."

"You know I will," she kissed him again. And a second time, and they both knew where the rest of their morning was going.

So the last time I updated this fic was Jun 8th, and today's the 7th I never thought this fic would get away from me for so long (practically a year.) This chapter has been in the "works" for so long now. I truly apologize for those who have wanted this fic to update / who have been followers of this fic. This year has been crazy and I did not have the time to write.

I'd like to thank my (irl) friends, and others who have supported and encouraged me to write again. Even though this chapter is short, I hoped you all enjoyed. Seems like Sandor and Sansa's relationship is getting more physical huh? wink wink, more to follow soon! Before you ask who was getting dirty in the AM, it's just Rhyco and Marga, tricked you there (maybe)