Sansa's blood was humming. The buildings of Winterfell moved past her vision in a gray and white blur, her feet seeming to vibrate as they hit the ground. Some far off, quiet voice meekly suggested feeling guilty about what had just transpired in the Godswood, but she wasn't about to listen to it. She felt good. She felt powerful.

Behind her, she could hear the heavy footsteps of her charge. Sandor had been there with her, had witnessed the life leave that man's body alongside her. They had shared something unspeakable. Sansa had been confident that he would assist her if she asked, but his swift acquiescence filled her with a strange kind of affection. He didn't question her - didn't ask if she was certain. He trusted her to know her own mind, and he helped her do what needed to be done. They were kindred. Killers alike.

If Sansa still believed in the Gods, she would have thought their being together in that wood was divinely planned.

Before she knew it, she was pushing open the heavy door to her chambers. She turned for the first time since leaving the Godswood. Sandor stood in the doorway, a curious look on his face.

"Join me," she said smoothly.

The large man straightened, taking two steps into the room. They faced each other. Through the window, the setting sun cast an eerie glow across his ruined face. His eyes were intense.

"You took a life. Used your own hands this time," his voice was gruff, and Sansa sensed a hint of unease.

Smiling, she held a hand out in invitation. Sandor glanced down at it, clearly unsure what to make of it.

"Come," she murmured.

He frowned slightly, but obeyed. He approached her, taking her hand lightly in his. A leather glove covered his hand, obstructing the contact she desired. She gave a small squeeze, which he returned.

"Thank you for showing me how."

"He was a dead man either way," Sandor grunted. "but you should know how to do it."

She looked up at him. He was so big. It was never more apparent than when they were close like this. Taller than most girls, it wasn't often Sansa was made to feel small. She found it oddly comforting.

His presence leveled her, took the edge off of the frantic energy she had felt since leaving the wood. Clarity was beginning to return - with it came a twisting sensation in the pit of her stomach.

"When I was watching him die," she whispered, "I was imagining it was Ramsay."

She held her breath. She hated saying his name out loud. Some irrational part of her feared she would summon him by doing so. Stupid.

Sandor placed his other hand on top of hers. Sansa began to breath again.

"Aye. Seems they were similar enough."

"I wonder how quickly he'd have died if I cut his throat," her voice broke on the last word. She bit her lip. Don't lose control. Not over him.

She felt a large arm wrap around her shoulders. He was pulling her into his chest. He had armour on, making it a little uncomfortable - but she appreciated the gesture. She rested her face against his shoulder. His other hand rested on the back of her head, gently stroking her hair. She allowed herself a small smile.

Sansa always knew he had a gentleness in him. She'd seen it way back in King's Landing. A frightening hound though he may be, he also cared for broken little birds. This tenderness was what sparked the affection she had come to feel for him of late. Today, in the wood, she had felt something very different.

Quick or slow?

He had whispered low in her ear, an utterly private moment between the two of them. It sent a shiver through her body, lighting up every part of her. She remembered feeling that way about Joffrey, and then for Ser Loras. But even those feelings paled in comparison to this. They were boys, and she was only a girl.

She was a woman now. And Sandor...

"Sandor," she whispered.

He grunted, his chest rising under her cheek.

She untangled herself from him, taking a step back. The sun had all but set now. Sansa turned, busying herself with lighting candles. With her back to Sandor, she gathered herself.

"I thought we could play a game," she spoke over her shoulder.

"Not sure I know the rules," he replied, dry as ever.

Lighting the last of the candles, she turned back around. She took a deep breath. She had no experience in taking these sorts of matters into her own hands. She was always a thing to be chased, to be courted. Never a care for what she desired.

The rules of the old world were an ancient memory to her now. The world before Ramsay, before she knew the cold reality of living in a world where men simply took what they wanted. It was time she did the same. And she wanted Sandor. She was sure to earn disapproval from any who still held onto their illusions about ladyship - but she didn't care. The Night King could come knocking on her door tomorrow, for all she knew. She had dreamt of it often enough.

Sansa made a show of slowly unfastening her cloak, before pulling it off and dropping it to the floor. Her eyes were still adjusting to the dark, but she could see Sandor's brow furrow.

"I'm going to need some wine for those kinds of games," he said, voice gravelly.

Sansa smirked. She was quietly relieved he hadn't rejected her cryptic suggestion. She was reasonably confident he would do whatever she asked, but she also knew him to be as stubborn as she was. She walked to her bureau, pouring them each a glass of red wine. She passed it to him and sat on the edge of her bed. Needing no invitation, he made to join her. She watched his weight create a depression in the mattress as he sat. He was growing more comfortable around her.

Sandor was watching her now - she realized she liked the scrutiny. His deep brown eyes were captivating, dark pools of quiet intelligence. She found comfort in them.

"You have lovely eyes," she whispered, slightly embarrassed. She took a long swallow from her cup.

Sandor laughed - one short, sharp sound.

"You haven't got me sat on your bed to talk about my eyes."

Sansa chuckled breathlessly. Sandor was much older than she was. He could talk his way through the discomfort of these things. Though - she supposed - he could talk his way through most things.

"I thought we could swap scars," she said quietly. The wine was already giving her courage.

She felt him stiffen beside her. She had said the wrong thing. He'd leave in a huff and she'd be left alone with her silly desires.

Stupid. Stupid Sansa.

A long moment passed. She closed her eyes, too scared to watch his face. Finally, he spoke.

"You know how I got this one."

Sandor clutched her hand - he had taken his glove off - and guided it toward his cheek. She opened her eyes, turning to him. He watched her, his gaze soft. She ran her fingers along his cheek, feeling the bumps and curves of the warped flesh. Without thinking, she leaned up and kissed him there - one quick, chaste peck. She pulled back, gauging his reaction. The corner of his mouth twitched.

That's as good as a smile, she thought.

Placing her cup down, she slowly rolled up the sleeve of her dress. She studied her forearm, covered in a dozen faded cut marks.

"And you know how I got these."

He stared down at her pale flesh, silently studying. She wished sorely that she could hear his thoughts.

Sandor placed a hand on her arm - his large fingers wrapped around it with ease. He was so warm. He gave her arm a gentle squeeze, before pulling it up to his mouth. He kissed her once, twice, three times - each on a different scar. Sansa's skin felt as if it was burning; her breath growing heavier. She had never felt this way with any man. Even the lightest touch was enough to send her mind spinning. She wondered if he felt the same.

He stood, toying with the fastenings at his shoulders. After a moment, he pulled his breastplate away from his body, letting it clatter to the floor. He wore a simple brown undershirt - the neck left untied, exposing the top of his chest. He was covered in dark hair, the shirt form-fitting enough to hint at his strong frame.

"It's not often I see you out of armour." Sansa barely recognized her own voice. It was lower now.

"Does the lady approve?"

"Very much."

Sandor made a show of performing a clumsy half-curtsy. Sansa laughed - the sound bouncing off the walls of the chamber. He stopped still, regarding her.

"I've never heard you laugh like that," he said quietly.

She smiled at him. She couldn't remember the last time she'd laughed like that, either.

Sansa patted the mattress beside her, beckoning him back to her. He perched obediently. She raked her eyes over him, stopping to linger on the thick mass of hair at the opening of his shirt. She thought again of Joffrey, Loras, Ramsay. They were all smooth-chested. Once, Sansa thought she preferred that. Now, it was all she could do not to lay her hand against Sandor's skin, to know what it felt like.

Almost as if he had read her mind, Sandor pulled back the material of his shirt, exposing his shoulder. She felt her eyes widen, though she prayed he did not notice. He turned his head, showing her a large, dark scar where his neck met his shoulder. Sansa frowned.

"That looks like..."

"A bite mark. Aye. Got it while travelling with your sister. Set upon by a couple of cunts, one of them gave me this."

She didn't wait for permission this time. She raised a hand to his neck, tracing the scar lightly. Parts of the skin were raised slightly, but it seemed to have healed well.

"Arya stitched it up. Would have looked much worse otherwise."

Sansa hummed, amused. Septa Mordane's sewing lessons weren't for naught, after all.

Sandor's hand reached up to grasp her own, his large thumb travelling up and down the length of her knuckles. This contact between them had quickly become comfortable - she wondered briefly if such things were usual between men and women. She had been robbed of a proper courtship - a loving, tender wedding night. She didn't know what those things were supposed to feel like.

"Have you been with many women?" The question had escaped her lips before she realized she was speaking. She took in a sharp breath, embarrassed at herself. Sandor's hand tightened around hers.

"I had my fun in the capital. No wife or family to spend my wages on. Mostly ale and whores."

Sansa was silent. Her cheeks were burning.

"Doesn't take my fancy anymore."

She glanced up at him.

"No?"

"No."

She searched his face for the meaning behind his words. Was his lack of interest in women simply a result of his changed circumstances, no longer working for the King in the capital? Did he, like her, find it hard to think of such things with the threat of The Long Night ever-present? Perhaps none of that mattered. He was here, in her bedchambers. He had helped her take a life less than an hour ago. They had spilled blood together. They were bonded. And Sansa wanted him.

"My turn," she whispered.

She reached up to the neck of her frock, undoing the ornamental clasp and the cord underneath it. She pulled the fabric aside, baring her neck and collarbone. She had a long scar that began there; a permanent reminder of Ramsay's penchant for knife play. Sandor's eyes landed on it, his lips turning downward into a small grimace.

"It's large, but not particularly interesting. I got it because I couldn't answer a riddle he gave me."

Sandor's fist curled around the mattress between them.

"How far does it go?"

Sansa watched him for a moment. She had been anticipating that question. Her stomach suddenly began to toss and turn, her skin warming considerably. This is what she wanted when she asked to play this game. Now, faced with the reality of it, she found that she was terribly nervous. Only two men had ever seen her body - Ramsay and Theon. Neither had earned that right. So much had been taken from her; her pride, her dignity, her choice. She wanted to show herself to someone under her own terms.

Her hands shook slightly as she continued to untie the cords that held her dress together. She kept her eyes down, not having enough nerve to maintain eye contact with Sandor as she did so. She felt the cool air brush her skin as the fabric fell away from her. With one final, deep breath, she let her hands return to her sides, shifting so that her chest was completely exposed. The winter air danced across her breasts - they heaved up and down, drawing attention to her rapid breathing. She hadn't dared to look up. Her heart pounded in her ears.

"Gods," Sandor whispered. He sounded impossibly far away.

Finally, Sansa looked up. Sandor's eyes were locked onto her newly uncovered flesh. His gaze lingered on her left breast, where the thick scar ran through to its conclusion at the top of her stomach. After a moment, his eyes traveled back up to meet hers. To her frustration, she could feel tears beginning to form. She hadn't anticipated how difficult it would be to display the proof of her mutilation.

"He ruined me," she whispered, tears falling freely now.

She felt large, warm arms gather around her. He pressed her into him - this time there was no armour between them. Sansa pressed her wet face against his skin. She could hear his heart pounding against her ear, the hairs on his chest tickling her cheek. His size was truly overwhelming; he seemed to be everywhere. Sansa's breathing came easier. She had almost forgotten that she was half-naked. Sandor didn't seem to mind. He had prioritized her comfort over any pleasure he might have taken in looking at her.

She felt as though she could start crying again, though it wasn't over Ramsay.

"I'm sorry," she sniffled. "This isn't how I intended things to go."

"Hush now, Little Bird," he murmured against her hair. "Play your game some other time."

They sat in silence, Sansa pressed contentedly against him. She had wanted to be strong - to prove to herself that she could move beyond the abuse she had endured. Perhaps she had been too hasty. The ghost of her late husband still lingered, try as she might to ignore its presence.

Sandor had been patient with her. She knew he would give her the time she needed. She wanted more than anything to be close to him, to know what the rest of him looked and felt like. But it would have to wait. She had to learn what it meant to be with a man she trusted. And she trusted Sandor with all her heart.

A Hound will die for you, but never lie to you.