A/N:

Readers, thank you a million times for your patience! I've loved reading every single review I've gotten, and I loved writing this chapter. It was so satisfying to write and then erase and edit and erase until I felt that I'd gotten the moments just right. It's the longest so far and (hopefully) the best. Don't forget to let me know what you think! I wanted to get it out tonight and just finished the third edit, so hopefully I haven't missed anything, but I wouldn't be surprised if I go back in tomorrow when I have more time and change more :P

Chapter 11

Understanding

-Sansa-

Sansa's return to consciousness came on her slowly, waves of awareness breaking and ebbing in her mind like a becalmed sea gently embracing the shore. It was the collapse of a log in the hearth that startled her over the final threshold of cognizance, her bleary eyes following the ensuing spray of embers in their ascension of the rough stone chimney. She blinked against the bright shaft of midday sun which streamed unbroken between the panels of brocade drapery, brow furrowed as she struggled to recall how she had come to be here, lying alone before a fire in this silent, unfamiliar room.

The furs which enveloped her were tucked up to her chin and she seemed to be lying unnecessarily close to the flames. Combined, these factors left her feeling suffocated—trapped, as if in a stifling cocoon. It was passingly odd, she thought, that despite facing the fire, the greatest source of heat was radiating from directly behind her, but in her desperation for relief from the oppressive warmth, she did not pursue the reason behind this contradiction.

Sansa uncovered her upper body in one swift movement, tossing the heavy furs aside and lifting her head and shoulders away from the rug to try and take in more of her surroundings. The shock of the cooler air as it collided with the sheen of sweat upon her skin was nothing to the jolt of terror that snaked through her abdomen suddenly and dreadfully when her eyes settled upon her own body. Across her midsection a large arm was draped, the squared, masculine knuckles lightly brushing the ends of the fur on the bearskin rug, casually dangling before her bellybutton as if they had always been there—as if they belonged there.

It was never a question in her mind as to whom the arm belonged; she knew him inherently. She was suddenly hyperaware of his distinctive scent in her nostrils and the sound of steady, rhythmic breaths arising from deep within his chest as he slept behind her. A strange, unrecognizable tunic was the only layer of separation between the raw heat of his skin and her own bare flesh, now covered with thousands of little raised bumps as her every hair stood on end in protest. Whether they protested the cold or the violation, there they stood all the same; rigid, alert.

A familiar panic began settling into her core, infusing her lungs with a desperate need for air as quickly as she could inhale it. She was drowning, spiraling—mind fogging with the hurt and anger, confusion and chaos. Sansa sucked in shallow breaths in rapid succession, squeezing her eyelids together as if the action itself could bring to her mind any memory which might explain the indecent and incriminating circumstance to which she had just awakened.

Oh, dear gods, what has he done?

The helplessness and anguish of believing she'd been so wronged by someone whom she'd begun to trust, someone whom she may have even cared for hit Sansa in her gut, rolling through her stomach in a sickening wave of dread. Yet, almost naively, she clung to some hope that perhaps these fears were unfounded, perhaps these circumstances did not prove him to be the monster she'd once feared him to be. Rolling over cautiously, she searched for the explanation which might justify him in her eyes, the proof which would convince her that this was not truly what it appeared to be.

She glimpsed first his beard, framing the mouth that was slightly opened in sleep and the lips she'd kissed so willingly only—last night, was it? Her gaze continued down where the hairs on his neck became the hairs on his chest. A soft gasp escaped her throat. He was so huge, so finely muscled—and he was completely bare from the waist up. Her eyes traveled along Sandor's body lower and lower, until the trail of dark hair disappeared beneath his breeches. There he lay, his semi-naked body flush against hers, arm possessively draping her abdomen and laying claim to something that had never been given him. And he was beginning to awaken.

Sansa's breath hitched in her throat, trapping what might have become a sob while she sat up suddenly and jerked her body away from him. She clutched the furs to her chest and glared down at the man who had become the monster, her entire body trembling with rage and the soul-crushing pain of betrayal.

"Little bird," he mumbled groggily, squeezing his eyes together in one long blink before pushing himself up quickly onto one elbow. "You're awake…," he said, almost incredulously. He seemed very interested in her, his voice tinged with an innocence and concern which incensed Sansa, considering what she was now convinced he had done.

He reached for her, instinctively, and his large, sinewy chest flexed with the movement, drawing her eyes toward it briefly. This man who'd protected her, who'd said he'd never hurt her, was now shamelessly lying almost completely naked before her in a brutal reminder of what he'd taken from her with neither her knowledge, nor her consent. Sansa clenched her jaw and impulsively landed a blow across his cheek.

"How dare you?!"

Her voice was thick with emotion, irate and trembling, hand smarting from the blow. Sandor was quick, but had been caught off guard, only snatching her wrist up in his large hand after she'd struck him. He frowned at her with an expression of disbelief but ensnared as she now was in his iron grip, Sansa grew even more outraged.

"What in the seven hells were you thinking?" she hissed, her failed attempts to free her wrist from his grasp only adding to the sinking feeling of her own helplessness. Amidst her struggle and writhing, the furs shifted, revealing one long, white leg extending from beneath them. Sandor glanced down at her milky flesh, eyes lingering upon her shapely thigh for one long moment. She blanched in mortification, awkwardly reaching over with her free hand and struggling to cover herself before he finally released her. Angry tears sprang to her eyes.

"What did you do?" she half sobbed. Swiftly covering her exposed flesh, she clutched the furs around herself and inched further away from him.

Sandor reached across his body for his own discarded tunic with a scowl.

"Seven hells, woman. I just saved your bloody life." He pulled himself upright, shoving his arms unceremoniously through the openings. He glared at her, annoyance etched across his rugged features, rendering the burned side of his face almost frightening. "Right fine way to thank me," he grumbled, and jerked the tunic over his head in one swift motion.

"What? What are you talking about? Why have you—did we…?" Sansa blinked back the tears as she tried to speak over the painful lump in her throat, glancing around the empty room to ensure no one was nearby who could hear the implications in her words. She felt humiliated and shamed—a disgrace, her body merely a tool, a means to someone else's end. Littlefinger. Ramsay. Sandor. Some man's end. Except that it hadn't ended. It never ended, did it?

Sandor's laconic reply cut through her wretched thoughts. "For fuck's sake, I haven't raped you," he scowled, getting to his feet and snatching up the rest of his clothing.

A flicker of hope flashed through Sansa's being and she clutched at it desperately. Head raised sharply, her eyes sought his, beseeching him for the explanation that might lift the weight of dread from her heavy heart.

Shrugging impatiently into his jerkin, he continued, "You've been nearly dead for hours. Don't remember throwing yourself into the frozen sea so you could try and be a bloody hero?" He snatched up his weapons belt and strapped it around his waist, glaring at her through the loose hair that hung around his face, aggravation roughing his voice even more than his scars already did.

Sansa stared back at him incredulously, shocked and unblinking. Relief, satiating and never before so welcomed to her anguished mind, flooded her being. His words were the alibi her soul had craved, clearing him of the circumstantial blame which had fallen upon him. She felt elation, gratefulness; then all at once, confusion. Brow wrinkling, Sansa's gaze fell to the dark fur of the rug as her mind struggled for recollection. There were bits and pieces of the night before, but it felt distant and strange; disjointed, like a dream.

"The army of the dead!" Sansa whispered with sudden realization, pressing her palm to her chest and looking up at him anxiously. "Gods, what happened?"

"Gone. Dead for good this time." Sandor extended a hand down to her with one eyebrow raised and an expression of poorly concealed impatience. "You're still whiter than milk, you need to rest, girl."

She could only stare at his outstretched hand. The army of the dead, gone? The threat which had loomed for years, prompting an upset to their lives and an exodus from their homes was truly gone? This was all too much to take in, especially on the heels of the emotional ordeal through which she'd just lived, and Sansa laid her forehead against her palm, squeezing her eyes shut against the sensation of lightheadedness which was washing over her.

"Come on," Sandor grunted, "I'll get you back to your chambers and get the maester." His fingers motioned impatiently.

She placed her hand in his hesitantly and allowed him to pull her to her feet, still clutching the blanket tightly around herself. Sandor bent, catching her up in his arms in one smooth, unexpected movement.

The maidenly gasp which escaped her lips upon being swept away so suddenly prompted a half-chuckle from Sandor, rumbling up from deep in his chest. Sansa colored, shyly wrapping her arms around his shoulders because she had no other choice and trying her best to avoid eye contact. His explanation of their night spent in each other's arms had left her with myriad new emotions replacing the ones which had consumed her only moments ago. Anger had become gratitude, hurt had become hope—what she'd thought was betrayal had proven to be…

"Love seeing you becoming the bloody maiden all over again with your modesty and pretty pink cheeks," he rasped mockingly as he strode toward the guest chambers. "Just like the old Sansa."

Leaning in close to her ear he continued in a lowered voice, eyes still trained ahead.

"Just going to act like you didn't sing me a pretty little song last night, is that it?"

He winked and Sansa gasped at his brazenness, though, in truth, she was surprised at herself for expecting anything else from this man.

"Don't mock me," she pouted, looking away sullenly. She was vaguely aware—and thus further annoyed with herself—that this made her sound very much indeed like the old Sansa.

They'd reached the great, oaken door to her chamber and he used his back to open it as he carried her through with a sly grin.

"Wasn't mocking you," he said as he gently settled her on the large featherbed, pausing before withdrawing his arms from around her. "Teasing, mayhaps." He gazed boldly into her upturned face, lowering his voice into a husky whisper, "We did leave some things unfinished last night…"

Sansa shuddered out an uncertain breath, gazing straight ahead at his tunic and remembering what she'd seen beneath it. He'd lain for hours with her like that, willing life back into her body with his strong arm wrapped around her, his entire body, warm and virile, lying flush with her own. How differently she felt about it now, when seen through the perspective of Sandor forgoing all sense of propriety in order to save her life, instead of believing that he had used her wrongly. Sansa's heart pounded in her ears and she was employing every ounce of willpower to avoid biting on her lower lip expectantly.

Slowly and deliberately, Sandor drew his arm out from behind her, dragging his palm across her shoulders until he held her chin within his grasp. His thumb passed lightly along her jaw for half a second before he tilted it slightly, forcing her gaze to meet his. Sansa stayed the ragged breath that was trapped within her chest, searching his eyes longingly and awaiting the kiss which she was certain would follow.

"Probably best they stay unfinished, I don't fancy getting slapped again." He released his grip on her chin and straightened, "You're stronger than you look, little bird."

The roguish grin that spread across his face beneath the full beard was smug and full of good humor as he theatrically placed his fingertips against the cheek she'd struck, feigning a pout which looked as ridiculous as could be expected upon the countenance of a man like Sandor Clegane.

Sansa could only stare at him in astonishment, mouth agape.

He raised a brow impishly and backed toward the door, a look of pure satisfaction on his face.

"Rest. I'll find the maester."

And just like that, she was alone, feeling more foolish and confused than ever she'd felt before.

Maester Weston brought with him vials of various herbs and remedies and had a large bowl of broth sent up from the kitchens which Sansa had already nearly emptied in her famished state. He fussed over her while she sipped, and he and Brienne stood around the bed filling her in on what had occurred during the time that she'd been unconscious, while Sandor stood nearby.

"The loss isn't nearly as bad as we initially thought it might have been, my lady," Brienne reported. "I've just seen Maester Fennec who has conducted a rough estimate of the loss of life throughout our camp. He estimates that less than one-tenth of our people were killed in the night. Some may yet pass as there are many wounded, but it is better than we feared, my lady."

"Not for those who died—or for those who lost someone they held dear," Sansa replied wistfully as the maester checked her pulse for the third time. "We must arrange for the funeral. Have Maester Fennec see me at once about it."

Brienne nodded, "Of course, my lady. There are—many other bodies as well."

Sansa raised a brow, "The wights?"

"Yes, my lady. Thousands of them."

"I will speak with Lord Manderly about it. I would have them burned."

Brienne hesitated and glanced at the maester. "My lady, Lord Manderly—he did not survive the night."

Sansa looked to the maester who nodded sadly, "The Manderlys' quarters were nearest the point of entry for the dead, Lady Stark."

Sansa looked pale, "What, all of them? The whole family is—is gone?"

Maester Weston looked up at Sansa as he held a small chalice out for her to drink, "Yes, my lady."

The old man's grief was obvious, and Sansa did not press further, but she took his hand in hers and squeezed it gently.

"I'm so sorry, maester."

Maester Weston patted her hand and smiled sorrowfully. "I am grateful we did not lose you as well, my lady. I was very concerned for some time." He glanced at Sandor and raised his eyebrows, "You were very wise in your choice of shields, Lady Stark. Clegane undoubtedly saved your life. And probably more than once last night."

Sansa glanced at Sandor and he stood up straighter, trying to ignore the compliment and how Sansa was looking at him.

Brienne spoke again, "My lady, there was a raven. From Winterfell." She extended her hand which held a small scroll. "As you instructed me to do, I opened it while you were still unconscious, in case it contained urgent information."

Sansa sat up straighter and held out her hand impatiently, "Let me see it," she said tensely.

Brienne handed her the small bit of parchment and Sansa scanned it quickly before looking back up at her shield in astonishment. The woman smiled and nodded in return while Sansa turned to Sandor.

"They've defeated the Night King. That's why—," Sansa looked to the maester and continued hurriedly. "Samwell writes that Bran was unaware that the Night King had sent some of his army to intercept us, else they'd have warned us." She continued scanning the page as she spoke, "They hope we are well…Brienne, has this been answered yet?"

"Yes, my lady," Brienne responded quickly. "We didn't know how long you would be indisposed, and I did not wish your family to be concerned. We sent a reply a few hours ago."

She nodded with satisfaction. "You were right to do so, thank you, Brienne." She paused and looked at Sandor briefly and then the maester. "I wonder what this means for us…are we to still continue to Meereen now that the army of the dead have been defeated?"

"If you will allow me to say so, my lady, it may yet be the best course of action," Maester Weston advised calmly. "Queen Cersei still rules in King's Landing and there will undoubtedly be more war. Our city sits directly at the middle ground for troops and ships, and the people who have come with you are not safe here."

Sansa frowned and persisted stubbornly, "Perhaps not, but why can we not return North? Now that the threat has been removed, the North would certainly be safer than a city half a world away, with only the Dragon Queen's assurances of our welcome."

The old maester shrugged and folded his hands in front of him as he stood up, finally done with his ministrations. "Perhaps. These are questions which must be posed to his Grace, the King in the North."

She raised an eyebrow at the maester and responded dryly, "Has White Harbor not accepted Daenerys as their Queen either?" She chuckled.

The maester hesitated, "We will follow Daenerys Targaryen so long as our King swears his allegiance to her, and no longer. Our loyalty is and has always been to the Starks."

Sansa smiled, "I suppose news doesn't travel as fast as I guessed that it would. Or perhaps the Dragon Queen would like to keep it under wraps for as long as possible, it would be very like her." She nodded to her sworn shield, "Brienne, be so kind as to fill in Maester Weston on Jon's true identity. And when you are through, Maester, I should like to send a raven. Now please leave me, I have many things to think on."

-Sandor-

Sandor arose several hours before dawn and dressed himself. He would be early for his shift, but his sleep schedule had been disrupted due to the events of the night before, and he would rather be useful than lie awake in bed for hours.

Sansa had complained that she no longer needed guarding night and day, with the castle now to themselves and the threat of the Night King removed, but both Sandor and Brienne had found themselves in agreement for the first time, insisting on their maintaining a constant watch over her. Cersei would be tracking their caravan's movements, and they could never know if a disgruntled castle cook, a shy handmaiden, or a greedy stable boy maintained hidden loyalties to the Queen. Cersei had always wanted Sansa's life, and that had not changed with the arrival of the Dragon Queen and the army of the dead. If the opportunity arose in which vengeance could be exacted upon Sansa, simultaneously delivering a blow to Jon and the entire Stark-supporting North, Cersei would take it in a heartbeat.

As he strode through the dark hallways of the castle toward her chambers, shrouded in silence except for the resonation of his heavy footsteps throughout the corridor, Sandor's thoughts traveled back to last night once again. He had relived the passionate encounter he'd shared with Lady Stark already multiple times, and yet his disbelief of its actual occurrence remained. He was still astonished that Sansa had not only asked him to kiss her but had actually thrown herself at him with abandon and an urgency that had tasted remarkably of lust. He'd suspected an attraction from her, certainly, but that reaction had been far more satisfying and generous than he'd even allowed himself to hope for.

He snorted with amusement in recollection of her flaming cheeks and the furious glare she'd given him after striking him that morning. He didn't blame her for the reaction; he'd already felt uneasy about what he could say to her that would help her to feel less alarmed upon awakening and finding them lying in such an intimate position. But it could not have been helped. He knew as well as she did that his body's warmth against hers had been a critical component in her recovery.

Still, he could empathize with the shock and confusion she must have felt upon awakening, having no recollection of the previous events which had brought them into each other's arms, lying beneath a blanket before the fire. It amused him to imagine what had passed through her mind in that moment. She had feared that he'd had his way with her, and as such, responded as any woman might have upon finding herself in such a position. He could not believe, after being on the receiving end of her almost ravenous desire last night, that she would have been opposed to their furthered intimacy, but in a case like this, context was everything. It would be one thing to give herself to him willingly, but it was an entirely different thing to believe she'd been taken advantage of without her knowledge or consent. He pitied her for the moment of panic and anger she'd experienced, yet he could not think on the exchange without a self-satisfied grin creeping up his jaw. He'd been vindicated—in a heroic context, no less—and watching the realization settle upon her flushed cheeks that he'd in fact saved her life and not violated her had been a moment that had only further endeared her to him, despite the angry red mark she'd left upon the only good cheek he had.

Brienne met his unanticipated approach with a look of mild surprise but did not object to being relieved early. The last twenty-four hours had been an exhausting stretch for everyone, and she nodded her thanks solemnly to him as she left her post.

Sandor had scarcely seated himself upon the stool when he began to hear movement in the room behind him. Within a minute or two, the sound of the latch opening heralded the appearance of Sansa, framed in the doorway of her darkened room, and fully dressed as if to leave the castle.

He raised a brow at her appearance, but she did not leave him long in suspense.

"Hello Clegane." She spoke softly, a teasing smile pulling at the corners of her lovely mouth. "How is it that I always find you on duty on mornings when I seek the godswood?" She turned and pulled the door closed softly behind her, the flickering light of the sconce casting varied hues of bronze and gold upon the curves and undulations of her thick hair which tumbled loosely down her back. "I hope you don't mind," she finished, flicking her eyes coyly to meet his.

Her tone was almost demure, mirroring the timidity she'd shown him that morning. It was so unlike the strong and sometimes frigid demeanor that he'd come to expect from her, and he could only attribute their recent intimacy as being the catalyst for this sudden change in her behavior.

Despite the feelings she aroused in him, Sandor snickered at her politeness, ever a slave to his own coarse, surly nature.

"You realize how early it is? Dawn won't come for two hours yet, at least."

Sansa nodded, adjusting her cloak about her shoulders before starting down the corridor apace with him. This was also a change. Instead of assuming her usual position in front of him, she'd held back, choosing instead to walk beside him.

"Yes. I couldn't sleep any longer, I'd slept so much of the day already." She glanced up at him, her features either starkly shadowed or illuminated with each subtle movement of her head by the dim glow of the occasional lantern in the hall. "You arrived to post early. I suppose you could not sleep either?"

Sandor shook his head. "No. After this morning, might be I've spoiled my taste for sleeping alone."

He chuckled at his own joke, aware but uncaring of the boldness of it. From his position beside her, he was unable to see her response clearly, but guessed that her cheeks had flushed pink and she'd cast her head down. Sandor had never been a man to falsify appearances or to behave in a way that was contrary to reality. The reality was that they had been very intimate with one another within the last twenty-four hours, and those moments of intimacy had changed everything about their relationship. They were no longer just sworn shield and mistress. They had complicated things, in the most exquisite manner, and nothing would be the same between them.

After continuing on in silence for a moment, Sansa drew in a deep breath and replied in a softened tone.

"I'm sorry that I struck you this morning."

He pushed open the heavy door which led toward the gardens and beyond them, the godswood. Pausing, he allowed Sansa to step past him.

"It's nothing I wasn't expecting," Sandor chuckled sardonically.

Sansa stopped in the doorway and turned to him, laying her hand upon his forearm and trapping his gaze in the sincere pools of her sapphire eyes.

"No, please. Let me apologize for this. You didn't deserve that kind of hasty judgement." Her eyes searched his for a moment and her brow furrowed in a wordless display of emotion. "You saved my life—twice—and I am indebted to you for that."

A slight lift of one of her brows gave a subtle meaning to her statement which he wasn't sure was intentional or imagined, but she broke contact before he could pursue the answer. They continued silently through the gardens in the direction of the godswood, led by the hazy glow of the moon and a few lighted torches along the castle's outer wall while Sandor pondered the intent behind Sansa's words and the gentle way in which she'd touched him.

When they reached the heart tree, Sandor hung back, allowing Sansa the privacy which was due for worship. He was uncertain how religious she still was, but it was clear that she yet visited the godswood, at the very least, for her own comfort and peace of mind. After the events of last night, she might be saying a prayer for the lives that were lost or thanking the gods for sparing her own. Either way, she spent several minutes standing before the weirwood silently, hands clasped before her.

As he quietly observed her, he became consumed by the memory of the iron fist which had taken hold of his heart during the long moments when he'd almost lost her—when his hand had closed around her cloak beneath the dark waves and pulled her lifeless body from the sea. Auburn hair had been plastered to her white brow, yet somehow, she had been as beautiful while lying upon death's threshold as ever she'd been in life.

He'd choked, standing frozen in a deeply despairing silence, only managing to admire her breathtaking loveliness as she lay helpless upon the sodden planks of the barge, limp and cold before him. It was Bronn who'd shoved him aside, beating the girl's chest until she'd vomited up half of the sea. Brienne who had sought to strip her of her clothing to increase her chances of surviving the cold. He had only stood and stared, succumbed to the despair, waiting for the pain to be complete. He would lose her, just like he'd lost everyone.

But there had been a moment before she'd grown groggy and delirious, a moment after Brienne had wrung her hair out and covered her in the driest bits of clothing she could find. Sansa had lifted her head weakly and looked about her. She had tried to speak but the words had been swallowed in a fit of coughing.

"What is it, my lady?" Brienne had implored, stroking the wet hair back from Sansa's pale face and rubbing her shoulder vigorously to encourage warmth and circulation back into her blood.

Sansa had searched the faces of her companions, the movements of her head sluggish and feeble, but they'd stopped only when her eyes had rested upon him. Her pale hand had reached, employing the last ounce of strength left in her body in the attempt. Reached for him.

"Sandor…," she'd pleaded weakly.

He'd hastened to take the trembling hand in his and had not left her side again the entire night. That one word had changed everything for him. Sansa had changed everything for him.

As if on cue, like some enchantress from another realm who could delve into his mind, reading and manipulating its contents, Sansa turned in that very moment and caught his gaze. She smiled and he took the cue to come nearer.

"Whom do you pray to, Clegane?" she posed gently, gazing steadily ahead at the carved face of her deity. "Did the septon friend that you lost renew your faith in any gods?"

He snorted disdainfully, "Do you mean the gods who watched as he and the rest of his followers were slaughtered? No, I don't believe in the Seven…"

Sansa caught the hesitation in his reply and looked up at him, "But perhaps you believe in something else?"

He stared at the carved face of the weirwood with its eyes dripping blood and its gaping mouth, looking more ominous than usual in the darkness of the wood around them.

"Don't know. I saw something in the flames when I was with the fire-worshippers. Can't explain it." He looked down at her and a faint smile stretched across his face, "And your old gods spared your life. Might be that's just coincidence, but then there's your brother too, the three-eyed-raven." He shook his head, "I don't know what I believe in. Magic. Dragons." He shrugged, "Who knows?"

She looked up at him and smiled almost sadly. For a long moment she seemed to be studying him, thinking deeply on what she wanted to say. With a squint of her eyes and slight pursing of her lips, she finally replied.

"The last time we were in the godswood together, you promised me something."

Ah, fuck.

She took a few steps toward an ornate bench and seated herself, placing one hand on the empty place beside her and beckoning him with a playful, yet unmistakable look of determination upon her countenance to draw whatever information she wanted from him.

With a groan, Sandor raked a hand through the hair on the back of his head.

"Aye. The night you 'didn't remember,'" he responded with mild irritation.

She sighed. "I'm sorry for that too. I was—embarrassed at my behavior. I just wanted to forget the whole thing had even happened." She picked at a seam on her sleeve in the semi-darkness as he took a few steps nearer.

"Well, since we're remembering everything now," he responded dryly while standing over her, "you'll remember the terms of that promise." Seating himself beside her, he reached for her arm, "You were supposed to tell me the origin of this scar."

As he spoke, he lifted her hand and flipped it, running his thumb along the ridge of the raised, pink flesh that traveled vertically up her arm before disappearing beneath her sleeve. He paused there, catching her gaze beyond their linked hands and reveling in the warmth of her skin, the delicacy of the wrist weighting his hand, a wrist that was scarcely larger than a child's.

She held his gaze for a long moment before finally replying.

"I do remember," Sansa murmured, breaking eye contact to gaze down at the scar with a heavy sigh. "You asked if it was me or Ramsay who did this. The answer is both."

Sandor released her hand and leaned back, waiting for her to expound.

She pulled at the laces of her sleeve, working slowly at the fine fabric which she'd undoubtedly sewn herself, until she'd exposed the creamy skin of her forearm, from the wrist to near her elbow. The scar traveled almost the entire length.

"Ramsay enjoyed playing his sick games. On this night he wanted me to beg for death." She stared beyond Sandor with a glazed look in her eyes. "I won't tell you what he was doing to me that brought me to that point."

Sandor clenched his jaw, rage building inside of him for the monster that had tortured his little bird. Blinking rapidly out of her thoughts, Sansa inhaled deeply and looked back down at her arm, continuing her story matter-of-factly.

"When I finally did beg to die, he told me he'd help me achieve it, but that I must hold still. I tried." She winced and wouldn't meet his gaze. "Ramsay didn't cut along the vein. Intentionally. He blamed me for it, said I hadn't held still enough for him and that death would have to wait until after I'd birthed him an heir. Of course, that had been his plan all along." She smiled coldly and began pulling the laces tight, concealing once more the evidence of Ramsay Bolton's abuse.

Sandor watched in silence as he considered the degree of mind-numbing sadism that could cause someone to behave so diabolically to an innocent young woman.

"And I thought Joffrey was fucked up," he grunted bitterly. "Wish I could've gutted that bastard."

She smiled almost shyly at his protective response, "Well perhaps you did. Metaphorically speaking."

He offered only a blank stare and Sansa rolled her eyes playfully.

"Hounds? Oh, never mind." The gentle laugh combined with the dismissive wave of her hand was exactly the kind of reaction he'd played dumb for. Sansa's personality had thoroughly captivated him, and he still took pleasure in provoking her. He chuckled while she rearranged herself in her seat before turning to him with a brow raised.

"And now it's your turn."

Sandor groaned and leaned as far back against the bench as possible. "Ugh. What exactly did I promise you?"

She made a face. "You said that if I told you how I got this scar, you would tell me why you didn't kill me the night of the Blackwater."

Sandor scoffed and leaned his forearms onto his knees, "I wouldn't have killed you, Sansa."

"Raped then. You were so—"

His head came up to glare at her.

"—angry." She finished timidly, and he gave a heavy sigh.

"I don't know that I'd have raped you either. I wanted you, aye," he glanced sideways at her and Sansa blushed, fidgeting with her skirt self-consciously. "And I was angry because you were acting like a fool and Joffrey was a cunt and the whole bloody city was on fire. Always gotta be fire…," Sandor growled. "I just wanted to take something that I wanted for once in my shit life and not have to give a damn."

Sansa pushed herself to her feet and moved slowly toward the manicured evergreen shrub in front of them, thinking on his response. She cracked a small branch off and began picking the needles from it absently. When she spoke again, she did not look at him.

"So why didn't you?"

There was only silence for some time save the intermittent crackling of Sansa's branch and the soft rush of the breeze as it passed through the canopy overhead. When Sandor finally spoke, his voice was low and grave.

"I told you about my brother once. About the scars he gave me," he paused to look up at Sansa, and chuckled darkly. "Bloody hells, I used to frighten you then."

Sansa looked over her shoulder and gave him a reluctant smile, "Everything frightened me then, Sandor."

She turned away again, still picking absently at her branch, but he studied her profile fixedly as a deep gratification swelled in his chest. He wondered if he'd ever stop feeling the thrill that rushed through him whenever his given name passed her lips—whenever it was pronounced by the sweetest voice who'd ever spoken it.

"Aye," a nostalgic smile accompanied the short, breathy chuckle that he exhaled through his nose. He leaned onto his forearms again and stared down at his boots before continuing.

"Gregor wasn't my only sibling. I had a sister too."

Sansa's fidgeting stopped abruptly, and she turned to him in surprise. He did not seek her face, keeping his head down, but a small branch, stripped of most of its needles fell into the snow by her feet.

"Elynor. She was four years older than me. Two years younger than Gregor. And I was the baby." He snorted at how ridiculous that sounded. "Our mother fell ill and died when I was still young, five maybe. Elynor became like a mother to me."

Sandor straightened and met Sansa's shocked, sympathetic gaze with his own rueful one. He smiled wistfully.

"I hate that I can't even remember her face anymore. But I still hear her voice sometimes in my head. Elynor had a sweet voice. Like yours," another melancholy smile. "After my mother died, she would sing to me, the same song that had been sung to me since I was a babe in arms."

Sansa's expression had become so filled with empathy and astonishment that Sandor began to feel uncomfortable. There was something else, too, written upon her countenance as she slowly drew nearer to him, some other emotion that he couldn't quite define. He cleared his throat and attempted to focus only on his retelling.

"My mother was very pious," he continued, "loved the bloody Seven, though they didn't do a damn thing for her when she was wasting away in her deathbed." He looked down again, studying the edges of a leaf which danced in the breeze between his feet. "You were supposed to sing about Florian and Jonquil or some other shite." He crushed the leaf under his boot.

"But I didn't," Sansa breathed softly as she stood before him, a sudden understanding in the tone of her lowered voice. "I couldn't think of anything to sing; I was so frightened. I only remembered the Mother's hymn—they'd been singing it all evening in the Sept of Baelor. That—," she paused and drew in a shaky breath, "that was the song your mother sang to you."

"Aye, the Mother's hymn. Always had a way of calming me." He looked down and picked at a callus on his palm. "You sang that song like a frightened little bird and all I could think of was how ashamed my mother and sister would be of the monster I'd become. I've never hated myself more than I did in that moment. Threatening a helpless girl." He barked out a cold laugh to mask the deeper, more anguished emotion he felt. "I had become my brother," he finished bitterly.

"No! No, you're nothing like him," Sansa insisted fervently, crouching down before him and taking up his hand between hers as she searched his face earnestly.

Her sweetness shocked Sandor into silence. There was only sincerity and true concern etched into her delicate features, softly outlined as they were in the moonlight, without a trace of sarcasm or mockery. A waver of emotion had thickened her voice, and the warmth of her small hands radiated into his own as she clutched them tightly, stroking his skin with her thumb ever so slightly.

How could he, scarred and brutish and undeserving as he was, stir the emotion of someone so gentle and perfect as she? In a moment of clarity, unguarded by the walls he kept erected about himself, Sandor reached down to cup her face, drawing the edge of his thumb across her pale cheek.

"Little bird," he whispered hoarsely, "I could never have hurt you."

Sansa drew in a deep breath and held it, brow furrowing with emotion. She stood quickly and turned away from him so that he could not see her countenance, but her body trembled for a few moments, and she drew a hand to her face.

Sandor pushed himself to his feet, hesitated, and then tentatively placed a hand on her shoulder, guiding her to face him. She did turn to him, but kept her arms wrapped tightly about herself, eyes squeezed shut as she inhaled a deep draught of the crisp, predawn air. When they finally opened, her eyes penetrated his, somehow managing to be sad, angry, and confused all at once.

"Why? Why couldn't you ever hurt me? Every other man in the Kingsguard would strike me at Joffrey's command, but you, never. You protected me, you cloaked me, you tried to take me away from all of them. Even last night, you used your own body to warm me—you saved my life, Sandor." She searched his eyes and spoke just over a whisper, "Do you care for me?"

He raised a brow, discomfited by the question. Discussing feelings was complex and aggravating, but his desire for her was a simple truth, one which had been steadily edging to the forefront of his mind ever since he'd first beheld her candle-illuminated figure in the doorway of her chambers. His eyes roved her face and settled hungrily upon the exposed skin of her delicate throat.

"I did my duty…"

She scoffed, "It was more than just duty, Sandor."

She wanted something from him, some admission, some fanciful lover's reply. As if she didn't already know that he cared for her; that she was his entire world. He moved nearer to her, closing the gap between them and pushing a lock of hair over her shoulder, his fingertips grazing her neck.

"Mayhaps it was," he allowed as his eyes consumed her figure, a deep hunger building inside of him. Taking her shoulders in his hands, Sandor slowly brought his lips to her ear, "Or mayhaps I just wanted you for myself."

Sansa's lips parted to allow a ragged intake of breath, head tilting of its own accord to grant his searching lips access to her skin.

"You don't fool me, Sandor," she murmured ardently as his lips connected with the join of her neck and shoulder and she closed her eyes, unable to prevent a gasp from escaping her lips. "You with your gruff responses and supposed indifference." She opened her eyes and attempted to catch his gaze, pulling away momentarily from his caresses, "It is as I said before. You have a soft spot. For me."

He laughed huskily, gripping her upper arm suddenly and pulling her body roughly against his.

"Ain't a damn spot on me that's soft right now for you," he rasped into her ear, gripping the back of her neck and her hip simultaneously with possessive hands. "So, you must be wrong, little bird."

Sansa shuddered audibly, but pressed her hands against his chest, pulling away from him so that she might look him in the eyes once more. "I'm not wrong," she said, more boldly this time. "You're afraid of love, Sandor Clegane."

He clenched his jaw as he gazed bitterly into her deep blue eyes, the lonely anger of so many years surfacing in him in the form of a deep and all-encompassing lust for her. His fist closed around a handful of her thick hair and he pulled it to one side, forcefully exposing the creamy skin of her neck to him once more.

"Still a chirping little bird, is she?" he growled huskily, his mouth grown more insistent as he greedily kissed and sucked at the smooth skin he found there, until he'd succeeded in drawing a moan from between her parted lips. "Still the same dreamy little maiden, obsessed with love and romance?" he mocked. His hands became more demanding, slipping over curves and grasping at places in which she hadn't been touched by another in many, many months.

"No," she shuddered, covering one roaming hand with her own and slipping the other boldly around his neck. "I'm not a maiden, remember?"

He gripped her chin tightly, baring his teeth, "Aye, not a maiden," he agreed resentfully, eyes fixated on her mouth. "So, you'll not be chirping when I fuck you, you'll sing me that pretty little song, won't you?"

Sansa whined desperately, the needs of her flesh giving way finally to his insistence and she melted into him. Everything became a blur of hands and lips as they embraced with a passion and ferocity fueled by many years' suppressed desire finally given release.

"Someone will see us," Sansa gasped in the small space of time in which their lips were not joined, and her back hit the trunk of the weirwood forcefully.

"Let them see," Sandor responded hoarsely, wrapping one hand around her slender throat and tilting her face up to meet his hungry mouth. He kissed her insistently, his tongue demanding what his body craved from her, and all that mattered was how quickly he could make her his own. His fingers tore feverishly at the laces on her gown.

Sansa withdrew from their embrace gasping for breath, yet desperate for more of him. She clawed at the clasps of his jerkin to gain access to the powerful chest she'd glimpsed that morning, but Sandor was interested only in claiming her. He pushed her hands aside to work at her bodice again, his veins coursing with a desperate need for her that was stronger than reason. He could not taste her quickly enough, could not fully revel in every curve of her figure beneath his hands while the urge persisted. He would have her now and would take her against the tree if he must.

"I don't—gods—I don't know how far we should take this, Sandor," she moaned as his hand plunged into her dress and engulfed one full breast. Her mouth fell open, breath hitched loudly in her throat as he urgently kneaded and caressed her tender flesh, all his movements fueled by an undercurrent of ravenous, maddening desire.

"Bloody hells," he laughed mockingly against her throat, "You're the Lady of Winterfell, Sansa, you can take this wherever the fuck you want." His lips found hers again and she moaned agonizingly into his mouth.

With her breasts freed from their coverings, Sandor drew back to behold their beauty. He pushed the stray tresses of auburn hair behind her shoulders, a deep shade of lust darkening his gray eyes.

"Fuck, you've the prettiest teats in the seven kingdoms, girl," Sandor groaned, stroking a calloused thumb over one perfect, erect nipple which tightened further at his touch. Sansa gasped and he succumbed to the insistent desire to taste her there, guiding the supple fullness into his mouth and sucking gently. A deeper and more impassioned moan escaped her throat, but Sandor was nearly brought to his knees in the next instant when, without warning, her hand slipped into his breeches and grasped ahold of his cock tightly.

"I'm not a girl, Sandor," she whispered between clenched teeth as she unabashedly stroked the length of him. Releasing her nipple, Sandor groaned against her collarbone, willing greater strength into her hand so that she might grasp him more tightly. He needed more.

"Fucking hells," he murmured hoarsely, withdrawing from her embrace momentarily to catch his breath and regain his footing. She looked like a goddess of the North, her red hair contrasting against the white bark of the weirwood and the white skin of her bare breasts and neck. He didn't need a bed, didn't need sheets or furs, he just needed to be inside of her, and he needed it now. He fisted her skirts roughly, shoving them up to her waist and drawing his hand up her inner thigh where he was met, not with the silken smallclothes he'd expected to find, but with the soft tuft of hair which protected her sweet, wet warmth beneath it.

"Oh fuck," he groaned desperately. "Why the fuck aren't you wearing smallclothes, you vixen?" Gripping her face, he tilted it up to his while he invaded her slick folds.

Sansa gasped for breath between his lustful kisses and withdrew her hand from his breeches. Leaning her head back, she arched her body against the tree and spread her legs further for him, moaning wantonly when his finger roughly entered her.

"I—ah—gods! I hoped—you would take me," she whined, hands reaching over her head and clawing at the bark, grasping for purchase as his finger curled inside her, reaching places that were primed and desperate for his touch. The pressure was exquisite, maddening. Intoxicating.

Her admission of lascivious intent went straight to his brain and sent him over the edge. With a feverish growl he jerked the remaining fabric aside that still separated their intimate places. Hoisting her against the tree, he released his aching cock from his breeches and positioned himself to enter her. Sansa's mouth hung open, gasping as he shifted her weight with his powerful arms and spread her legs around his hips. A sharp, high-pitched inhalation of breath that was nearly a whine filled his ears when he pushed the throbbing head of his cock against her slick entrance, so sweetly prepared to accommodate him.

"Is that so?" he growled, the veins on his neck bulging with his restraint, his hand squeezing her breast roughly. "Did proper little Sansa Stark want to be fucked out here in the godswood?" he sneered lecherously.

Pausing for the briefest instant, Sandor caught her gaze and held it, teeth bared, eyes hooded with lust. Then he sheathed himself fully in her, filling her completely in one fierce, satisfying thrust.

Sansa cried out, her nails digging into the skin of his neck and shoulders while she clung to him tightly. His forehead pressed against hers as he drew out of her slowly only to fill her again immediately, her muscles contracting around him as she stretched to accommodate him. And each movement he made was punctuated by Sansa's unchaste gasps of erotic pleasure.

"Fucked by the Hound," he groaned. He kissed her roughly, pushing as far into her as was physically possible and when his groin had met hers, he shoved a half-inch further, until he felt that he'd truly claimed all of her.

"This what you wanted, little bird?" He lowered his face into the crook of her neck and began to take her roughly.

"Oh, gods, yes!" she moaned, legs spread wide around his hips as he shoved her against the tree repeatedly with each thrust, one arm wrapped around her back and the other gripping the outside of her thigh tightly. There would be no gentle prepping, no priming and petting, for she'd gradually built a fire of lust within him which had peaked when he'd found her half-naked and desirous of him. There would be no going back; Sandor had been good for far too long.

He withdrew his forehead from her shoulder, looking to her face for her reaction to their indecent coupling, but her eyes were closed, head thrown back in ecstasy, hair caught on the edges of weirwood bark and tousled over her shoulders and bare breasts. She clung to him, moaning softly; Sansa Stark in his arms, with his cock buried deep inside of her.

He would reach completion faster than he'd ever had in his life like this, cradling this exquisite prize and thrusting into her warm and ready cunt like there would never be another chance to claim her. She'd wanted it as desperately as he had, and he had taken her where she stood. Each time his cock slid roughly into her warm depths, she moaned sweetly, singing for him the pretty little song he'd wanted to coax from her for years.

His peak came strong and sudden upon him, white light and heat streaking from his every extremity to gather at his core in the most exquisite explosion of ecstasy that he'd ever known. Groaning loudly against her heaving, white throat, Sandor shoved himself as deeply inside of her as he could with his release, clenching her thigh so tightly that a bruise marking his misdeeds upon it would be inevitable. She panted and whined, clutching at his shoulders with her nails and passing her lips possessively along his neck until his movements finally slowed, and she relaxed into him.

In the wake of his feverish possession of her, his need now temporarily sated, he drew back to look into her face. He knew she hadn't reached her own peak and he felt a twinge of remorse for his selfishness and lust.

"I'm sorry, little bird" he panted, chuckling weakly as he stared down at her loose breasts and hiked up skirts, with his softly pulsing manhood still inside of her. "I should have waited for your fancy bed and done this proper."

She smiled coyly and shook her head, kissing him once more upon the lips before he pulled out of her and lowered her back to the earth. Her gaze followed his hands as he returned his cock to his breeches and tied them, while she began to pull her dress back up over her breasts and set her appearance back in order.

"If I'd wanted you in my bed, I wouldn't have come to the godswood," she admitted softly.

Sandor reached for his discarded weapons belt with a raised brow at her.

"So you don't want me in your bed, is what you're saying?"

Biting her lip, Sansa eyed him up and down as she pulled the laces on her bodice tight, her gaze settling upon his still prominent manhood which strained against his breeches.

"No, that's not what I'm saying, Sandor."

He reached for her tousled head and pulled her into one last erotic kiss, slow and sensual. When their mouths parted, he ran his thumb over her moistened lower lip and squeezed her bottom tightly with a roguish grin.

"Good. I don't fancy being slapped again."