A/N: Inspired by A Song of Steel by Egleriel. (Please see the end of the chapter for further notes.)

Chapter 1: Sansa I

It was almost dark in her bedchamber, and so quiet now. Sansa breathed slowly, all warm and contented. But not at all sleepy, unfortunately. She rolled to face Sandor, and his arm tightened around her waist; though at least he was asleep, his head half-buried in the pillows. Between the wavering candlelight and her position, she could only see his good side. He seemed to be at peace, without the habitual scowl that usually marred his features, even in his dreams. It felt good to be the one who had caused that, or so she hoped.

Even at peace, Sandor's face was still not quite what she would have called handsome. Plain, for certain — though if she wanted to be complimentary, she might say striking, mayhaps distinguished. There was a strong look of the First Men to him that she liked and had found a bit confusing in a Westerman, although his account of his Northern grandmother had clarified matters. Sansa lightly stroked his black hair, but his brow furrowed and she desisted, unwilling to disturb him.

For much of the past few days, Sansa had felt so pleased to see his features without the usual brooding anger. It was enchanting to see Sandor's grey eyes shine with pride when speaking of the home of his childhood; and so thrilling to see his eyes blaze with open desire when he gazed at her. She wasn't sure how long he had wanted her, almost certainly longer than she had wanted him — but now that his reserve and her shyness were gone, everything was much more pleasant. And pleasurable.

She shifted, feeling a slight ache inside. This second time had felt much better than her first — which had been so nice, really, if not for the day after — but he had taken a little less care with her. Sansa could still feel the marks his lips had left on her neck, and her wrists twinged a bit. Though during the moment, she hadn't even noticed any pain, just the overwhelming passion… but now, it was like the traces of his fingers burned. He's just so strong, he doesn't realize… he looked so guilty and angry with himself when I had to refuse him the past few nights. At least tomorrow there wouldn't be another excruciating horseback ride, now that they were here at last. Sandor's home, her home for now.

The featherbed was soft and warm, so comfortable after all those weeks of bedrolls on hard cold ground. And her head was all fuzzy with wine and pleasure, and she felt so tired… but Sansa still felt sleep escaping her. Maybe it was that if she didn't sleep, tomorrow would never come, and they could stay in this moment forever. For tomorrow, she would have to see the maester, and…

Sansa knew that she should be happy that this small keep even had a maester — that she wouldn't need to find a wise woman in the village or a woods witch out in the hills. This would be simple. Not a thing to worry about. No need to fear, when it was the opposite she should dread, what it would mean for her life, her hopes, her future noble marriage… to some high lord not of her choice, just like a filly bought and sold and ridden and bred… She closed her eyes, trying to shield away the light, trying to shield away the memories. But another drew unbidden to her mind, that of her argument with Sandor earlier that evening.

"Your sons would be true knights," Sansa whispered insistently, "good men, like you," and thought, tall and strong, honorable and truthful, dark-haired and grey-eyed… just like… She clenched her eyelids tight while her nails dug into her palms, and she bit her lip so hard she could taste blood. Her breathing came fast and hard as she fought not to cry. Not to wake Sandor and bother him with her foolish imaginings.

Stupid, stupid little bird, little child who still believes in songs and dreams and things that cannot ever be… life isn't a song, nothing could ever be allowed… and he doesn't even want… I don't want… can't want… anything more than what we shared tonight. Just Sandor's strong hands and his fierce kisses and his rough voice whispering her name… that should be more than enough. More than almost anyone could ask for.

She turned away, wrapped her arms around herself, and drifted into an uneasy sleep.

It felt like only moments later when she woke to the sound of Sandor's curse. But time must have passed, the candle was long cold, and light was coming through the window he stood by… wasn't that the window she had watched the sunset from?

Sansa lifted her head. "Sandor?" she asked muzzily. "What is the matter?"

He glanced back at her, a rueful look on his face, and said, "Didn't mean to wake you, little bird. Not to worry, but Lannisport's aflame."

She wasn't worried, but it did sound frightening. Lannisport was one of the largest cities in Westeros, why was it burning? She climbed out of bed to stand by him, taking a blanket with her to cover herself.

Sandor pointed at the flickering red-orange glow in the distance. The clouds reflected the light, making it seem brighter and closer than it must actually be. "Most like, the city's being sacked. The maester said the krakens were reaving up and down the western coast, and Lannisport's been attacked by them before, years ago. There should be a blockade in the harbor, but the longboats must have gotten past somehow."

Sansa shivered, and hugged the coverlet tightly. "How far away is the city?"

"About half a day on a fast horse… a couple of days, if you have to walk." Sandor added, "But the ironmen won't go inland when they've all the plunder they want in the port itself."

It was sweet of him to try to reassure her, but that wasn't what she had been thinking of. "Oh, no, I was just remembering… the sky reminds me a bit of the night the Kingswood burned, the night Tyrion fired the riverfront." She and Sandor had watched those flames together from near the top of the Red Keep. Only cowards fight with fire, he had said. It had been just a few days before the Battle of the Blackwater, which was another memory altogether. She shrugged it off, and added, "But I suppose we're much too far away for the smoke to bother us here."

Sandor was very quiet then, as they gazed at the distant fires. The virulent sky lit the burned side of his face alarmingly, and his hands twitched. Finally he spoke, slowly and hesitant. "I scared you that night. I keep doing that. I'm…" And then he stopped. All she could hear was his rough, heavy breathing.

Was he still trying to apologize for their argument? She had already forgiven him. He had shouted and said nasty things, but it didn't compare to that night, nor almost all of their encounters in King's Landing. That night she had wanted to thank him for saving her from the mob, and he had laid his sword against her throat and been truly hateful. Honest, he had said, but it seemed as if he were trying to rip apart all her beliefs. Yesterday all he had done was remind her there were subjects that still made him snap like a savage dog.

Which had been frightening, she had to admit. He's still the same man he was then, she tried to tell herself, just as dangerous and cruel… but she couldn't make herself believe it. He had looked so genuinely ashamed, after. In the years of their separation, something had tempered him. He was still rude, still seemed to enjoy pushing her limits, but the surprising gentleness he had shown her before was now much more obvious, and nearly unwavering. And back then, she had no idea what Sandor Clegane wanted of her. She had a better grasp of the matter now.

"Everything scared me in King's Landing." Sansa made herself reach out and take his hand, made herself turn her head and look at him, even as terrible as this light made him appear. There was the difference — Sandor's eyes, no longer full of anger, but interested, abashed, and grateful. So grateful for any kind look or word or touch or kiss… this strong man, so vulnerable in her presence. "I'm not scared anymore."

He responded with a grin much like he had given her earlier, a smile that made her want to smile shyly back, bite her lip, kiss him, all kinds of things. "You're safe here, little bird," he said. "Back to bed with you, now." He picked her up in strong arms and carried her over to the bed, and laid her down gently. She expected him to climb in next to her, but was dismayed when he sat down and began to pull on his breeches.

"Wait, where are you going?"

"My bedroom, upstairs." Sandor looked guilty, almost embarrassed, which made her frown. If anyone should be ashamed of their night of passion it should be her, and since she wasn't bothered, why was he? But he continued, "I shouldn't have slept here tonight, the servants will talk."

"Sandor," she huffed. Sansa knew her proprieties, but one might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. "Please don't be foolish. If you had left immediately after we… after last night, you would have still spent enough time with me for anyone to talk. The servants here aren't stupid."

Though wary and fearful. The scarred, silent chambermaid who had helped prepare her bath had also left bandages and salves, and had given her a look filled with such pity that it was disturbing. When Sansa had realized the intent and angrily said she wouldn't need them, the girl had looked so surprised and disbelieving… just the memory of it was making her upset again. Everyone expected Sandor to be a monster like his brother or the depraved Mad Dog of Saltpans — they didn't know her Hound, her protector, the man who would never hurt her.

Sansa sat up and wrapped her arms around him, laying her head on his broad back. He awkwardly patted her hand. "Don't want to ruin your reputation, my lady."

As always, he spoke that title like a jape, as frustrating to her as this strange reluctance. The more he resisted, the bolder she wanted to be. "I don't have any reputation here, Sandor, nobody knows who I am." Which might or might not protect her from the things that could be said, but still… if he just bedded her and left, she thought it would be far more damaging. Certainly to his reputation, if not hers. "For all they know, I am your lady in truth, and why shouldn't the master of the keep spend the night in his lady's chambers?" she asked softly.

At any moment Sansa expected him to flinch, to scowl like he had when she'd foolishly referred to the cloaks he'd given her… but he didn't, and she went on a little more brightly. "Besides, with all our traveling, I'm afraid I've just become too accustomed to you lying near me, Sandor." She hugged him again. "I'm not certain I could sleep well without you here."

He turned and pulled her onto his lap and kissed her. She wiggled in delight. "Don't think I could rest well without your pleasant company either," he murmured. "If you're really sure?" Sansa nodded and smiled, and he smirked, then laid her back down on the bed. "Though I'm not sleepy right now, little bird. I've a mind to make you sing for me again…"

Again? she thought, slightly panicked. So soon? Although she realized she should have known that when she asked Sandor to stay with her longer, he wouldn't think she meant just to sleep with her.

But then his hands were at her wrists and his lips were on hers, and she kissed back eagerly, urgently. His mouth slid down her throat, laying light kisses on the sore spots as he moved along her shoulder, then back up her jawline. He murmured her name and then his teeth nibbled at her earlobe, and she could only lie there whimpering, eyes half closed, feeling so good, so wanton… He was too strong to fight, not that she wanted to resist him now… she couldn't resist this… he ran a rough hand down her body, and she arched her back and moaned.

If not that the glow coming through the window was merely orange, without the green of wildfire, it would be like that night of the battle of the Blackwater… but so different… more like her dreams. She'd dreamed of this, of him… holding her down and stealing a kiss and a song… but no more, and leaving. She had never thought to see him again, but events had proven otherwise. And now, she was no longer afraid, not a child anymore, she needed this, needed him, needed to see his face, to meet his eyes…

And then a green flare did illuminate the room for a moment, and she froze in sudden terror, unable to catch her breath.

Sandor had frozen as well, his eyes wide and white. He released her and stumbled to the window, muttering, "What in seven hells…"

There was a quiet tapping on the door to her bedchamber. Sansa pulled the blankets tight around herself as Sandor cursed and reversed direction. He yanked the door open with a snarl, revealing a startled and nervous maester.

"Master, my apologies to you and the lady for disturbing you at this hour," the man stuttered, "but there's been a raven, with an urgent message."

Sansa had just finished pulling her brown traveling dress over her head — it was a bit dirty, but the gown she had worn last night was ruined, and she had no others as yet — when Sandor came back into the bedchamber and thrust a parchment at her. He began to put on his tunic and boots as she read the letter, written in an unfamiliar, clumsy scrawl.

Sandor — Sorry about the men I promised you, but they've been
unavoidably detained. No doubt you can see the flames of Lannisport
from your keep as well as I can from Casterly Rock. Normally I would
not summon you for fire-fighting — but the ironmen have Cersei.
That's why no one has seen her and "Ser Robert" for months — they
took a ship. And now those pirates have her, and the Seven only know
what else — there's reports of monsters in the harbor and monsters
in the city — you can understand why I thought you should know.
Come, if you want to help, but whatever you decide, keep the girl safe.

— Jaime Lannister

A trembling overtook Sansa as she read. It was so casual on the surface, but the quill had bit hard on the parchment when scribbling "the ironmen have Cersei" — she didn't know what that meant exactly, or how it could be tied to wildfire, but she knew that it meant the ironmen had Ser Robert Strong, too. The huge, unstoppable monster that somehow also was Gregor Clegane, the Mountain That Rides, Sandor's hated older brother. The man who had murdered their father and sister and burned Sandor's face so terribly as a boy.

Sandor had wanted to kill him so badly — she recalled the night he first told her of his scars, and how he had defended Ser Loras Tyrell from Gregor's wrath — but the vengeance had been denied him when the Mountain was killed by a Dornish prince's poisoned spear. But Gregor had somehow returned from death by some sorcery — rumors spoke of vile manipulations by a former maester — and somehow became Ser Robert Strong, a helmeted knight of the Kingsguard, and then a kingslayer on the run with the disgraced Queen Cersei.

So Sandor had pulled himself out of gods-knew-where to hunt down Gregor and destroy him at last. She remembered what he had told Ser Jaime in the Riverlands. I've been waiting to kill Gregor for twenty years. He dies at my hand this time. It seemed nothing short of miraculous that Sandor had found and rescued her on the way to his destiny.

But when forced to decide, he had chosen Sansa over his vengeance. More or less… he had stayed with her and brought her to his childhood home because he'd thought Gregor might hide out there. She had been so angry at him for misleading her, for swearing to protect her yet taking her into danger… danger, it seemed, that had never actually existed. And now that she was safe here, she knew there was no chance Sandor would choose her over his brother again.

The odd thing was that she realized she didn't want him to. Last night she'd seen Sandor sleep peacefully for the first time in their acquaintance — most nights, she knew, he moved restlessly, muttering and moaning, suffering from nightmares that could have but one cause. She couldn't — wouldn't — stop him from trying to destroy the source of all his years of pain. I could keep you safe, he'd said. No one would hurt you again. But how could she ever make him feel safe and unhurt? He could fight her battles for her, but she could never do the same for him.

And yet she was so desperately afraid. She didn't want to lose him — he wasn't just her lover and her protector, but perhaps the only true friend she had left in this world. And when Sandor faced down his brother at last, she knew only one of them would walk away. Sansa prayed it would be her Hound, but she couldn't know, and the fear tore at her. Still, she found it inconceivable to stand in his way.

Unshed tears were blurring the words of the letter. She wiped her eyes and looked up. Sandor had finished dressing and was sitting on the bed next to her, quietly watching her.

"I have to leave," he said.

Sansa nodded. "I know. I won't try to stop you."

He looked surprised at that — mayhaps even a bit disappointed, she fancied, but he leaned in for a kiss that she eagerly returned. He wrapped one strong arm around her while his other hand stroked her hair, and she clutched at the rough fabric of his tunic, hoping the moment would never end.

But it did, and when they broke to breathe, she murmured, "I half-expected you to be racing down the Goldroad by now."

He pulled away, releasing her. "I would be," he growled, sounding intensely frustrated. "But despite the sky, it's still an hour or more till dawn, and if I push Stranger through these hills in the dark…"

The horse would be sure to lose his footing, perhaps break a leg, and then where would he be? But the mention of the time gave Sansa an idea, and she jumped up.

"Oh, Sandor, if we have an hour…"

He leaned back, gazing at her appreciatively.

"Then you must break your fast, and also prepare anything you want to bring with you — weapons, armor, whatever you need. I'll go and tell the cook we'd like some food right away."

"You want to feed me?" He gaped at her, incredulous.

"Oh yes," Sansa nodded. It seemed very few of the heroes of her songs and stories ever had a good meal before going off to fight dragons or monsters or whatever — in fact, she could only think of one, in the tale of the Manderly lord and the Merling King — but she'd always wondered why more didn't. "Everyone feels better after a nice breakfast. Fights better, too."

Sandor threw his head back and laughed. "Very well, little bird. Go, quickly now."

Sansa puffed as she returned to her bedchamber. She had realized too late that she could have told a chambermaid, but it had seemed much more satisfying to inform the kitchen staff herself. She looked around, but Sandor wasn't there, not even hiding in the shadows. Though her eye did fall on the dressing-table mirror… and saw her hair was all wild, mussed from sleep and the flight down and back up the towerhouse stairs. I look a fair madwoman, she thought. No wonder the servants had positively leapt to do her bidding.

She took one of the sample strips of fabric that the dressmaker had left for her — hopefully she would have those new dresses soon, not to mention the smallclothes she was running desperately low on — and plaited it into her hair. Sansa nodded in satisfaction at the looking-glass, and then left the room to search for Sandor. Perhaps he had gone down into the yard…

She called out, "Sandor? They said they would be ready soon… where are you?"

"Up here, girl. Come see this," his voice returned.

Sansa went up a floor to find Sandor in his small boyhood bedroom, kneeling in front of the wardrobe. By the light of the hallway candles and the faint glow from the window, she could see that he'd used his dagger to work a panel loose. As she watched, he pulled free a long, slim, covered drawer.

"A secret compartment?" she asked, excited. She had only heard of them in stories.

"Yes, little bird. Mine. Can't believe Gregor and his rats never found it all this time. I'd half-forgotten it myself."

Sandor tipped up the cover to reveal a large mass of yellow cloth. He shook it out, proving it to be a long surcoat, across which three black dogs raced.

"My father's," he rasped in response to her unspoken question. "It was too big for me when I left, so I hid it away, safe. Never thought I'd have the chance to see it again."

Sansa nodded, unsure of any words to say. She had seen the Hound wear his family arms on a shield, but never anything else. His only concession to ornament had been the dog's-head helm and his enameled dagger. This surcoat must be terribly precious to him if he wanted to take it with him now.

She knelt next to him, and glanced back into the drawer to see what else Sandor had treasured as a boy. Among other things, she noted a lock of dark hair, a wooden sword, a faded flower, a small blood-stained dog collar, a little box, a broken looking-glass… Sansa wanted to ask all the questions in the world, but there was no time. She settled on picking up the little box. It was made of carved wood, and its lid was painted with the Clegane arms. "What's this, Sandor?"

"Ah. The other thing I wanted you to see." He grinned at her. "Open it."

She looked up at him curiously, then lifted off the lid. Her mouth opened in wonder. Lying on velvet inside the box were some pieces of gold jewelry — a tiara, necklace, and earrings, all set with glassy black stones. Sansa held a delicate earring up to the light, a green flare bursting just as she did. The oddly-shaped stone had a shine, a glow that she couldn't recall seeing before.

"So pretty," she murmured. "But… this isn't polished jet?"

"Dragonglass," he replied. "Careful, there might be sharp edges still. My father once found a cache of arrowheads out in the hills, and fancying they looked a bit like dog's teeth, had them made into jewelry for his lady wife. My sister was supposed to have them, but… she died too young. And I put them away as soon as I could, so Gregor wouldn't get his filthy hands on them. My father was… too troubled to notice." They sat in silence for a moment, before he said, "But they're yours now."

Sansa gasped, "Oh, no, I couldn't. These were your mother's… your sister's… I can't take them away from your family."

He shook his head. "I don't have a family, little bird. And I took you away from the Vale with naught but the clothes on your back. You deserve something pretty, and these jewels deserve someone pretty to wear them." He added, a bit lamely, "Besides… they should look nice with your hair."

Her septa had taught Sansa that a lady should only accept jewelry from certain kinds of men, of which Sandor Clegane was most definitely not one. But then, her septa had said lots of things that Sansa was currently ignoring. And this was Sandor. He would be leaving soon and might never come back. How could she refuse him anything? And the jewelry was so very pretty…

"Of course, Sandor. Thank you for thinking of me, especially now." She kissed his cheek. "Shall we go down to breakfast? Time is running short."

A half-smile quirked across his lips, and he stood and offered her his arm.

Dawn was breaking, clear and cold.

She stood in the courtyard, waiting for Sandor to reappear. Though her belly was full of warm food, Sansa shivered in the chill, wishing for a cloak of some kind — but the white fur was ruined and the other he had only just promised. She remembered how it had felt when he swept one around her shoulders, taking the time to fasten the clasp even as wolves surrounded them. With his height, he had no trouble at all reaching her… no, don't, don't think of that, you know it can never be.

The servants who had breakfasted with them were standing near her, albeit keeping a good distance. Surprisingly, a few were talking to each other, though their voices were very low. As the sun rose, more servants arrived, until Sansa realized the full complement of the keep must be assembled in the courtyard. Waiting for Sandor, just like her.

He strode out of the stables leading his horse and she gasped. With the surcoat over his grey armor, Oathkeeper's scabbard belted around his waist… although she knew it would be the height of foolishness to tell him so, Sandor looked every inch a knight. So tall, so strong… and as he busied himself with Stranger, his hair fell across his face, masking his scars, and she had a vision of what might have been, had to blink back tears. There should be a wife and laughing children, he should be heading out for a hunt or to visit his smallfolk or liege lord. Not leaving his home for a mortal battle from which he might never return.

Sansa had thought she no longer cared for knights, for all their words of honor and chivalry had proven false. But in this moment it was like all the dreams of her youth had returned… and she felt so stupid, such a fool to apply them to the Hound, who hated knights and spat on all they stood for… who said he was a butcher, just a killer, nothing but a dog…

Sandor, the only member of the Kingsguard who had refused to beat her, for all that he was the Lannisters' most loyal man. Sandor, who had seen her moment of determination, of self-destruction, and had saved her then, without once letting on to Joffrey what had nearly happened. Sandor, who had faced a raging mob to rescue her. Sandor, who had come to her a broken man, a drunken deserter, and yet still wanted to help her… and who had seen her fear and let her be, leaving her nothing but a kiss and a bloody cloak. Sandor, who had come from nowhere to save her from Littlefinger's hedge knight. Sandor, who had saved her from the wolves. Again and again he had proven himself to her. For all he hated knights, he was a truer knight than any who claimed the title.

She pushed away the thought, hard as she could, forcing herself to think instead of Sandor's strong arms and broad chest and how well he fought, how he had defeated all comers at the melee in the Vale. She should not be that frightened, surely he would defeat Gregor and return to his home… to her… but still…

It was less than a week ago that Sansa had thought he might leave her forever. When Ser Jaime had found them in the Riverlands and given Sandor the choice, her or the Mountain. Only a few days ago, she had wanted Sandor to stay with her more than anything; to protect her, to return her freshly-acknowledged affections, to keep her world safe. She had been so overjoyed when he had elected to remain with her.

And now, he was leaving again, and this time she had not even tried to keep him with her. She wished she had fought this new parting more, and wondered if he thought less of her for not doing so. But in just a few days, it felt like everything had changed.

It wasn't concern for herself anymore, but concern for him, she realized. It wasn't just desire to keep him close to her, to see if her infatuation was returned. It wasn't that she was afraid for herself, what his absence might mean to her safety. It wasn't that she didn't want him to leave her, because she desperately wanted him to stay. She cared so much for him, she was afraid for him, he mattered more to her than she could have ever imagined. Sansa couldn't let him go without telling him how she felt… but if she did…

Sandor swung the last of his packs, the saddlebag containing his dog's-head helm, over Stranger's back. Then he called over Maester Denys, speaking something to him that she couldn't hear, but she saw the maester taking a knee in the mud. After that, Sandor looked up and addressed the waiting servants in a loud, clear voice. "I'm heading off to Lannisport. Might be some time. While I am away, you will obey the lady's voice as if it were my own. And protect her with your lives — if I ever hear otherwise, they won't be worth shit."

Sansa blushed. While she appreciated the sentiment, she wished he would be less crude. But it was Sandor, after all, and she supposed this was the best she could ask for. And then he looked over at her and his eyes lit up, and she made herself walk up to him and smile, made herself not show the fear. She fought the urge to shout, please, please don't go, I don't want you to die… It was best to just be brave, to behave how she had been taught a lady should conduct herself when her lord went off to war. Though Sandor wasn't her lord… but what he was to her, she could not say. Dared not say.

But despite her brave front, he still saw her uncontrollable shivers, and put his hands on her shoulders. "You're cold, little bird. Wish I had that cloak ready for you now."

It's better he thinks me merely cold, not afraid. "It's all right, Sandor. I'll call back the seamstress soon, and I'll have it next time you see me. Or mayhaps I'll sew one myself," she smiled. He had never actually mocked her needlework, but she could tell he thought it was below her. Nevertheless, though the skills she had learned were more suited for the running of a home than the defense of one, she was still proud of them.

Sandor shook his head. "Suit yourself, then. Now… I asked the maester to keep horses ready for you and him, just in case… something comes here. Not sure I trust the little weasel, but he'll find somewhere safe for you if needs be. And I swore him to your service, for all that's worth when a man like that makes an oath like that."

He looked up to the sky and back down again. "And another one I don't trust… but Ser Stump could have done a lot worse when he found us, and he didn't. If he and the Maid come for you…" and I don't, were the unsaid words there, "the Quiet Isle isn't so bad a place. Tell the Elder Brother… I tried. Couldn't keep the Hound dead, but I'm grateful he bothered with Sandor Clegane. Because I finally…" he paused, taking a deep breath, then murmured, "saved you, little bird, and that's enough. A better absolution than the Seven could have granted me," he said hoarsely.

Sansa bit her lip and closed her eyes. Tell him, tell him, tell him… but if she did, she might stop him and… she didn't know what she wanted anymore. She needed him to stay, but she knew he had to leave, for his own sake… I can't keep him here just for me. It wouldn't be fair, and he's had too much unfairness already.

Sandor was tilting her chin up to meet his face, so much more gently than he'd ever done so before. She opened her eyes and met his, trying to read the expression there, searching for words. "What shall I do while you're… away?" she managed.

He blinked, and asked, "You were going to talk with the maester today?" She nodded, and he said roughly, "Good… that's best for you, girl, don't you doubt it."

It isn't, it's not what I want, but it is, it has to be, oh gods… "And after?"

"If you like… let him show you the household accounts, see if you can get started on the necessary repairs to the keep. You're determined to mend things, little bird, you may as well try with this home of mine. Oh, and if you'd like something nice… ask him to show you the dogs," he grinned.

That smile was what broke her, in the end. When he smiled like that, so genuinely, almost boyish… she felt her tears defying her control, felt the crack in the armor of her courtesies. She couldn't let him go without telling him. Without showing him what he meant to her.

Somewhat desperately, Sansa pulled the strip of fabric from her hair. "Sandor, please… take this." She pressed it into his hand. It was no proper favor, but she had nothing else to give him. "I know, I know you're no knight, I know you don't want it, don't want anything of the sort, but… please. For me. For luck. For…"

Strange expressions were passing over his face, and she wondered how she herself looked, with her stuttering words and quick breathing and the tears fighting to escape. She took a deep breath, and gasped, "I love you, Sandor. Please come back to me."

Sansa heard his breath catch, and then his strong arms wrapped around her, and he kissed her before everyone in the yard. She could hear their quiet murmurs stilling to silence, hear the pulse of her blood in her ears. An endless moment passed, and she felt loved, possessed, precious… the only thing that mattered was Sandor and how he made her feel.

And then he let her go, and swung up onto his horse. "I will, my lady," he said. And before she knew it, he was gone.

Sansa stood alone, shivering in the dawn air. I am such a fool. She wasn't sure what she had expected to happen after she told him of her love. His own bold declaration? That was madness — of course he didn't love her, a man like him would never even believe in love, that sort of thing was for songs and stories and all the other courtly nonsense twittered by a pretty little bird.

At least… at least he had kissed her passionately. At least he didn't reject me or call me a fool outright. We share passion if nothing else. And at least he had taken her favor, and not rejected that either.

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, praying to the Seven, to the Old Gods, to anyone who would listen. Please keep him safe. Please bring him back to me.

.

Author's note: This is a spinoff/AU of Egleriel's awesome story, A Song of Steel. See, as I read that fic, I found it amazing enough to get my mind going on what could happen next, and before I knew it I had written pages and pages of material. (Which was kind of embarrassing – I hadn't written a proper fanfic in years, let alone fic for another author's unfinished work.) So I contacted her with my feedback and confession, and she was kind enough to give me her blessing, so to speak.

If you have read the fic (which you should), this story spins off immediately after her chapter 16. It obviously doesn't go quite the same way her story does, though we did have a few coincidental thoughts here and there (it's a San/San fic, what can you do). If you haven't read the fic (though for goodness' sake, if you're a shipper who's reading mine, you should read hers, especially chapter 12 which is the best ever), here's what has come between the end of ADWD and the start of my story:

• Sandor Clegane emerges from his self-imposed seclusion on the Quiet Isle after learning his hated brother Gregor has returned from the dead through some dark magic. Representing Queen Cersei in her trial, "Ser Robert Strong" has killed the Faith's champion Lancel Lannister and also young King Tommen (accidentally). Gregor and Cersei have vanished, nobody knows where, but Sandor intends to find out.

• To get back into fighting shape, Sandor signs up as a guard for a traveling merchant and arrives in the Vale just in time for a tournament, which he ends up participating in anonymously. Meanwhile at the tournament, Sansa Stark is getting to know her future husband Harry Hardyng, but her "father" Littlefinger becomes jealous and dangerously grabby. He sends her away with one of his household knights; unfortunately said knight takes the opportunity to collect the price on Sansa's head. But Sandor rescues her, yay.

• Sansa asks to travel with him, so he can keep her safe like he once promised, and he, naturally, does not refuse. On the trip, they get to know each other better (arguments, much sexual tension, etc. – honestly, people, just read Egleriel's fic), including Sandor telling her about his travels with her sister Arya. One evening in the Riverlands the tension spills over just in time to be interrupted by...

• Jaime Lannister, Sandor's liege lord, and his companion Brienne the Maid of Tarth - fresh from dealing with the Brotherhood and on their own hunt for Cersei and Gregor. Jaime gives Sandor a choice: stay with Sansa, or go with him after Gregor. Sandor chooses her, and Jaime swears him to her service and returns his helm. Brienne also gives him the sword Oathkeeper, to defend Sansa with her father's steel. They head off in different directions – J&B to Casterly Rock to search for Cersei, and S&S towards Clegane Keep.

• When Sansa realizes Sandor is hoping to find Gregor there, claiming to protect her but still taking her into danger, it provokes another argument – which ends in a kiss that leads to her first night of passion. After, their travels continue, and they narrowly escape Nymeria's wolfpack before eventually arriving at Sandor's childhood home in the Westerlands.

• They're greeted there by a nervous maester and a traumatized and quiet staff of servants, but otherwise the keep seems perfectly safe, if somewhat the worse for Gregor's wear. And despite yet another argument, the two settle in, and that night Sandor ends up in her bed again... before he wakes in the pre-dawn to see a glow in the northwest – the city of Lannisport is on fire.

One last note: I've changed the character of the maester a lot, I think, and as he's an OC I thought it would be best if I renamed him. And again, my extreme thanks to Egleriel for letting me play in the wonderful addition she's made to GRRM's world.