Hola, all! Thank you everyone for reading this little piece of work. I don't know what I've done to get the best readers in the entire fandom- but what can I say? You are all amazing. If anyone wants to talk to me you can also e-mail me at hadesmoon . Suggestion for this story- listen to Nick Cave's "Sweetheart, Come". I think that it is one of the best songs for SanSan, and I happen to think that it makes reading these stories even better.

Thank you all for the sweet reviews, especially thanks to Littlefeather, who is sort of like my fairy fandom queen (even though I never tell her)!

Love,

Moa

Sandor nursed a flagon of Dornish Sour, drinking it slowly. It made the rot in his gut feel less pronounced and it made his thoughts flow evenly. He could see red all around him, even while sitting in the middle of the yellow hall. He sank low in his chair, forcing himself to breathe- always breathe, always surface. There was a low, dull ache that was flowing from his throat into his head, a steady ringing that he couldn't force down. He tore the Raven's note into a few pieces and let them fall to the floor, the white sheets stained with ink.

The fucking Septon- that was his first mistake. He should have kept the bastard in a cage, dragged him back to King's Landing instead of forcing him to flee. Had he thought to do that, perhaps- perhaps nothing. Perhaps and maybe and what could have been are dangerous thoughts. The morning calm that was rising with the Earth was echoing his sentiments. This wasn't the time for any measure of regret, yet he couldn't stop feeling as though he were looking at his life backwards rather than forward.

Sansa Clegane, not Stark- his wife- was demanded back at court. The ache continued. His brother lived and his wife was wanted.

He wasn't stupid. He didn't need the meaning of the message to be written out. The King meant to make an example of her, of him, of the entire situation- he meant to dissolve their marriage and the titles and the land grants in favor of Gregor, who survived, who was never dead. Sandor was the Lannister Dog, but The Mountain was Tywin Lannister's real pet.

Another drink from the flagon, trying to keep his thoughts on an even tack.

There was no way that he could take her back. She'd be given over to Gregor without hesitation, who would in turn happily put her head on a spike or worse. He thought of Cersei- the fucking cunt. He'd been her dog before she'd spawned Joffrey. She was once a girl left in King's Landing, afraid and tied to her duty- and yet she was half of the reason that Sansa had been tormented. The bitch hated her. Instead of offering herself up as a friend, a mother, she only exemplified the worst aspects of Lannister darkness.

His little bird had been a prisoner, but he could offer her some degree of freedom. He wouldn't take her back to her cage- not for all the ships and gold in Qarth. Not even if he were promised an opportunity to kill his brother himself. Nothing was more important than she.

He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, remembering the feeling of searing heat: days spent in the sun at King's Landing, listening to the sounds of gulls as they screached through the sky, the smells of the gutters mixing with the high perfumes that would roll out of the Sept of Baelor. He could almost feel his skin underneath his armor, mail and tunics, hwo they would cling to him and he sweated while standing guard. He was like a stone man, carved out of the cliff sides. People would look away when he passed, their heads always bent to the ground, or skyward, or any which way, just so their eyes did not catch his. He could always smell blood in the air, and taste it, like the smell of rain.

He opened his eyes and exhaled heavily. He'd always measured himself as a coward rather than a hero- no true knight, buggering hells. He'd been built for killing, not to be a tactician. Even when he fought in all out battles he didn't go in with particular strategy, he only followed orders, like a the water in a stream follows a path to lead to a river or the sea. A dog needed no courage to kill rats.

But a man needed courage if he were to love another. The thought sunk through him like a stone underneath an ice sheet- all still in grey, and dire.

He rose to meet the day with the beginnings of a plan set in motion. She'd survive it, but he doubted his odds.