He was walking down the hall behind her. The soft thumping of his scabbard against his hip seemed in time with the beating of her heart. Prickles scurried down her back and she walked faster, forcing Arya and Septa Mordane to lengthen their strides as well. The three greeted others passing in the opposite direction, the swish of gowns and the patter of shoes in the stone corridor not obscuring the steady thump-thump-thump in Sansa's ears. She wished she'd not worn the bracelet he'd given her. The gentle tinkling sound would call to him, not that he couldn't see her, tall as they both were. Don't be silly. You're not being hunted . . . yet her body responded as though she were. Her blood practically fizzed and she leaned forward slightly, ready to run as he kept pace behind her. Sansa longed to shake off her companions and sprint to safety but decorum held a tighter grip on her than fear. She forced herself to walk more slowly and to resume proper posture.

"Are you quite alright, dear?" Septa Mordane inquired, startling Sansa out of her own thoughts.

"Pardon? Oh. Yes. Quite. Thank you."

"Your father will be back very soon. As will your betrothed." Septa Mordane smiled at her indulgently, a sparkle in her eye.

A guilty heat burned beneath Sansa's cheeks. How her septa had missed the baleful glares her betrothed had sent her way upon his departure for the hunt, she couldn't fathom. Sansa had been certain the entire court felt Joffrey's hatred for her like an intense hot wind.

Arya made a noise that sounded like ickkk and took off running, yelling, "See you at supper!" over Septa Mordane's order to return.

Sansa gasped as a hand slid under her elbow and a hard torso pressed against the back of her upper arm. She spun away from him, crashing into Septa Mordane, bringing up her arm to push him away, the traitorous bracelet jingling merrily.

His gray eyes were unreadable because Sansa was staring at his mouth, her own agape.

He'd kissed her last night. No, she'd kissed him. Or, she'd tried to. She'd tried to kiss his cheek. He'd turned into her and pressed his lips against hers, parting them, and she'd wilted into him like a spent flower. In an instant, his arms were around her, pulling her against the length of him as he kissed her greedily. A low groan rose in his throat as he took a step back and turned away. Sansa gasped. The current between them was a live thing. "San-" she began with half a breath. He spun, cupped the back of her head, and took possession of her mouth once more. She'd kissed him back, she remembered, feeling caught in an undertow, pulled down by instinct and overwhelmed by his hunger. His kisses grow softer and drifted across her cheek to a spot below her ear. She felt him bring a handful of her hair to his nose and breathe in its scent. Sansa was struggling to respond, too overcome to be other than swept along, and then, before she knew it, he rasped, "Little bird," and was gone.

She'd stood where he left her for a long time. If she didn't move, maybe the spell wouldn't be broken. The very late hour conspired against her, though, and, pulling the blanket off the chair she'd dozed in earlier, she made her way to bed. Tired as she was, sleep would not claim her. Instead, memories of the day's events flashed in Sansa's mind. Was it really still Sevenmas? The gift exchange seemed to belong to another time. Her fingertips found the charms at her wrist as she thought of waking to find Sandor watching over her. Her skin tingled pleasantly as she remembered his touch by the fire. Even alone in the dark, Sansa's cheeks flushed when she thought of her response to his rain-clean scent . . . and then there was the kiss they'd just shared. Sansa turned over and buried her face in her pillow. Just the memory of it shook her. Had she been forward? She'd invited Sandor to her room with the promise of a gift. Her father would be so angry if he knew. And her lady mother. Joffrey would be wroth. She was betrothed to him, not his sworn shield. Sansa didn't love Joffrey but that didn't make her actions right. Shame caused her stomach to swing and her breath to hitch in her chest. She had a duty, to herself, her family, and to Joffrey, to comport herself as a lady should and, tonight, she hadn't. Over and above these thoughts, though, were others. Had Sandor liked kissing her? He was a man grown and had undoubtedly kissed women before. Did he find her inadequate? Too eager, or worse, wanton? Had she done something wrong? Why had he left so suddenly? Anxiety welled up inside her. Her jaw trembled and unwanted tears slid along and over the bridge of her nose before seeping into her pillowcase. Sansa flopped over to her other side and curled into a tight ball. Though she was quite alone, she cried as quietly as she could, her shoulders shaking with nearly-silent sobs. She knew she'd been wrong, very wrong, to lead Sandor on, but she also knew, and this set her to crying in earnest, that she would kiss him again if she could.

After a time, her tears abated and she sniffed and cuffed at her wet face with the backs of her hands. I wish my lady mother were here. Lady Catelyn would stroke her hair and let her pour the misery out of her heart and then she would truly feel better. But her lady mother was not there. There was no one she could talk to. No, confess to, for an all-encompassing guilt consumed her. And now Sandor was to be hers, her sworn shield, until Joffrey returned from the hunt. Just the thought of facing Sandor made her heart crumple. She could send him word to stay away, to enjoy his time as he would, but they would both know that was cowardice after tonight. If only she knew how he felt! A thousand possibilities swirled through Sansa's mind. She could not be confident he'd kissed her because he liked her and not simply because she'd made herself available in the most profligate manner. Her cheeks flamed again. But he'd turned to kiss her, and why would he do that unless he wanted to? On and on this went until near dawn when Sansa finally fell into a shallow, troubled sleep.

She'd awoken feeling drained and miserable. When Lucy, her maid, asked if she was well, she'd said she was sad to see her father and Joffrey leaving. It was a half truth. She'd hugged her father tightly before he'd mounted his horse, apologizing silently for the disappointment she knew he'd feel if he knew she'd been kissing the Hound mere hours before. King Robert was in high spirits and eager to be off, though he did take a second to give her a nod, indicating he'd told Joffrey that Sandor was being removed from his service for the duration of he hunt. Prince Joffrey had sneered at her and engaged in a brief but intense conversation with Sandor before mounting and trotting to the front of the assembly. Sansa had turned away immediately, not wishing to catch Sandor's eye. She had returned to the castle as soon as was seemly, ignoring Arya's laments to have been included in the hunt and Septa Mordane's dampening responses. A part of her had wondered if Sandor would seek her out but, now that he had, she had no more dear wish than to be alone.

"My apologies, Lady Sansa."

"There - there is no need to apologize, my lord," she replied to the floor.

Septa Mordane seemed to sense her discomfiture and said pleasantly, "Are you not joining the hunt, ser?"

Sansa cringed at the ser but Sandor merely answered, "No, King Robert has assigned me to be Lady Sansa's shield while Prince Joffrey is away."

Septa Mordane gasped, her disapproval plain. Embarrassed, Sansa raised her eyes, intending to speak, but she found Sandor's broad chest in her immediate view. Her hands twitched, her palms suddenly recollecting the feel of hard muscle beneath his tunic. She'd not realized until now that she'd pressed her hands against him as he kissed her. Flustered, she cast about for something to say, the pause stretching out unbearably.

"Lady Sansa?"

She looked into his face, afraid of what she might see or betray.

"I'm yours to command."