DISCLAIMER: CHARACTERS ETC ARE GRRMs AND HIS ALONE.

First...let's assume that Sansa's a bit (quite a bit?) aged up in this one :)

Second, I apologize for any formatting issues in this one. Yes, it's supposed to be split into italics and non-italicized passages, but there may be other issues because this website apparently randomly hated the Word doc that I uploaded :-/

Third...this one was, for some reason, a *huge* bitch to write...but I hope you enjoy it!

The commoners were shouting obscenities and throwing foul things at them, and suddenly it was as if everything happened at once. Joffrey and the guards had disappeared from her side; a stone had struck her face, and she could feel the sting of the cut, the warm blood oozing down her cheek. She tried to urge her courser forward, but the poor beast could not push through the press of the crowd...and then suddenly, Sansa felt it.

A hand on her arm, its thick fingers grasping her tightly - cruelly, even. She had never been sure of herself in the saddle, and the shock and fright that she felt in that moment served as much to unbalance her as the man's pulling on her did. Sansa was falling, falling, and she wondered if she would hit the ground or if this man with his garlicky breath would catch hold of her and spirit her away. He would do terrible things to her, she knew - she had caught a glimpse of his eyes, had seen the anger and the loathing in them.

He hates me, she thought, he hates me though I've done nothing to him.

Suddenly the peasant's fingers twitched against her skin, and just like that his hand was gone. Another hand - large, strong, familiar - had hold of her now. The Hound shoved her back up into her saddle. "Stay put!" he growled, as if she had some other choice, any other choice. She was frozen in fear as she stared at the arm of the man who'd grabbed her. It had been separated from its owner and was laying on the ground mere feet away. Sansa knew that she should be frightened of it, yet instead she felt strangely...fascinated. Only the sight of the Hound leaping at the other men who had crowded about, slashing madly at them and their clubs with his sword, brought her back to the moment, to the reality of the situation. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she retched...

"She's good and befouled now, in addition to being the daughter and sister of traitors. What in seven hells amI supposed to do with her?"

"Your Grace is a generous ruler," Maester Pycelle simpered, "And she is a pretty, courteous sort of girl. Surely some petty lord or landed knight would be happy to have her. In time her name may even be cleansed of its traitorous associations, should she prove herself worthy...and her blood would surely refine the families of such men."

Joffrey fairly guffawed in his amusement. "A petty lord or landed night...yes, Pycelle, I will think on that. The idea certainly has some merit..." His lip still curled in some semblance of a smile, he looked down at Sansa, who had fallen to her knees on the unforgiving floor of the throne room, assuming that she would have to beg for her very life. "I don't want her in my sight," the king stated coldly. "I will call for her once I decide what to do with her. Dog, since you've been so helpful lately, you can escort her back to her rooms."

Sansa struggled to her feet, realizing a moment too late that the Hound - no, I must remember him as Sandor Clegane, I must - had held out his hand to help her. The sight of it hanging there empty in the air before her made her stomach twist with nerves, and to hide her agitation she smoothed out her skirts before reaching her hand out. He took hold of it and tucked it into the crook of his elbow, guiding her away from the contemptuous gazes of Joffrey and his minions. Sansa glanced up at Sandor Clegane's face as they made their way out of the throne room - the good side was closest to her, though just then she thought she wouldn't have minded much if it had been the burnt side - and though his expression was impassive, his very presence seemed to infuse her with a new strength.

The blood of the rioters was a red mist in the air, the Hound's sword a blur of silver that drove back those who would try to harm her. It was hardly more than the work of a few moments before the peasants scattered, fleeing from the fury of Joffrey's dog. And when they fell back, the Hound laughed, his horribly scarred face for a moment transformed into something that was nearly beautiful in its complete and reckless abandon.

And then he was by her horse's side and swinging himself up into the saddle. He gave the courser a good swift kick, and though the animal balked at first, the commonfolk who had crowded around them had dispersed enough that it eventually broke into a quick trot and left the scene of death and destruction behind. They were going the wrong way, Sansa noted - riding away from the Red Keep rather than toward it - but in her relief at still being alive and relatively unharmed, at the fact that she knew this man would protect her from any further incidents, she did nothing but cling to him and bury her face against his back.

They hadn't been riding for very long when Sansa felt the horse come to a sudden stop. She peered around the Hound's broad back, but wherever they were was not a place that looked familiar to her. There were shouts and screams and the sounds of things breaking echoing throughout the entire city - or so it seemed - and suddenly she was once again trembling with fear.

"Can't get to the castle just now," Sandor grunted, sliding out of the saddle and reaching for her, wrapping his large hands around her waist and gathering her into his arms. "But I know a place where we can hole up for a little while." He took hold of the reins and ducked into a narrow alley - so narrow, in fact, that Sansa's horse could barely squeeze down it. The animal stopped short, throwing its head back and refusing to continue on, but a few soothing words from Sandor seemed to set things right, and within moments they were moving again. Not some ways down the alley he ducked into a ramshackle little shed that was squeezed between two much taller buildings. He pushed the half-rotted door shut behind them and barred it, then let go of the courser's reins and set Sansa back on her feet.

She wrapped her arms around herself, as if doing so would somehow contain her fear. "Where are we?" she whispered.

"Sometimes a man needs to get out of the Red Keep," was all that the Hound said by way of explanation. "Come along, but keep your head down." Leaving the horse there in the small, dark shed, he let himself through the door at the back. Sansa obeyed his order to keep her head down, staring at her feet and following the sound of Sandor Clegane's heavy footfalls as they navigated down a twisting hallway of close walls and low ceilings.

Day blended into night and night into day. Sansa noted the passage of time, but didn't feel as if she was a part of it...no more than she was a part of this place, no more than she was one of its people. She had as much freedom as she'd ever had, here in the Red Keep...yet despite all that had happened, despite the fact that its other residents were now somehow even more inclined to avoid her, she felt more at liberty than she had in quite some time.

Or perhaps that is because of what happened, rather than in spite of it...

She had nightmares, sometimes...but once in a while she had dreams. Wonderful, wonderful dreams. At first she'd thought that they would put her to death for what had happened, though of course she hadn't meant it to...but anything was better than having to someday wed Joffrey.

That was what she kept telling herself, anyway.

They climbed a rickety set of stairs and turned down another hallway, finally finding themselves in front of a short, narrow door. The Hound opened it with a key that he pulled from a ring hidden under his swordbelt. Before opening the door, though, he paused and cleared his throat, avoiding her eyes as he mumbled, "Don't usually bring people here, so don't expect much. We'll wait a few hours at most...by then things will have died down and we can ride back to the Red Keep in peace."

Sansa swallowed hard and nodded. The Hound's lip curled in what could only be distaste, but then he grunted and led her into the small room that waited behind the door.

The furnishings were less than sparse, and there was a layer of dust on everything. The room smelled stale, musty, and the window was so tiny that it seemed almost pointless for there to be one at all...but it was better than being outside just now, and there was even a flagon of wine sitting on the small table. The Hound strode over to it, yanking his gauntlets off along the way and letting them drop to the floor. He lifted the flagon to his mouth and took a long pull, while Sansa stood just inside the room, shifting her weight from one foot to the other and feeling more than a bit uncomfortable.

"Seven hells, little bird, shut the damn door!" the Hound suddenly barked, but before she could obey he was at her side again, slamming it shut for her. She heard the turn of the latch, and in response to that sound she began to tremble again, her breath coming in quick, short gasps that the Hound quickly noticed. "Here," he said, shoving the flagon at her. "Take a drink, it'll calm you down some."

Sansa took the profferred wine and sipped from it. Red, it was, and a bit sour - not the quality of what she was used to being served, and yet she assumed it must do its job well enough. She held the flagon out for the Hound, and when he took it his hand brushed against hers and she felt him twitch away from her. "You could have left me there, you know," she whispered miserably, staring down at her feet, unable to look this man - my hero, she thought bitterly - in the face.

Suddenly the Hound's fingers had hold of her chin, pinching it so hard that it was nearly painful. He forced her to raise her head, until she was looking directly into his angry gray eyes. "You would have wanted that, girl? Truly?" He snorted and let go of her. "I knew that you were a silly little bird, and I know that you can't bear to look at me, but I didn't think you were as stupid as all that."

"That's not what I meant!" Sansa cried, stepping forward so that she was so close he had to bend his head to look down at her upturned face. "I meant that you shouldn't have risked your own life to save mine. I'm not..." Here she paused, and had to look away from him again as tears welled in her eyes. "I'm not worth it."

This time the Hound wrapped his large hands around her shoulders and gave her a quick, yet not ungentle, shake. "Don't be such a little fool," he growled, his voice so heavy with emotion that she immediately looked up at him again. "I was never in any danger. And besides...you're the only one who would have been worth my 'taking a risk'...had there been one at all, that is."

Almost without thinking, Sansa reached up and cupped her hand over the scarred side of his face. It felt strange against her soft palm - a swath of hard little ridges - but she knew better than to pull away just now. "I thank you, then. For saving me. You were so...so brave."

For a moment it looked as if the Hound was about to laugh at her, but he seemed to catch himself, and instead stepped closer, so close that their bodies were pressed against each other. "That wasn't bravery, little bird. They were nothing but rats, and not one of them would have dared to truly fight me. So spare me your empty courtesies." He jerked away from Sansa, leaving her hand frozen in mid-air. She dropped it back to her side and opened her mouth to speak, but just then the sounds of stampeding feet and screaming voices swelled around them, so loud that it seemed as if the building itself was shaking.

She hadn't seen Sandor very much in recent days, so when he arrived at the door to her rooms one morning to escort her to the throne room, Sansa was as surprised as she was relieved. "They sent you to fetch me?" she prodded.

"Aye. The king himself sent me, in fact."

"What does this mean?" Sansa wanted to believe that Joffrey sending Sandor - of all people - to her room was nothing more than coincidence, but of course she knew better than that.

Sandor shrugged, but though he was clearly trying to be nonchalant she noticed that the burnt corner of his mouth was twitching. It was almost like there were butterflies in her stomach, beating their wings so madly that she nearly felt sick. Yet she stepped forward nonetheless, and tucked a hand in the crook of Sandor's elbow.

"Best not, little bird," he stated, but when he reached up to remove her hand he gave it what she could only assume was a reassuring squeeze. She walked beside him in silence, close enough to touch him but apparently not allowed to do so.

The throne room was far less crowded than it had been months - or even weeks - prior. Joffrey was attempting to lounge on the throne, his mother sitting primly in a high-backed chair just below him. Boros Blount and Meryn Trant were on duty, and Ser Dontos was tramping around the edge of the room. Sansa tried to catch the fool's eye, but he was refusing to look at her.

Maester Pycelle and Lord Varys were present, along with a smattering of other, less important people. Tyrion Lannister, however, was conspicuous only in his absence - and though not exactly fond of the Imp, Lannister that he was, Sansa knew that him not being there could only be a bad sign.

"Ah, finally...my guests of honor!" Joffrey crowed. Sansa couldn't help it - she glanced up at Sandor. The corner of his lip twitched again, but otherwise his face was impassive.

"I hope you will be glad to hear that I have made my decision about how to deal with your little...situation," Joffrey continued, his eyes glinting maliciously. There are so many things he can do to me - to us... Sansa knew. She dropped to her knees and bowed her head in false obeisance.

"What would Your Grace have of me?" she asked, doing her best to keep her voice from trembling, from revealing how truly frightened she was.

"You first, Dog," Joffrey announced.

"Yes, Your Grace." Sandor's tone was flat, revealing nothing.

"By way of punishment - for not properly protecting this girl who was to have been my Queen - you are hereby relieved of your Kingsguard duties."

Whispers and coughs broke out around the room, but only for a moment, stopping immediately when Joffrey began to speak again. "However, because those duties were supposed to be life-long, and because I offered Ser Barristan a place of his own away from here when I dismissed him, I am inclined to do the same for you. You're to return to the Westerlands, where I will set you up with lands and a keep.

"And as a reward for the years of loyal service that you did provide to me and my family, one more thing as well - a wife."

This did break Sandor's seemingly rock-solid composure. "A...a wife, Your Grace?"

"Yes, dog, a wife. Seeing as how you failed to protect her once, I've decided that it's only proper for you to be shackled to her for life. Sansa Stark is no longer worthy of being Queen, nor even of some lordly husband."

He wouldn't, Sansa thought, almost desperately. He couldn't...

But he did. "The only way to set all of this right, then, is to wed you to each other," Joffrey smirked, his eyes flicking from Sandor to Sansa and back again. She dropped her own gaze to the floor, afraid that Joffrey would see right through her, afraid to look at Sandor in case his feelings on this situation would be revealed to her in doing so.

Sansa couldn't understand how this could be happening, and found herself wondering if it was in fact happening at all.

The riot had moved, or spread until it was just outside what Sansa could only think of as their 'hiding place'. At the sound of the angry mob approaching, she couldn't help but gasp and fling herself at the Hound. "What if they come in here?" she cried. She could see how tense he was, and somehow the fact that he wrapped his arms about her and drew her close, pressing her back against his chest for a moment, made her even more concerned - but only about the danger outside of this room. The Hound spun her around to face him, and again she was extremely aware of how close they were.

"They won't hurt you," he promised. "No one will. If they do...I'll kill them. Believe that."

"I do. Believe you," Sansa clarified. She felt her stomach twisting into a knot, felt her heart thudding in her chest, heard a roaring in her head that was coming from within rather than from the crowd outside, and she realized quite suddenly that with every moment that passed she could be that much closer to death - or worse, she understood. Sandor Clegane was the only thing that - the only person who - stood between her and those who would harm her.

He is no knight, she mused, but he saved me all the same. And he'll do so again, if he has to, and again after that, and a hundred times more. It was less like a song than she'd ever hoped, that this hulking brute of a man with his horribly scarred face would be the one to rescue her...but then Florian the Fool hadn't been handsome, and Jonquil had loved him anyway...

It was as if Sansa's fear and confusion and that single sip of wine had combined and rendered her drunk. She couldn't stop staring at the Hound's mouth and thinking how very much she wanted to kiss it - to kiss him. Not because she felt it was his due, for saving her - no, nothing like all that - but because despite the brutality of his honesty, it was consistent as well. No one else had ever given her that...no one.

So she raised herself up on the balls of her feet and pressed her lips against his. The kiss lasted only a moment; the Hound pulled away abruptly. "What do you think you're doing, little bird?" he snarled, his name for her suddenly sounding less like an endearment and more like a curse.

"I...I was trying to kiss you..." Sansa felt herself flush red with embarrassment. She'd thought he would like her to kiss him, but could she have been wrong in that assumption?

"That much I gathered," the Hound snapped, rolling his eyes at her. "Why would you do such a thing?"

"Be...because I...I wanted to," Sansa admitted, surprising even herself with how much she meant it.

The Hound's ensuing laugh was rough and seemed almost...forced. "You have no idea what you want, girl. What you're doing."

"Yes I do!" Sansa protested, but before she could say more he had gripped her shoulders again, his massive hands almost meeting each other across the span of her narrow back.

"You want to kiss me, little bird?" he asked, his face naught but an inch from hers.

"Y...yes," she stammered, her stomach seeming to leap into her throat, her heart now fluttering in what could only be anticipation as heat flared inside of her.

"Because I saved you from that thrice-damned mob?" he growled.

"No," she stated firmly. "Because...because you're honest with me, when no one else is. Because you've helped me, not just today but...before, as well. Because - "

But she didn't get any farther than that. His mouth covered hers and she felt his tongue against her lips. She opened for him then, so willing that she was fairly aching with it. This kiss was nothing like the one she'd tried to give him just minutes before; it was as hard as he was, yet somehow soft, as well. His hands slid down to her hips, and her knees almost gave out on her as he pulled her body flush against his, deepening their embrace. Sansa's arms seemed to move of their own accord and she wrapped them about him, holding herself against him in hopes that he wouldn't let her go.

When he finally did pull away, brushing his tongue across her lips one more time for good measure, Sansa couldn't help herself - she immediately tried to search out his mouth with hers again, but Sandor Clegane chuckled at her attempt. "I think that's quite enough, little bird."

"Well?" Joffrey pressed. "What say you, dog? Will you have her?"

Don't look at him, Sansa told herself. Don't look up at all. Don't let any of them see...

"You do me a great honor, your Grace," Sandor replied, his voice once again flat, devoid of feeling, of caring. "But she's just a girl."

Joffrey waved him off. "She's a woman flowered, and after what happened she's not fit to wed anyone of note. All the same, she's pretty, and courteous, and if she proves unwilling I'm sure that you have ways to make her be more...agreeable." Sansa could feel the weight of the king's mean little eyes on her, yet still she refused to look up. "Will you be a good little wife to my dog, Lady Sansa?" he said, his voice soft yet full of warning.

"I - yes, Your Grace. I will do whatever is asked of me. I only wish to serve...you."

"See there, dog? She'll do whatever's asked of her. Not much more you could look for in a wife, is there?"

"Wouldn't know. Never had the desire to be married."

"Well, see that you find that desire. I'm of a mind to have you wed on the morrow and out of my sight as soon as its done...and I expect that you'll obey, just as Lady Sansa says she will. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Sandor capitulated.

"Good. Now take her back to her quarters. I expect both of you at the sept tomorrow morning. I've even been kind enough to procure the proper wedding clothes for you."

A few moments of silence ensued, and finally Sansa understood what she was supposed to say. "Thank you, Your Grace."

"See, dog? Lady Sansa is grateful. Perhaps over time she will be able to teach you some proper courtesy. Now go, both of you."

Sansa struggled to her feet, her knees aching after being so long in contact with the hard stone floor of the throne room. She looked to Sandor, but he merely turned his back on her and stalked away, leaving her no choice but to scurry after him. Sniggers and whispers followed them out, and though she wondered if he would abandon her Sandor did in fact lead her all the way back to her room. Once she could be sure that no one was watching, Sansa laid a hand on his arm. "Sandor - " she began.

But he shook his head. "I'm sorry, little bird. This...you deserve better than this. Better than me. Regardless of what happened. Joffrey's a little shit; he won't be sitting that throne long, and when he's lost his power, I'll release you from this. You have my word."

She didn't quite know how to respond. He meant what he was saying - he always did - but why he was saying this, this of all things...Sansa simply could not fathom.

"Why did you stop?" she heard herself ask. Then, "I didn't want you to stop."

"Bugger me, I can tell you didn't," the Hound admitted.

No, Sansa thought, I must think of him as...as what? Sandor? That didn't seem right either, somehow, but it was better than thinking of him as the Hound. That was too much like thinking of him as Joffrey's dog. "What's gotten into you?" Sandor mumbled, so quietly that she almost didn't hear the question at all.

Her first thought was, I almost died out there. I could have died out there...but Sansa stopped herself from saying as much. Instead she reached for him again, and when he didn't pull his arm away from her hand she said, "You. Other things as well, I suppose...but mostly you."

Suddenly she was in his arms again. Sandor paused for a moment - hesitated, really - and as if to reassure him, Sansa pressed one hand to the back of his head and drew it down toward hers. This kiss was something between the first two - more than the first, more tender than the second. Sandor's hand reached up and cupped her breast, and Sansa didn't even think to protest. Far from it, in fact - she had no desire for him to stop, not even when he rubbed one thumb over her nipple. The friction of this touch, even through her gown, made her moan in longing. What is wrong with me? There was a fire inside of her that she'd never felt before...her hands were scratching at his back, grasping for purchase on his thick leather jerkin...

He stopped again. "Little bird, I - "

"Sansa," she hissed, her hands fluttering back 'round to his chest, tugging at his laces. "Call me by my name. Sansa."

"Sansa." He paused, breathing heavily. "Soon enough, I won't be able to - "

"Stop?" she giggled, then - actually giggled. "I don't want you to stop. Don't you see? I want you. I want - "

A sound rose in his throat, part grunt, part growl. Sandor lifted her into his arms and turned. Two long strides and he was depositing her on the bed, pulling at his clothes, disrobing himself right in front of her. Sansa's breath caught in her throat as he bared his vast, muscular chest. She sat up enough to reach out and grab hold of the waist of his breeches and pull him toward her. All her strength, yet still she couldn't have budged him had he not given in immediately, his hands grasping at the front of her dress and tearing it open to reveal a thin shift that barely disguised the hard buds that her nipples had become. Sansa didn't have time to think about how wrong this was, not when something in her was screaming that it was right, they were right. He practically fell down beside her on the bed in his haste, gathering her skirts in his hands and pushing them up, up, and out of the way. He found her smallclothes and tore them as he moved them aside, and Sansa realized quite suddenly that there would be no way to explain this when they eventually returned to the Red Keep.

They came for her with the dawn.

Sandor had walked away from Sansa the previous afternoon, left her before she could work out what to say in response to his promise that they would end their marriage as soon as they were able to do so. And now she was surrounded by lady's maids - young, silent women who scrubbed her clean in a lukewarm bath, pulled a comb through her hair, dressed her in a simple gown of ivory and gray satin, and then wrapped a maiden's cloak - complete with a direwolf emblazoned on the back - about her shoulders.

Cersei Lannister arrived, a grim smile playing on her lips, just as Sansa was ready to leave for the sept. "I am certain that this will not be an easy thing for you," Cersei sighed, "yet my son has made his decision and has rebuffed all other suggestions. Remember what I told you, Sansa - it applies to Sandor Clegane as much as it would have applied to Joffrey. You may not love your husband, but you will love his children. Your children."

Sansa's stomach was fluttering again, but from what, she could not say. Her impending marriage, to Sandor Clegane of all people? His offer to free her from it, eventually? The Queen's talk of children?

"Yes," she murmured in reply. This word clearly pleased the Queen, though it was less a reply to Cersei Lannister's statement and more in response to Sansa's own thoughts.

She pushed all thought from her head, pushed aside anything and everything that had nothing to do with this moment. She had to do so...this was need, as much as it was want. She needed this...needed him.

Sandor was suddenly gentle, brushing his calloused fingertips against the folds of her woman's place, spreading her wetness so slowly that she thought she would burst in anticipation. Sansa watched him as he watched himself touch her, his expression one of wonder. Finally she took his hand in hers, forcing him to look her in the eye. "Please," she whispered. She moved his hand to her breast and he lowered himself beside her, his manhood hard inside his breeches, pressing into her thigh as he toyed with her nipple.

"Not all of this will be pleasurable for you, little bird," he reminded her. Sansa bit her lip and nodded, afraid that if she spoke she would say things that would startle him.

I do not care. I want the pain. I want it if it means having you. "You'll probably want me to stop, at some point," he continued, "and I'm telling you right now that I probably won't."

Always with the honesty. Sansa's only reply was to pull on the laces of his breeches, fumbling with them as Sandor lowered his mouth over her breast and toyed at her nipple with teeth and tongue. When he bit down he was not gentle, but her gasp was one of mixed pleasure and pain, and then he silenced her by kissing her again, his mouth hot and wet on hers as he shoved her hands out of the way and ripped at his breeches in an attempt to divest himself of them. Eventually he had to pull away, swearing as he yanked and kicked at the last of his clothing until it was completely removed. The sight of his member, so large, so erect with desire for her, made Sansa blush furiously, and she had to close her eyes

"Look at me," Sandor growled. His voice was low, forceful, yet not so angry as the last time he'd said those words to her. Sansa did as he bid, her eyes flicking from the burnt half of his face to the good half, and back again.

How could I have ever though him so terrible? It was his eyes more than his burns that had scared her, she remembered - but just now those eyes were too clouded with longing to be furious and therefore frightening. As if to prove her willingness, Sansa stared at Sandor until he broke their eye contact, his eyes roving over her body in a way that made her simultaneously want to hide away and expose herself, so that she almost laughed at the ridiculousness of it all.

"Please," she said instead, beckoning for him to come to her again. Sandor narrowed his eyes at her, but obeyed, using one strong arm to push Sansa onto her back as he lowered himself over her. He looked for a moment as if he wanted to ask her something, but then seemed to think better of it and kissed her instead. His mouth was hot on hers, rough and needy, and it tasted of wine tinged with the salt of sweat and the metallic tang of blood. Deep down Sansa knew that this should disgust her, but in truth far from it - the combination made her want more, more - "More," she breathed, and in response he pressed his manhood against her woman's place. Just the pressure of it there made her moan wantonly, and when she tipped her head back he nipped at her throat.

"More?" he repeated.

Sansa nodded.

She pinched herself as soon as she knew that no one was watching, and though the fact that she felt it proved that she was not dreaming, Sansa was still not sure if she quite believed what was happening - that she would be wed to Sandor Clegane within the hour, and that she would be allowed to leave King's Landing soon after. That alone helped her to ignore the smirk on Cersei Lannister's lips, and gave her the strength she needed to merely grit her teeth at Joffrey's being there to give her away as her lord father would have - should have - done.

Only when Tyrion Lannister arrived did Sansa lose some of her composure. "I would like to speak with Lady Sansa," the Imp announced. "Alone."

The king opened his mouth to protest, but his mother laid a hand on his arm and murmured, "Give him a moment with her, or we'll never hear the end of it," Cersei grimaced. Joffrey smacked her hand away, but obeyed her nonetheless.

"Make it quick, dwarf. My dog is not the most patient man."

"That's Uncle Dwarf to you, Your Grace. And trust me when I say that I know the Hound is no more patient than you yourself are. Come, Lady Sansa."

She followed him to a spot a few feet from where Joffrey and Cersei stood. "Yes, my lord?"

Tyrion cocked his head and focused on her with his dark eye. "This is a...hard life, that they offer you. You accept it?"

Sansa bowed her head. Knowing that she could not say what she truly felt, she murmured, "Yes, my lord."

"As the Hand of the King, I could put a stop to this...farce. There are others - "

"Please, my lord...I just want to..." Want to what?

But the Imp sighed, grimaced, and answered her question for her. "You have experienced what no true lady should...and you want to leave this place by any means necessary." Sansa didn't answer him, and finally he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I can't say that I don't blame you...but...the Hound..."

"He has been..." She stopped, unsure of what to say. Then, "It could be worse, my lord. I know that, of all things."

"Are you certain?" He was eying he again, and she wasn't sure she liked what he implied.

"I understand that there are monsters in this world, my lord. But he..."

"He is worse than most, yes, but better than some." At this, Tyrion glanced at Joffrey. "If this is your choice..."

Sansa knew what she had to say, though she didn't mean a word of it. "It is the only choice I have, if I wish to obey the king."

He cocked his head again. "This is true," he replied. "Yet...if you - "

"No, my lord. I have accepted my fate." Please, please, do the same...

"I see." Clearly he didn't. "If this is what you...want..."

What other choice do I have? "Yes, my lord. This is what I...want." She had to sound resigned, she knew. Otherwise...

"I am sorry, then." The Imp was resigned. "Come, then. To your fate."

Sansa linked her arm through Joffrey's as was required, and the doors to the sept swung open. She saw Sandor Clegane waiting for her, garbed in his usual drab clothes but now with a bright yellow cloak adorning his shoulders. A groom's cloak, Sansa knew, to match her own maiden's cloak, though that wasn't quite right for the current situation. Her soon-to-be husband turned at the sound of the doors opening, but just as quickly turned back to the High Septon, clearly attempting to avoid catching Sansa's eye. It doesn't matter, Sansa told herself. No matter what, I will be his wife in word.

She took one step forward, and then another.

There was no turning back now, and though Sansa knew that was the case she nearly didn't care. Not when these desires that she had never even thought existed were awakened in her very soul. Sandor rolled his hips, and she felt his manhood nestle between her folds. She was frightened, yes, but the wanting was...so much more than that. Almost without thinking, she arched her back and pressed her body against his. For a moment Sandor seemed to fumble awkwardly as he reached one hand down between them, but then Sansa felt his calloused fingers tracing around her opening before positioning his manhood there.

She remembered that it was supposed to hurt - the first time, especially - and Sansa tensed, steeling herself against what was to come. Sandor must have sensed her discomfiture; even though he was about to enter her, he snarled, "Tell me to stop, little bird."

Sansa silenced him with a kiss, and in one quick thrust he was inside of her. She gasped her pain into his mouth, but she had clearly lost the small bit of control she may have had over Sandor. He moved more slowly now, obviously experiencing friction - he was almost too big for her - yet he showed no signs of stopping. Sansa closed her eyes against the tears welling in them and bit her lip against the pain, trying to focus on Sandor's mouth, on the contrast between the softness of the good side of his lips and the stiffness of the scarred side. He was suckling at one of her nipples, and after several languid rolls of his hips these ministrations, combined with the fact that the sharp pain had dulled into nothing more than an aching and the feeling of being full, made Sansa once again whimper with longing.

This time, Sandor did respond. He tucked one arm beneath her and rolled onto his back, carrying her with him so that she was suddenly on top of him. This new position caused an entirely different sensation inside of her, and suddenly Sansa felt herself moving with Sandor. His arms were locked around her now, one hand cupping her bottom while the other was spread wide across her upper back, holding her against him. "Gods..." he breathed. "Little bird, I won't - I can't - last...much...longer..."

She wasn't quite sure what she meant, but she was certain that she didn't care. The feel of her nipples rubbing against his chest, the feel of his strong body under her, of all places, the feel of his manhood pressing against something inside of her, something that made her forget any aches or pains associated with this act...Sansa felt her movements become erratic, heard Sandor grunting in her ear, and suddenly something deep within her contracted and expanded and she gasped with the pleasure of it.

"Fuck," Sandor swore, and he began thrusting into her faster, rougher. Somehow the feeling of that moment of pure bliss stayed with her as he did so, and then he stilled, shuddered, and went limp beneath her, leaving behind a lingering feeling of perfect satisfaction.

The atmosphere in the sept was tense and silent as Sansa approached the altar. Sandor watched the septon, his eyes not even flicking in her direction...but though his voice was as harsh and rasping as always when he spoke his vows, they were spoken loud and clear. Sansa herself could barely say the words that she was supposed to recite - her voice trembled and took on a much higher pitch than usual - but soon enough they were said, and then Sandor was removing the direwolf cloak from her shoulders and replacing it with his own yellow one. She could feel that his hands were shaking, and wished that she knew what to do to reassure him...but he refused to meet her eyes, and when they were told to kiss he barely brushed his lips against hers before stepping back, taking her hand, and practically dragging her from the sept. The few people who'd been gathered as witnesses stood and, in awkward silence, watched them go.

The day was bright and almost warm, especially compared to the cooler temperatures they'd been experiencing in King's Landing as of late. Sandor practically dragged Sansa away from the sept, ignoring her protests that his doing so was unseemly. Finally he stopped, glancing both ways before wrapping his hands about her shoulders and turning her to face him. "I wanted to talk to you. Without any of them hearing. I needed to tell you that I expect nothing from you. Do you understand me? Nothing."

Sansa smiled and reached up, brushing his scarred cheek with the tips of her fingers. "And that is why I will give you everything," she promised, stretching up on the balls of her feet and kissing him, kissing him for real this time, in the corner of this courtyard where only the stones of the Red Keep bore witness.

"We'll tell them I was attacked during the riot," Sansa murmured, her fingers fluttering down Sandor's arm, wanting nothing more than to touch him, to never stop touching him. "They need never know - "

Sandor barked a laugh. "We could clean you up a bit, girl, but they're going to see where the blood is on that gown of yours and draw their own conclusions. You've got no wounds...no obvious ones, anyway."

Sansa bit her lip in the way her sister Arya had always done. "You're right...I have no wounds." She was agreeing with him, yes, but also hoping that he would understand the deeper meaning behind those words.

"The king won't be able to marry you now," Sandor said, slowly. He wouldn't look at her, so he missed seeing her face light up with all of the promise offered by that statement.

"No..." Sansa mused happily. "I suppose that he won't."

Sandor stood abruptly and went to listen by the window. "All quiet out there. It's past time we got back to the Red Keep."

"Must we?" Sansa sighed, suddenly nervous about returning to the castle, about what she and Sandor would tell the other residents in regards to their absence, to their being together. To our having been together... She blushed furiously at this thought.

"Yes, we must," Sandor insisted. "This shouldn't have happened, and there are going to be consequences."

Sansa approached him and slipped her hand into his. "I'm glad it happened. I will tell Joffrey that I was attacked...that you came to my rescue, but it was too late."

"Too late?" Sandor pulled his hand away. "Too late for your virtue, but at least I saved your life? That's rich."

"Yes," Sansa said softly. Then, "Joffrey will love it."

This made Sandor grimace. "Aye, he will, the little shit."

Sansa took a deep breath. "Take me back to the Red Keep, then."

He moved to obey, but just before Sandor led her from the room, he stopped and mumbled, "I'm sorry, little bird."

"Don't be," Sansa told him. "I'm not." She tucked her hand into his elbow, and for once Sandor didn't protest, but escorted her as any proper knight would have.