Author's Notes: I swear… this is the end of my stuff for this AU. (As far as I know, I mean, those muses really are like a bunch of workaholic slave drivers, you know what I mean?) If there is anything else… it will probably be in a separate story… Anywho, these are bits that I DID think of while still writing the rest, but thought they weren't really well developed, or didn't like it too much. But then the story was over, and my mind was free to look again at these almost discarded bits. I hope they are enjoyed…

LITTLE BIRD (Set between chapters 1 and 2)

Sandor awoke, as he always did, from the sounds of the birds filtering through the tent canvass. It was an odd way for a man to awaken, day after day, but they had always chased the nightmares away when he was younger, and even as he grew older, bitter, and hardened, they remained the same cheerful things they were. A constant goodness to balance the constant crap he had to deal with on a day-to-day basis.

This morning was different, though, with a beautiful wanton woman in his arms, one that had not shied from his face, and who had seemingly enjoyed their fucking almost as much as he had. There were plenty of things vastly different with the situation, but he wasn't going to over think it, just take the fleeting moment and run with it.

The last time he awoke in a bed with the opposite sex still there in the morning, it had been when he and his sister shared warmth on cold nights; he can't remember it being as welcome as it is now, even when he loved his sister ten times more then this slip of a girl, barely a woman by the looks of her. It could have something to do with how hard he is, how warm her nether regions are as she half straddles him in her sleep, how content she looks next to him in her sleep, as if she shared his own peaceful night of deep sleep and calm dreams.

The arm that acts as her pillow wraps around her shoulders, as his other caresses her cheek, slightly bruised form her last man, but still soft and young. He moves to her lips, plump and swollen both from kissing and a cut. He recalls the pleasure she had voiced last night, the kisses she willingly gave, and he wants more. His hand wanders to her hip, grasping it, before rubbing their sexes together.

She moans, deep and slow, a nice contrast with the birds outside. He does it again, twice more, relishing how wet she becomes, before her eyes flutter open, hazy still with sleep. He watches her eyes slowly clear of fog, to brighten with recognition, and then darken again with lust. At that point, he thrusts into her wet warmth, groaning his own pleasure.

As they settle into a rhythm, he pulls her closer, inhaling her scent (dirty, sweaty, but still wonderfully feminine). Her arms become trapped within their writhing chests, but she can flatten her palms on him, at times scratches over his heart for each wonderful pulse she feels. And when she releases, she draws blood. The thin rivulets of red are nothing compared to his other scars, but still more meaningful, as time will tell.

He keeps pounding into her, relishing the rush of wetness that she's spurted, but unable to find his own end. Not yet anyway. He pulls her closer, bruises her hips as he relentlessly uses her for his own ends, not really worried about her pleasure. Still, when she flexes her leg to anchor herself to him, and cries out a second climax, he slows down.

She whimpers now, but does nothing to fight him off. If she had fought him, he might have gotten angry, but no, he slows down some more, groaning in his pleasant frustration, feeling the paradoxes of ecstasy, biting her neck to distract himself. He will never add to her bruises in a hurtful manner, but even now his bites and bruising hands are gentler then she's known before.

He moves to caress her sides, her back, her ass, all that he can reach as she's smothered against him, and soon she's moaning again, speeding up to match his vigor, and soon enough, they both finish, her wailing and he grunting the last of his thrusts.

After they calm down again, him on his back now with her laying half atop him, he hears the chirping of the birds again. Sighing, he looks to his conquest, and notices for the first times tears upon her face. Nothing else about her is sad though; she's humming and gently smiling, but still he remembers how he had to slow down for her at one point.

Grasping her chin, silencing her and making her look at him, he rasps at her, "You think I am a nice man?"

Her smile fades, "I know what it is like, you don't have to tell me, it's not all sunshine and daisies. But," And she leans up, removing herself from his chest and looking seriously at him, "I do what I have to, I do not regret it, not even when it hurts. You didn't mean for it to happen, otherwise, you wouldn't have slowed down. Last night, this morning, it was good."

He didn't mean for anything to happen, it just did. Still, if she found that her time spent with him was actually pleasing, he wasn't going to argue. "You're right," he replied, "just don't expect it all the time." he roughly finished.

Cupping her face, he wipes off the remaining tears, "Silly woman. Just like those damned birds outside, always expecting the best, always so damn cheerful." He smirks at her; "You sang a pretty song last night, though. Perhaps you are a little birdie. Little Bird, shall I build a nest for you? Cover your pretty little head when next the storm comes?"

She doesn't seem embarrassed or angered over his jest, in fact, she laughs lightly along with him while lying against him again, "For as long as you'll keep my feathers dry, I'll gladly sing for you in return."

He laughs at her, bitter and harsh, regretting that the only woman to ever warm up to him was a fucking camp follower, one he'd have to let go of soon. He gently moves her away, moving to stand up himself. "Come, 'Little Bird', it's time to get ready and move camp."

She smiles at him as she grabs random clothing, "Since you know what to call me, it's only fitting I should know what to call you, m'lord."

Yanking his breeches on, he glares at her, "Anything but that! It's 'Hound', or Sandor, to you."

Blushing in contriteness, she looks away as she pulls on a dress. "I'm sorry… I didn't know."

Sighing, he concedes, "It's fine, just don't say it again. I'm not a lord, or a ser. I piss on them."

She nods, moving towards the tent flap, "I like 'Little Bird', I don't mind it, but" and she looks at him, whispering, "My name is Sansa."

He stares at her retreating figure, wondering why knowing her real name hurts; as if it would make things more permanent, or give things more meaning. He sighs, before noticing the birds are done their morning song, and sighs again, ready for the day to begin.

Before he moves to mount his horse and travel with the rest of the warriors, he tosses her a cloak to keep her warmer, but does nothing else for her, hoping that she doesn't get the wrong idea that he likes her or some such shit like that. For as long as he'll have her: she more or less said so herself, she knows not to expect anything more.

WEDDING DAY (Set between chapters 7 and 8)

For a while now, Shae had been part of Sansa's life again, helping her through the Keep, teaching her how to become a servant (they both laughed at how inept they were when the first start), and protected her from the knights and lords who liked to prey upon lowly skirts. She had left, along with Tyrion Lannister, fled to Casterly Rock where they both were freer to publicly court. It was all romantic, and Sansa wishes nothing but the best for her, but still, she also wishes Shae were here on the day of her marriage to Sandor.

Of course, Tyrion still corresponded with the capital, plans and figures and such, but there was no precedence for servants to do so. Sighing, Sansa nevertheless smiles, and butterflies make themselves known in her stomach, the thoughts of her friend no longer able to distract her.

She had spent the better half of the morning getting ready: bathing, combing her hair, styling it, dressing up in layer upon layer of cloth. It had been so long since she had dressed so finely, that she didn't even care that it was lowly cotton, handed down, and without frills. Instead, she smoothed down the ivory colored folds, rubbed her legs covered with stockings and garters together gleefully, and fingered the edges of the corset that enlivened her chest modestly, as a lady again, if for a short while only.

Even the silken small clothes, a gift from Sandor himself, caused her to giggle mischievously, instead of embarrassed like she might have once done as a girl.

There is a knock on the door, and Bronn walks in. There is no one fatherly or a mentor to walk her to the altar (or weirwood, as she requested), so he had volunteered to do so, a man Sandor trusted, one of his soldiers.

(Others in the castle would come: some were her acquaintances, some were those Sandor actually trusted, while others came to see the farce [in their eyes] of the dog marrying his bitch.)

The fluttering of her stomach increases, and her face goes red. There is no reason to be nervous, after all, they've already lived like lovers for many moons already, and already professed said love and protection, what was there to be nervous about?

She was a little girl, again, to answer honestly. Her dreams, forgotten for so long, returned and made her giddy. Her mouth never hurt so much from smiling, her stomach never tumbled so roughly from nerves, her hands never shook so much from happiness. She wonders if Sandor felt any of it?

His face was passive and stone faced, as always in public, when she walked towards him. He only had eyes for her, however, and his feet couldn't seem to decide which was the one to stand upon. Instead of waiting for the septon to hand her hand over, he reached forward to grab it, and she felt the sweat upon his palms. She smiled at him to assure him, and he in turn rubbed his thumb over her knuckles to reassure her.

Red leaves filtered down, gently swaying and turning, caught be sunlight at times to flare with beauty, before touching the ground in a blanket. Other then that, nothing of the outside world invaded her senses, all she had attention for was Sandor, to hear his rasping breath and vows, to smell his clean musky smell, to see her gift to him over his shoulders, to touch his hands, and soon enough, to feel his lips in an ironically chaste kiss. Oh, but what a kiss it was: a promise, a declaration, and a sensation like no other.

They were tied together, and cloaks were exchanged, but it all seemed meaningless, compared to the wealth of emotions stirring throughout her, striking like lightning and flaring long and hot as a warm summer's night. His eyes were pools of lust, made depth-less by the love that waved underneath; she couldn't wait to drown in him, to be consumed by him, any more then she already was.

What was this ceremony, to a couple that had already given all that they had? It was not the beginning and it was not the end. It was not a footnote, or a highlight. It was... the sum of all that went before; a catalyst for all that would follow. A focal point, to know that all was not for nothing, and all would serve a purpose. Dreams were fulfilled, and new ones bloomed.

Sandor cloaked her, a cloak she stitched of three dogs a field in autumn yellow, and when he had surrounded her with the cloth and his scent, he had kissed her neck from behind, stroking her arms warmly before standing before her again. She knew he had dreams too, dreams he would deny, dreams he wouldn't be aware of having, but dreams nevertheless. He was to take a woman, a promise of home and family, and he would not settle to loose them. She wonders at how strange it was for him, to a man who never even thought beyond the expectation that it wouldn't happen at all. Was he afraid? Scared? Apprehensive?

He smiles at her, finally, as they walk away from the godswood of the Keep, leaving their guests to follow, ready for a small feast in a small room somewhere in the maze of walls. If he is afraid, he bravely faces it, and she wonders if it's her own smiles towards him that assuages his negative thoughts.

She never wears her bride's clothing again, he never wears the cloak she stitched for him again, but their vows last a lifetime, never to be forgotten or shed.