"Look at me. The world is built by killers so you'd better get used to looking at them." The night the Blackwater burned green and frightening, the Hound came to her, giving her the first choice she had been afforded in King's Landing. "I can take you with me. Take you to Winterfell. I'll keep you safe. Do you want to go home?"

The rage he displayed in the past made her dread the thought of looking into his sullen eyes. He was bloody and more drunk than she had ever seen him and Sansa felt a consuming fear for him stronger than any concern for her own safety. Earlier that night, she entreated the Mother to save him and gentle his rage and when she saw the Hound inexplicably sitting at the foot of her bed, she wondered if his presence was somehow the answer to her prayer.

Finally she mustered the courage to raise her eyes to his and saw he was crying. The Hound's hot tears mingled with the blood of his enemies and ran through the rivulets of his scarred skin.

We have suffered together, you and me, she thought as she stood before him. They shared many experiences in King's Landing, transforming each of them into entirely different people from the first day she watched his arrival at Winterfell. Sansa cannot help but feel it binds them together, this mutual suffering allowing her a unique insight into the man behind the fearsome helm of the Hound. He protected her, kept her safe and at that moment she wondered if somehow she would be able to help him as he so often aided her.

Unsure how to comfort him, Sansa sang the Mother's hymn as he held her close. A prayer for both of us, she thought to herself while the battle raged outside, the eerie green of the wildfire casting shadows over his face. "Help us know a better day," she concluded, lightly stroking his face before cupping his cheek in her hand.

She felt a violent shudder pulse through the Hound at her touch. "You won't hurt me," she heard herself softly whisper, her apprehension blending with a new, tender emotion warming her from within as she held his face in her hands.

The Hound was so close she could feel his heart beating madly against her breast. "No, Little bird, I won't hurt you," he breathed, his voice harsh as steel against stone. Slowly the fearsome man withdrew from her, shame filling his eyes as he stepped toward the door. At that very moment, the Hound transformed into Sandor Clegane, the man that would give her the first measure of freedom since leaving Winterfell.

Travelling the densely forested switchbacks leading north, Sansa indeed feels they have found what she fervently hopes will be the beginning of a better life. The luxuriant emerald woodlands surrounding them smell of pine, fresh dirt and freedom. Even though they are on the run, the young woman senses her former self, so long buried under a mask of courtesy, is slowly emerging once more. For this and much more, Sansa is full of gratitude toward the scarred man she once could hardly bring herself to look upon.

Riding atop his enormous black courser, the Hound sits behind her in the saddle silent and brooding, imposing even when she cannot see his face. Longing to thank him for saving and protecting her, she cannot help but be intimidated by the man. He is so very large and powerful and strong, yet has shown himself capable of gentleness, too. Sansa is pleasantly surprised to discover this unexpected side of the battle hardened man, feeling as though he has revealed a secret side of himself to her.

Sandor is calmer and more at ease than she has ever seen him and during their travels she begins to enjoy his companionship. He often points out animals hiding in the brush or teases her, trying to make her laugh as they go along. His attentions make her happier than she can remember feeling in a long time and Sansa finds herself growing increasingly shy in his company, confused by the newfound emotions that flood her heart when he is near. Instead of speaking, the perplexed young woman listens attentively to his tales, all the while striving to understand what it is, exactly, that she feels for him.

Perhaps for the first time since leaving Winterfell, Sansa feels safe with the man knowing he will protect and care for her. No longer fearing his grunting and growling, the harsh grating of his voice with its heavy rasp against her ear now conveys a sense of reassurance and a deeper, warmer sentiment the young woman is so far unwilling to name.

Each day brings new and intense sensations to her, thrilling and puzzling her by turns. With his powerful arms wrapped securely around her, Sansa delights in their close proximity, at once stirring and soothing her. For so long, no one touched her with affection or care and she revels in the comforting feeling of being dwarfed by him. Sandor's hard, muscular chest, powerful arms and thighs steady her in the saddle as the mighty warhorse canters onward, his large hand spanning her midsection as he holds the reigns in front of her.

Sore and stiff and too tired to care about keeping a proper distance any longer, Sansa tentatively rests her back against his chest. He grunts and draws in a deep breath but says nothing, shifting slightly in the saddle. Emboldened, Sansa sleepily nestles against him, allowing slumber to overtake her. The Hound leans his chin against the crown of her head. "You alright, Little bird?"

"Oh yes, my lord I am quite well," she chirps automatically, and suddenly she feels him stiffen. Cupping her jaw in his massive hand, he turns her head up to look at him. Sandor's deep stormy grey eyes glitter with anger, and bringing his face close to hers he rasps low, "I'm no lord, girl. I'm a dog, remember?"

Suddenly awake and nervous, she struggles to understand how she could have caused offense. Sansa keeps her eyes lowered, not wanting to anger him any further but her submissive behavior only serves to provoke him. Pinching her chin a bit tighter he rasps, "Stop that! No more chirping, understand? And no more of your 'sers' or 'my lords' either."

"Yes, I understand. Forgive me."

Squinting at her, he draws back and asks, "You know my given name, girl?"

"Yes," she whispers softly.

"Then say it," he growls low, his breath hot against her cheek causing her to shiver with delight in spite of her nervousness. "Sandor, Sandor Clegane. And…and you are not a dog, Sandor. You don't belong to Joff anymore. You are a good man," she smiles shyly. Slowly raising her eyes, she meets his gaze in time to glimpse a softened expression in his eyes.

"Bugger that. I'm not good," he laughs sharply. "I'm a bloody bastard and make no mistake. So, I'm no longer the Hound to you, is that it?"

"I…I haven't made up my mind yet. Forgive me, I am being very rude I know," she stammers, lowering her eyes once more.

"Rude?" He laughs again. "Is speaking the truth your idea of rude? The truth suits us both better than your chirping girl, believe that," he hoarsely answers, tipping her chin up to meet the heated glare returning to his eyes. "You have the right of it, though. I'm no Lannister, Sansa; you remember that. You speak plain with me, understand?"

"I will, Sandor…and I'll try not to chirp. I don't wish to upset you it's just that…after so long it's hard not to mindlessly say what others want to hear. It has become a habit of sorts."

Snorting, he nods knowingly. "Aye, after all you've been through, lass, I guess it would at that. Well, no more, Little bird; from now on say what you think." The tone of his voice is surprisingly gentle, even encouraging. Without a word he suddenly squeezes her close for a moment before nudging the warhorse onward.

That evening a blustery snowstorm descends upon them, forcing them to take shelter in an abandoned hunting cabin. As she lays shivering under her cloak with a threadbare blanket draped over her, she feels the man shift closer to her on the pallet.

"Here, girl, move closer," Sansa hears him grunt while he adjusts her blanket.

"But…wwhy?" Sansa stutters from the cold.

"Why?" Sandor barks out his now familiar harsh, snarly laugh. "Because it's too late to build another fire and I didn't take you away from King's Landing only to have you die from the cold. Now, come here."

Sansa purses her lips together, silencing the myriad of questions his words bring into her mind. Why does he take care of her? Why would a man like him even want to do such a thing? What made him come to her room that night? What made him want to risk so much to save her? Does he have feelings for her? Does his attentiveness mean he wants her as a man desires his wife?

While she ponders this thought, he unceremoniously drags her pallet next to him, his hulking form now lying beside her. Silently he pulls her body flush against his before draping his cloak and blanket over them. Despite the chilly air, Sandor's body radiates warmth and without his light armor she can feel how muscular he truly is. She stiffens for a moment, wondering what will come next.

"I'm not Gregor, Little bird. I won't hurt you," he sighs.

"Forgive me, se…I mean, Sandor, I didn't mean to offend-"

"Bugger that, I know full well what you meant. You think I'm daft? All your politeness and leaning forward and stiffness is familiar enough; I've seen you do that way with Joff enough times. Admit it, I scare you. Go on, say it," he spits out, his tone biting and defiant.

Why is he angry? Pressing her lips together, Sansa wonders what the man wants to hear from her. "You…well, I wouldn't say you scare me, exactly, it's just that…" her words fade into the air as she notices his piercing gaze boring into her own. For the first time she recognizes it is not merely anger she sees in him; it is pain. Just like that night in my room…

"I scared you the night on the serpentine. I scared you the night I stole you away from Joff. And I still do," he growls, roughly pulling her closer with his other arm until her back is against his chest, his hand warmly spanning her stomach. Smirking, he tilts her chin toward him, bringing his face closer to her own. Swallowing hard, Sansa averts her eyes, disturbed by his angry, hard expression.

"For all the time we've been on the road together, you still can't bear to look at me." Bitter indignation tinges his voice, the singular harshness in his tone and manner touches her deeply, dissolving her fear.

He is accustomed to everyone fearing him, thinking he is like Gregor. He puts on a mask just as I do and for all his barking, he doesn't take any pleasure in it. He is hurt that I am still afraid of him, after taking me with him and caring for me, Sansa realizes as she returns his gaze. A tender, fluttery sensation floods her senses as he holds her close in his powerful arms, making thinking all the more difficult for her.

At first, the ruined side of his face at first was too gruesome for her to look upon, but now it is the resentful hostility in his eyes that is far harder for Sansa to bear. She cares for him in her own way and would never intentionally hurt him, despite dreading his anger. He has kept her safe, protected her and cared for her; only his words are occasionally harsh but he has never lied or hurt her; Sandor has come to be a source of security to her and so much more than that, too. Knowing she has failed to adequately express her gratitude, the young woman silently berates herself for not expressing her feelings sooner.

Swallowing hard, she forces herself to relax against him and feels him immediately respond by sharply exhaling, the tension leaving his muscular frame. His jaw clenches and she can hear he is gritting his teeth; Sansa recognizes he is struggling but with what she does not know. Holding her face in his hand not ungently, after several long moments his normally keen eyes soften as he stares down at her.

Resting her hand tentatively over his arm at her waist, Sansa quietly speaks. "Forgive me, Sandor. I didn't mean to make you angry."

Snorting, he shakes his head. "Don't play any fucking games with me, girl. Just say what you mean," he growls low, the softened look on his face belying his gruff tone.

Sansa feels him stiffen at her touch but still she persists, gently running her hand along his forearm as she softly answers, "Yes, alright, I admit that is true; there are times when you do frighten me. It is hard for me to look at you but please believe me when I say it is not for the reason you think. Your eyes are always so…angry-hateful, even. I never know what to say or do with you. I've tried being nice to you, to show you I appreciate you but you won't have it…"

Startled, he draws away from her slightly before his harsh rasping laughter interrupts her once more. "That's the most truth I've heard out of you yet, girl. You may have learned something after all."

"Sandor, please let me explain." Reaching out to him, she places her other hand in the crook of his arm, holding it close to her waist.

When he pulls her toward him, Sansa can feel the deep rumbling of his voice against her back. "Don't worry your pretty red head over it. Go to sleep. I've had enough of your chirping for one night," he growls, allowing his calloused fingers to lightly trace along her jaw line, his gentle touch in sharp contrast to his rough tone.

Sansa shivers, relishing the delicious sensation his touch elicits from her body while confusion and disappointment muddle her thoughts. Time seems to stand still as she stares into his eyes, the touch of his calloused finger caressing her face bringing an unbidden sigh from her lips.

She longs to tell him that she has come to care for him, that she is grateful for all he has done for her and that she does not wish to be separated from him. There is a bond growing gradually between them, of that she is certain. As of late she has felt even closer to him and at times she finds herself wondering what it might be like to kiss him, to be with him as husband and wife. The intense manner of his gaze makes her wonder if he feels the same way.

"Sandor, please, I do not wish to anger you, you must believe that."

"Enough talk. Go to sleep, Sansa." Abashed, Sansa nods, bitter tears stinging her eyes. Eventually exhaustion overtakes her and despite her bewilderment she falls into a fitful sleep.

The next morning they break their fast in silence. Sansa sits on a fallen log watching Sandor furiously chopping wood, mulling over his words the night before. The way he looked at her was so different; for a brief moment it was almost tender, leaving her warm and flushed in his arms. He insisted she admit she is afraid to look at him and then acted as if nothing happened, falling asleep soon after.

I will not be a spoiled highborn lady. I will do whatever I can to help from now on. I will make sure he has no reason to regret his decision to take me with him. Gathering her things, she shakes out their bedrolls and begins folding the blankets. "The pretty talking bird isn't chirping this morning?" Sandor rasps, laughing at his own joke to break the solemn mood.

Blushing, Sansa casts her eyes downward, wishing he would leave her alone with her thoughts. I should have told him how I felt last night; now it seems all wrong. I must find a way to make him understand it isn't his scars I fear; it is his anger and more than that, that one day he will leave me.

Moving beside her, Sandor tilts her chin toward him. "Are you sick?" He asks, suddenly serious.

"No, I am not. Please, just leave me be for a bit," Sansa falters, her eyes filling with tears and her cheeks blushing crimson.

Drawing in a deep breath, Sandor moves to sit beside her. "If you have to attend to a woman's needs, Sansa, just say so. I may be a dog but I know that much about life."

"Why does everyone always think it is…only that which bothers me?" Sansa sighs loudly, exasperated with Sandor and even more so with herself. Standing, she sullenly marches down to the creek, ignoring his disconcerted frown.

"Don't go too far, Little bird," she hears him call after her. "Storm's coming. We'll wait it out here. There's water heating in the cabin if you want to clean up. I'm going to bathe in the river so if there's trouble, call for me."

"Thank you, Sandor. I'll bring our things back inside as well." Inhaling the sharp clean air, Sansa looks at the threatening sky overhead. He had better hurry; the sky will open up any moment now. The storm will delay their travel but Sansa doesn't really mind; the hunter's cabin will provide warmth and shelter and perhaps this change in the weather will give her another chance to talk to Sandor.

Once inside, Sansa carefully bathes and washes her hair before changing into one of the three simple gowns she brought along. She has discovered Sandor enjoys looking at her and hopes her appearance will please him, that he will be more willing to listen and less inclined to irritation if she looks pleasant.

Outside, Sandor's low and menacing rasp echoes in the wash below the cabin. Who is he talking to? Sansa wonders, moving toward the window.

Standing facing the creek wearing only his tunic and breeches, Sandor is gripping the handle of his greatsword. Two filthy men covered in furs curse at him before she hears the sharp clash of steel ringing out, breaking the silence of the early morning air.

Fear tightly grips her throat as Sansa begins to pray: gods, please don't take him from me! I've lost so much already…I cannot bear to lose him too…I haven't told him my true feelings yet-please, don't take him from me! He is all I have left!

The fight is over as soon as it begins; with no more than four strokes of his greatsword Sandor easily defeats the men. Sansa races outside in her bare feet, fear etching her face as she pales before him, taking in the stream of blood seeping through the side of his tunic. "These buggering bastards thought they'd rob me as I dressed. Thought wrong, didn't you?" He laughs, turning one of the men over with the toe of his boot.

Choking out her fear, Sansa throws her arms around his neck, desperately clinging to him all the while she sobs out her relief. "What's this now?" Sandor rasps into her hair, dropping his sword and gathering her close. "The likes of them won't hurt you. No one will hurt you again or I'll kill them, and I mean to keep my word."

"It's not that," Sansa manages between whimpers. "I…I was afraid they would kill you, that I would lose you. Your side…" she whispers, gently lowering her hand over the blood staining his tunic.

"It's only a scratch, that. Nothing to go to pieces over, lass."

"Please, come inside. Let me take care of it for you, Sandor, please," Sansa insists while taking him by the hand, ignoring his exasperated sigh.

Sansa prepares the bandages and wine while he tentatively pulls off his tunic, growling and cursing all the while. A deep blush spreads across Sansa's cheeks as she turns to face him, noticing the way the black hair from his neck below his beard travels all the way down his chest and disappears below the waistband of his breeches.

Moving closer, Sansa tries to ignore his burning gaze. Tenderly she touches his side, knitting her brow as she tends his wound. "The blade just grazed you, thank the gods," Sansa smiles, clearly relieved. "It should heal up nicely if you let me keep it clean."

Amused, he regards her for a moment. "I told you it was only a scratch. Seven hells, girl," he grumbles before lightly brushing a stray curl from her face. "I don't need a nursemaid."

Carefully she rinses the wound with wine, causing Sandor to jump away from her, cursing in pain. "You're wasting good wine, you crazy little bird!"

"I know it's painful and I am so sorry I hurt you. I'm finished now." Sansa says softly, stroking his side to comfort him.

Suddenly Sandor grabs her wrist and pulls her closer. "You're not playing some game with me, are you Sansa?" He sneers, staring deep into her eyes.

Anticipating he would not know how to react to her caring for him, Sansa remains calm. He is a dog, just as he says. A half-wild, mean-tempered dog that bites any hand that tries to pet him and yet he saved me just the same.

"No, Sandor, I am not. I'm only trying to return the favor and take care of you as you have done me. Must it always be this way between us?"

Sniffing, he shakes his head while eying her closely. Sansa closes the distance between them. "Will you always question every kind deed? If you thought me so untrustworthy, why did you take me with you?"

"This reproach from you, you who won't even look at me in the light of day," he snarls at her, pain and fear flickering in his eyes before the familiar black rage returns.

What does he mean? I have looked at him many times. Removing his hand from her wrist, Sansa pulls away from him, all the while holding his gaze. He desires me to look at his scars willingly, not because he forces me. Setting her shoulders, she places her hands on his face, allowing her fingertips to trace the burned side as she gazes into his keen grey eyes. "It was wrong of me to avoid you in such a way. When we first met, your scars frightened me but that time has long since passed."

Smirking, he starts to turn away but Sansa holds firm, gently caressing his cheek. "Allow me this, Sandor. You say I will not look at you, that I am afraid to behold your scars. But I wish look upon your face this day," she whispers softly.

Startled Sandor watches hers, his eyes sullen with anger though he remains unmoving as she tentatively traces his features. Up close, the true horror of what Gregor inflicted on him is even more disturbing to behold. The left side of his face is a ruin of deformed skin, knotted and pitted deep into the muscle. Gnarled fissures etch the deep marled flesh, twisting his lower lip in a most alarming manner and giving his face a snarling, menacing appearance even at rest. The darkened flesh of his cheek and jaw is as hard, leathery and unyielding as the man himself.

Gently brushing his hair away from his face, Sansa notices his ear is burned away, a small hole left in its place. Carefully she runs her hand through the strands of his hair covering it to the back of his neck. He wears his suffering on the outside, whereas mine remains hidden in my heart. I would make sure he knows nothing but happiness with me, if only he would give me the chance. Her touch begins reflecting her tender thoughts, quickly turning into caresses and inadvertently Sandor shivers at the change, staring at her with all his might. Though Sansa does not acknowledge she sees his response to her touch, it pleases her nonetheless and she smiles affectionately at him before continuing her exploration.

Where once his scars frightened her, now she sees them as a physical sign of his strength and will to survive, a powerful reminder of his fierce determination and past suffering. They are fearsome to behold and yet beautiful in her eyes. Careful not to leave any portion of his face untouched, Sansa moves on to the right side.

The skin covering his gaunt, sharp cheekbone is surprisingly soft and under his trimmed beard she notes there is a strong jaw line. His nose is hooked and sharp and his deep gray eyes remind her of the pool next to the heart tree in Winterfell's godswood. He has the look of the north. Of home.

Pulling back slightly, Sansa smiles at him once more, willing the man to see she cares for him, that it pleases her simply to be with him and not only because he took her away from Joffrey. She aches to hold him in her arms, desperate for him to understand she just wants to be closer to him and make him happy. Lost in her thoughts, the silence stretches between them.

Shifting uncomfortably, he barks roughly, "No pretty words for that, girl? No little compliment the septa taught you?"

Tears fill her eyes. "The only thing I wish to say is that I am sorry, Sandor," Sansa whispers. "I am deeply sorry Gregor hurt you and that the Lannisters used you ill for their own benefit."

For possibly the first time, it is Sandor who looks away, clenching his jaw. Sighing deeply, he does not meet her gaze, nor does he speak.

Sansa gently continues caressing his face. "I am sorry I did not look at you sooner. It pains me knowing I did not tell you that I have seen beyond your scars and anger ever since you took me from King's Landing. I am sorry I delayed in telling you that I care for you so very deeply. Sandor, I do not wish to be separated from you, no matter what may come."

"Little bird," he rasps finally, his voice cold, grating and full of pain. "You honestly believe your kingly brother will allow me to stay with you? That I didn't ravage you the entire time you've been with me? Bloody nonsense if I ever heard it. He'll have my head as soon as we arrive at his camp, believe that." Sandor raises his eyes to her challengingly, his eyes and tone hard and cruel once more.

"No," Sansa whispers, cupping his face in her hands. "I won't allow it. You saved me. You've taken care of me…I will not have you treated poorly by my brother or anyone, let alone punished. No one will dare call you a rapist-it is unthinkable! Look at me," she says firmly, tipping his face up so he will meet her gaze. "Sandor, I swear it on the old gods and the new that I will keep you safe, just as you have kept me safe. I will make them all see the man you truly are, the man I see when I look at you. You deserve to be rewarded, not punished."

Scoffing, Sandor looks down, shaking his head. "After everything you've seen, you really believe that, Sansa?" He rasps scornfully. "I thought you learned in King's Landing that kings do what's best for them, not anyone else. The Young Wolf is no different, for all his honor. Open your eyes."

His words frighten her, for Sansa recognizes the truth in them. She is afraid to think of what might happen once she is reunited with her family, can scarcely imagine how shocked they will be seeing her arrive with the Hound.

Perhaps by the time we reach my brother, my family will have heard he deserted the Lannisters to return me to them. Maybe he could stay on with her brother's men-maybe he could even become my sworn shield. Then we would be allowed to stay together for an indefinite amount of time.

As she ponders these thoughts, Sansa realizes the futility of her plans; it is wholly wishful thinking on her part. Her brother will do what is best for him just as he already has done; he did not come for her and Arya when Joffrey executed their father. She had been so sure Robb would rescue them but instead he gathered his army and started a war. Only the Hound helped her, kept her safe and protected her. No one else has even tried to do what he has done and she will not forget it, will not forget him, for all the things he has done for her, and for so much more.

I love him; I have loved him for some time. I have just denied my true feelings; yet another habit I developed in King's Landing that plagues my interactions with him. He is right; Robb will punish him for serving the Lannisters if we go to him; we cannot go to my family, not yet, Sansa decides, her thoughts surprising her even as they form in her mind.

Scoffing, he tries to pull away but Sansa persists, "No, I will not risk your safety Sandor, not after all you have done for me. I would rather wait until things improve than act in haste only to regret it later. Perhaps then we may hope for something better from my family."

Sandor's mouth twitches as he starts to protest but Sansa silences him, resting her finger on his lips. The stunned expression on the fearsome warrior's face brings a smile to Sansa in spite of her anxious state. "Please, Sandor, you must believe me. I wish stay with you, if you will allow it. I…I care for you deeply. I don't want to live without you," Sansa whispers, desperate to make him understand her feelings.

"You think such, Little bird, only because I saved you." Sighing, he pauses. "You want to stay with me because you still believe in your songs, not because you care-not in truth," he mutters bitterly, heartache distorting his features as he roughly takes her hands away from his face.

Sobbing in frustration, she forces him to look at her. "How can you, of all people, say such to me? I wish to stay with you because I no longer believe in songs and knights, kings and fairy tales. You made sure my eyes opened to the truth and I cannot go back to the way I was before. I am no longer suited to the life of a highborn maiden, waiting for my prince to come along or for my family to decide what is best for me. I want to have a choice, Sandor. You are the only one to respect me enough to allow me that." Her voice is strong, determined even in her own ears. "Why can you not accept I would be happy staying with you?" She asks entwining her fingers with his, bringing his large hand up to rest upon her cheek.

"Happy with a dog? Living on nothing? On the run with every bloody sellsword and Lannister soldier in Westeros on our tails? How long do you think that will last?" Sandor laughs harshly; it is an empty, joyless sound reminding Sansa of the snarling dogs fighting for scraps at Winterfell.

"As long as may be. We have much to work out between us; Sandor. I am not a child or ignorant to the vast difficulties that lie before us. We both have suffered so much; we both have our scars, inside and out. But please believe I wish to give us a chance, to see what might be between us."

Moving close to him, she cups his cheek in her hand, reminiscent of the way she touched him the night of the battle. "I want…more with you. I am not afraid. You won't hurt me; I know that now."

"I'm a black hearted killer, girl, you best believe that," he says low, averting his eyes while leaning into her touch.

"You have killed, yes. But you are so much more than that, Sandor. You are more than the lives you've taken over the years, more than the scars Gregor left you with. There is goodness in you, I have seen it; I see it every day, in a myriad of ways."

Shaking his head, he tries to pull away and Sansa watches his eyes fill with bitter tears. Placing her hand over his heart, Sansa moves closer to him. "Please, give us a chance. I know we can find a better day together as I have prayed we would. Don't let fear shut me out of your heart."

"You think your gods listen to you?" He rasps roughly.

"I know they do; being here with you is proof of it."

Resting his forehead against hers, Sandor draws in a deep breath and closes his eyes. "If I agree to keep you with me, I'll not give you up," he growls hoarsely, his breath hot against her skin. "Not to your brother and not to some buggering lord who comes along trying to secure his seat in your family. Not even to your mother, understand? You'll be mine and I'll kill anyone who tries to take you from me, believe that. Are you sure that's what you want? To belong to me?"

Sansa can feel the tension in his arms, can sense he is holding his breath, waiting, dreading her reply. She knows it is a difficult thing, a nearly impossible thing for Sandor to grasp that the little chirping bird would turn her back on the duty and honor she has grown up with and instead choose her own destiny, that she would gladly choose an uncertain future with him over a life of luxury.

"Yes, Sandor; I do want you. It is not that I want to abandon my family, my duty-all that is expected of me. But I know that reality will force me to choose between doing what is expected and following my heart. In fact, my choice is already made…and I choose you. I…I love you, Sandor and I wish to bind myself to you."

"Little bird," he sighs her pet name, drawing her close to his chest. "As I love you. Bloody hells, you are all I have wanted since I saw you in Winterfell. I'll keep you with me, keep you safe. You need not worry; I'll not dishonor you. We'll take our time." Pausing, he seems lost in thought. "We'll stay hidden among the clans of the Riverlands and the Vale until the time is right to go to your family."

"No matter what comes of this war, I belong to you and nothing will change that," she whispers before softly covering his lips in a tentative kiss. His mouth is warm, soothing and reassuring and Sansa thrills at the feeling of his strong arms pulling her closer as he deepens the kiss. "They will not part us, I won't allow it," she breathes against his mouth.

"Bugger them all, Little bird. You're mine and I'd fucking kill the Stranger himself before I'll let anyone take you from me," he growls before resuming kissing her with a desperate hunger that takes her breath away.

Laughing happily, Sansa holds her beloved close to her heart and silently thanks the Mother for answering the prayer she uttered so long ago. In each other they have found deliverance, a measure of peace, and an abiding love far better than any fairy tale. "A better day, indeed," Sansa whispers before kissing him once more.