Title: A Brace Sundered

Fandom: George R.R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire

Spoilers through A Feast for Crows.

Disclaimers: Not mine, never mine, so sad.

Summary: Sandor's meeting with Alayne does not go the way either of them expected.

The Blackfish had returned to the Vale. Alayne's father laughs when the news of the Blackfish's landing in Gulltown reaches them where they are wintering at Runestone, but she can tell from the tightness at the corner of his mouth when she kisses him goodnight that he is more concerned than he reveals. That night Myranda Royce slips into Alayne's bed as she has so many other nights of late and her conversation seems unable to focus on anything but the exciting news. The entire Vale is abuzz, it seemed, and the general consensus is that the Blackfish was returning to claim rights of guardianship of young Robert Arryn and name himself Lord Protector. Alayne wonders what Myranda would say if she knew the Blackfish would find a second ward and an even larger responsibility were Sansa to reveal the truth of her birth.

Her great-uncle is coming – he is reported to arrive the following day - but Alayne fears he wouldn't believe her were she to greet him as niece. He never met her as Sansa, still, she wonders if she might try. Petyr is fond of pointing out her resemblance to her mother. On many evenings he'd draw her onto his lap and thread his fingers in her hair while he told her once again of Catelyn and of how Sansa should have been his. "But I am yours, Father." Alayne would say, knowing how much he liked to hear those words. When she did his lips would stretch into a smile before he'd bury his face the hair behind her ear or at the back of her neck. He would relax into her then, breathing deeply while Alayne watched the fire burn down. On some nights his mood would alter suddenly and he'd push her from his lap (once so forcefully that she nearly fell) and send her to bed. But Alayne always assumes in these moments that her Petyr had been overcome with his grief for his long-lost Catelyn,

After Myranda begins snoring Alayne slips out of bed and crosses to the window. It's a frigid night, made all the more bitterly cold thanks to the clarity of the skies, but Alayne steps beyond the heavy drapes and cracks open the thick leaded pane anyway. There is a full moon and Sansa can't help but remember Lady howling with her pack, snout lifted to a similar sky so long ago.

After a time Alayne closes the window. Shivering, she returns to the warmth of her bed where the tears frozen onto her cheeks can thaw into nothingness.

It is as if they never existed.

Normally Alayne's daily routine doesn't tire her, but nothing is more strenuous than collective delayed anticipation. The entire castle is frantic with excitement and the bustle of preparation has threatened to send Sweetrobin over the edge many times before midday. Alayne has done her best to calm him, but even her more cunning tactics are largely unsuccessful. She is almost ready to call for the maester when her father's summons arrives.

The room is devoid of servants when she enters, and the look on her father's face is enough to tell Alayne that this would be one of their more serious conversations. He doesn't speak until she stands before his chair.

"Your traitorous uncle will arrive soon, Sansa. We must prepare."

"Why is he not being seized, Father? Does the Vale no longer support Lannister rule?" Sansa doesn't dare hope.

"The houses of the Vale hold a great deal of respect for the Blackfish. If he returns to claim guardianship over young Robert, he will doubtless be supported by the noble houses and assume the role of Lord Protector, especially were he to receive a pardon from King's Landing."

"Is that likely?"

"Perhaps, but at the moment my concerns lie elsewhere." Her father steeples his fingers and scrutinizes her carefully. "Our guests will arrive shortly and it would appear quite unusual for my daughter not to be present to help me welcome them."

Alayne shivers. "He doesn't know me, Father."

"No." Lord Baelish strokes his beard thoughtfully, "but one of his companions does."

Someone from Winterfell, Sansa thinks. The gods have answered my prayers. She schools her features carefully, "Who travels with the Blackfish, Father?"

"The Hound."

Sansa swallows nervously before speaking. "The Hound was ever at my side during my stay in King's Landing. It pleased Joffrey to send him to fetch me to court." She smooths the front of her dress with her hands, leaving them to rest clasped at her waist as if they could conceal the fluttering in her stomach. "He is sure to recognize me."

"Can he be bought?" The abruptness of Petyr's question tells Sansa more than she's already observed about the level of his agitation. "The dog has changed masters before; perhaps he may again."

"Perhaps." Sansa is noncommital. "But don't you see, Petyr? He'll be able to confirm my identity to my uncle!"

"That's the last thing we want." Sansa takes an involuntary step backward at the bite in Littlefinger's words. His tone softens, however, when he notices her distress, and he reaches out to take her hand. "Sansa, my dear. One word from Joffrey's rabid dog could destroy all our careful plans for you." He strokes her hand soothingly in his and then draws her forward to sit on his lap. "Don't forget that the Imp is still rumored to be alive somewhere and, until his demise is confirmed we cannot legitimize your marriage. We need you securely wed to Harry the Heir before your identity can be revealed."

"But you promised I'd wear a direwolf on my maiden's cloak."

"What? No, Sansa. The vows must be said first in case some uppity Lannister-loving lordling has the temerity to object." Sansa sits very still as Petyr's hand strokes her hair. "You know this to be true."

"Yes, Father." Alayne replies.

"Now then, first we must first deal with Joffrey's dog." Her father twined a lock of her hair around a fingertip. "Your hair is different now, of course, darker...and your figure fuller. I wonder if he'll pay close attention..."

Sansa doesn't tell him that, to the best of her knowledge, the Hound notices everything. "You have always taught me that people see what they are told, father."

Petyr chuckles, "Quite true, my dear Alayne, quite true." He turns her face toward his, smiling. "Are you certain your skills are sufficient to fool this oaf?"

Sansa's smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Of course they are, Father." she says as she brushes her lips lightly against his. "Everything will go according to plan." She moves to slide off his lap but he grabs her wrist.

"Whose plan would that be, Sansa?" His grip tightens a fraction and Sansa wants to pull against it, but she doesn't.

"Why yours, of course." Alayne replies, giving her Father's pointy beard a playful tug. "You are only interested in what is best for me."

Petyr turns her wrist and raises it to his lips before releasing her. "Exactly," he says, "You must never forget everything I've done for you, Alayne."

"I never will," she replies, and she walks out the door.

Alayne hadn't exaggerated her skill. When the Blackfish and his entourage arrive she is brought forward and presented as Peter Baelish's bastard daughter. She is polite, quiet and retiring in her demeanor and her uncle never spares her a second glance. Even the Hound ignores her, returning to stand stiffly at the Blackfish's side with one hand resting on the pommel of his sword after a cursory bow in her general direction. Alayne casts her eyes down and stands in the shadows when the introductions are done, her emotions a curious mixture of relief and disappointment.

The reception dinner is interminable, the stored up expectation of the day released in a burst of excitement and celebration that would have been intoxicating even without the freely flowing wine. Alayne's father has ordered a number of the Arbor's finest casks brought up from the cellars, and even the squires and serving girls are welcome to partake. Alayne sits with Myranda, whose chief occupation during dinner is to speculate on the individual bedding skills of each member of the Blackfish's company. Alyane giggles and nods accordingly with each imagined bit of prowess or deficiency, but her heart isn't in the effort. Neither does she blush; she has long since stopped being shocked at Myranda's indiscreet language. She's just beginning to wonder whether it is to early to slip away to her chambers when something Myranda says actually captures her attention.

"They're saying it wasn't him, but I don't believe them. The Hound looks capable of anything."

Alayne swerves her head toward Myranda but covers her distraction by reaching for a skin of wine. "What are they saying he did?" she asks as she pours into both Myranda's goblet and her own.

"You have been ignoring me again, haven't you." Myranda grins and takes a drink from the goblet Alayne hands her. "I've half a mind not to repeat myself."

"Very well." Alayne sips from her own goblet delicately and turns to look at the fools juggling in front of the high table.

"Don't beg me so, Alayne." Myranda teases. "I know you want to hear every lurid detail about the Mad Dog of the Saltpans."

"I've no wish to trouble you." Alayne answers placidly. "I'm sure someone else will enlighten me soon enough."

"Oh very well you crafty thing, you've managed to convince me." Myranda leans forward conspiratorially. "It is said that the Hound spent several moons raping and pillaging in the riverlands. No woman between the ages of eight and eighty was safe! What's more, some of the stories say that he savaged them." She leans in closer and lowers her voice to a whisper. "With his teeth."

"Honestly Randa," Alayne smiles at her friend indulgently. "You believe every tale you hear."

"But it's true, Alayne!" Myranda's gleeful whisper was loud enough to turn heads in their direction. "One of the hedge knights traveling with them saw one of the women with his own eyes before she died. He said her breasts had been chewed."

"Please, Randa. Not while we're eating."

"You can almost believe it when you look at him though, can you not?" Myranda's breath was hot and fragrant with wine near Alayne's ear. "The burned side of his face looks so savage here in the candlelight, and I can only imagine the strength in those large, rough hands. Strength enough to hold any woman down to serve his dark pleasure, don't you think?"

Those hands once wiped blood from my face and held a dagger to my throat, Sansa remembers, but Alayne only sighs. "And what, pray tell, were you doing with this hedge knight while learning this brutal gossip?"

"Oh, the hedge knight's hands were strong too," Myranda laughs, and immediately fills Alayne's ears with details of the encounter. Alayne returns to her comfortable state of passively listening for a while before begging exhaustion and too much wine and excusing herself.

Her chambers are dark when she opens her door. For a moment Alayne thinks to call for a maid to light a brazier and a few candles, but most of the servants are either drunk with wine or otherwise occupied. Off sitting on some knight's knee with hands down their bodices, I imagine, she thinks wryly as she crosses the darkened room. There are still some live coals at the bottom of the brazier and she feeds them more fuel, happy for the growing warmth and the quiet pleasure of bringing a fire to life. She stands there a moment, so transfixed by the flame that she doesn't register the shadow that detaches from a wall. It moves toward her and it is almost at her side before she notices. She jumps so violently in her shock that the brazier would have overturned had she not managed to grab the edge to steady it. There is a sizzling where the flesh of her hand meets hot metal and Sansa absurdly thinks it's a strangely quiet sound before the hiss of her own sharply indrawn breath drowns it entirely.

"Seven hells," Sansa hears before she is pushed toward the window, cradling her hand against her chest. The man jerks back the drapes and opens the glass; the gust of wintry air blows his hair back and the light from the brazier gutters, throwing his scars into sharp relief before he lets the drapes fall behind them. "Give me your hand, little bird."

She does, and he holds it gingerly in his own, palm up, and fills their joined hands with snow from the windowsill. The warmth on the unburnt side of her hand is as welcome to her as the cold snow is on the other, and Sansa finds it difficult to prevent the tears filling her eyes from spilling down her cheeks. "I'm not who you imagine, Ser," she whispers, though the words threaten to lodge themselves in her throat. "You have mistaken my chambers for someone else's."

"You always were a terrible liar. And you know better than to pretend I'm ser of anything." He finishes filling her palm with snow and then moves his hand to her chin, tilting it into the moonlight. "Are you safe here? Have you been mistreated?"

"No," she whispers, not knowing to which question she's responding; there is no longer any point in pretense. "No one troubles me here."

His hand drops from her chin and his fingers tremble slightly beneath hers before dropping her hand altogether. "No dogs to bark at you from the shadows, you mean." Sansa can't see his face but she imagines his scowl clearly, "I worried you like a bone, little bird, and I'm sorry for it."

"There is no need to apologize, my lord." Sansa draws her snow-filled hand toward the pit his words opened in her stomach.

"Yes there is; it's what I came here to do." he says harshly. "I could have done more to protect you at King's Landing, and I did nothing but hurt and frighten you."

Another gust of wind sneaks through Sansa's hair to the nape of her neck and she blames it for the shiver that runs through her. "Don't say that," she says, her voice strained and thin. "Don't speak of that time, in that way."

His pause goes on for far too long, "How would you have me speak of it?" he finally asks.

"Not at all." Sansa chokes. "You must never mention it again! Never!" She doesn't know when she stepped forward but her face is suddenly buried in the front of his shirt and her unburned hand is gripping the edge of his cloak so tightly she can feel her fingernails digging into her palm through the heavy wool. Her burned hand with its handful of snow hovers purposelessly in the air, and when he shifts to put his arm around her it bumps into his side to complete the awkward embrace. "That all happened before," she sobs, "it happened to Sansa, and that time is done."

His arm around her tightens and he lifts his other hand to extricate her fingers from their hold on his cloak. "Little Bird," he says carefully after a while, lowering her hand to his side and then releasing it to wrap his cloak around them both, "you're shivering."

Sansa lets her fingers trail around the warmth of his side and tries to control her sniffles. "It's cold." she says stupidly, a little annoyed at how petulant she sounds. "And I'm holding a snowball."

"I know." He sounds amused. "It's melting all the way down my back." Sansa gasps an "oh" and moves to pull away, but his arms hold her firmly. "Stop fluttering, little bird," he chuckles. "I'm not bothered by a little snow." He shifts them together so his shoulders are resting a little against the stone of the wall, and even as she leans into him Sansa notices that he's taken the weight off one of his legs.

"How did you injure it?" she asks, queerly shy now that her tears are drying. She'd noticed his limp immediately and had been imagining the circumstances of his injury since she first saw him that morning. "Your leg, I mean. Were you injured in battle?"

"You could say that." This time his chest actually shakes with suppressed laughter. "I might have had worse had it not been for your sister."

"Arya?" Sansa looks up at him, surprised. "You were with Arya?"

"For a time."

"Arya is alive?" Something in her voice makes him look down at her and Sansa tries very hard to read the answer in the little she can see of his features in the darkness. "Is she here? May I see her?" She knows the questions are foolish before she asks them, but Sansa cannot help herself.

"I'm sorry, m'lady." His arms loosen a little and Sansa moves her hand to his chest to push herself back for a better view of his face. "I don't know her fate."

"But how?" Sansa draws back farther and his arms fall from around her shoulders, taking the warmth of his cloak with them. Almost all the snow in her hand has melted so she turns to the sill for more. "Why is she no longer with you?"

"She left me to die by the Trident."

The blisters the fire raised on Sansa's fingers are white in the moonlight, but Sansa can only stare at them dumbly. That sounds like something Arya would do, she thinks. She left me behind too when she fled King's Landing. "Was she well?" she hears herself ask. "How did she escape?" Her hand begins to throb as heat returns to the flesh but to Sansa it is an almost welcome pain. "Did she...did she speak of me?"

"Yes, she did. If only to argue with me every time I mentioned your name." He takes Sansa's hand in his own gingerly and begins to fill it with snow once more. "I don't know how she first escaped King's Landing, but I think it likely that she is still alive. That she-wolf of a sister of yours is clever and strong; she will have found a way."

She-wolf? Yes, of course. And I'm the little bird. "She is not here then," Sansa says with finality. "Perhaps that is for the best." She isn't looking at him, but she can feel the glance he gives her then even though he says nothing. "How did you recover, my lord?"

"I died."

An involuntary shiver runs through Sansa's body at his words, but nearly a year of exchanging banter with Myranda Royce has given her a greater facility for responding to the patently ridiculous. "You do not have to tell me if you do not wish to do so, ser," she says coldly. "I was merely asking out of courtesy."

"You mistake my meaning, little bird." He finishes with her hand and then moves behind her, wrapping her in the warmth of his cloak once more. Sansa knows she should object, but doesn't. "I left part of myself behind that day and, with the help of some kind brothers, learned how to become someone else entirely." His arms tightened around her slightly. "Someone better. Do you understand?"

Sansa thinks she does. "Who are you then?" she asks, curious. "What name have you taken? I've not heard anyone refer to you as anything but the Hound..."

He is laughing again, and she almost turns to see if she can make out his smile now that they are both in the moonlight, but then she feels his lips at her ear. "Sandor Clegane," he whispers. "And I must say it is a pleasure meeting you, m'lady Sansa."

"But that is your true name," Sansa blurts. "How can you be someone else if you still use your true name?"

"By changing my nature."

His warm breath against her ear reminds Sansa of Petyr for an instant and she pulls away reflexively before stopping herself, embarrassed. It's only the Hound, she thinks. He is waiting for a response so Sansa clears her throat, turns back toward him, and answers as courteously as she can. "It is a pleasure meeting you as well, my lord Sandor." The name feels awkward on her tongue, but not unpleasant. Sansa can't tell whether he is pleased by her statement or not and she shifts her feet nervously. The wind has begun to gust again and she is rapidly getting cold; moreover, she can't imagine what excuse she could have to return to his arms a third time, so Sansa tips her hand and the remainder of her burn remedy falls to the windowsill in a sloshy dollop. "I think I should bind this up now," she says, closing the window and turning toward the interior of the room. "Snow is helpful, but impractical."

He holds the curtains back for her and follows her into room, crossing to stand silently near the brazier while Sansa rummages in a trunk. But when she unearths a clean, soft cloth and turns he is already there, taking it from her hand. "Do you have any lavender oil, Sansa?" he asks. "Honey?" Even though his face is in deep shadow Sansa can see the corner of his mouth twitch. "Ointments?"

"I...might. Wait here." Sansa thinks she may be able to find something useful in Myranda's quarters, but some instinct makes her hesitate at the door and turn. "You...you will still be here when I return?" He is standing next to her bed, fiddling with one of the tassels on her bedcurtains. "You will not leave?"

"I won't leave you." As if to prove his statement his fingers move to undo the clasp holding his cloak. "I'll be here when you return."

"Good." Sansa feels herself beginning to smile though she doesn't know why. "That's good." she says again before stepping into the dark hallway and closing her door behind her.

She is smiling the whole way to Myranda's chambers.

Myranda doesn't reply when Sansa knocks and Sansa sends out a quick prayer that her friend's silence is due to absence and not to the possibility that her mouth may be otherwise occupied. The room is dark when she enters but, much to Sansa's relief, there are no noises coming from the general direction of the bed. She is familiar with Randa's room and finds what she needs quickly. She doesn't meet anyone in the hallway on her return trip to her own chamber except for a drunken squire leaning heavily against a privy doorway. He doesn't seem to be aware of her presence, but Sansa averts her eyes and hurries past nonetheless. She breathes a sigh of relief when she arrives at her door, but her heart leaps into her throat when she opens it and hears voices. Oh Gods, no.

"...too young to know what she's getting into with the likes of you." Myranda is finishing just as Sansa steps into the room. A quick glance tells her everything she needs to know. Myranda, despite her diminutive size, is looming over Sandor where he sits on Sansa's bed, looking both superior and smug. Her stance blocks any effort Sandor may have made to stand, and Sansa can tell he is uncomfortable. And angry enough to pick Randa up and set her aside at any moment. Neither of them have seen her yet and Alayne thinks fast. Yes. She thinks. It's foolish, but it's also the only story Myranda is likely to accept. She closes the door heavily behind her and two heads swivel her direction.

"Honestly, Randa." Alayne mutters peevishly. "You root out all my secrets." She crosses to her friend with purposeful steps and thrusts the small jar of ointment into her friend's hands before plunking herself down on the bed next to Sandor. "You may as well make yourself useful."

Randa hesitates for a moment and then moves to sit on Alayne's opposite side, "I just thought you might wish to have company on a cold night," she says. "I didn't expect you to already have found some."

"And I assumed you would be occupied with your strong-handed hedge knight this evening." Alayne feels the tension in Sandor's leg where it presses against hers even through her layers of skirts and underskirts, and she lays her burned hand reassuringly on his thigh, palm up. "So much for privacy."

"I apologize." Alayne shoots a glance at her friend and is surprised to see that she looks sheepish, almost embarrassed. "It's just that I'm a little...taken aback." Myranda's fingers twitch slightly as she removes the lid on the ointment jar. "You never gossip about anyone in particular and you used to blush so prettily whenever I'd tease you so I thought..."

"I should go," Sandor rasps hoarsely, and moves to rise.

"No!" both Alayne and Myranda say together. "No," Myranda says again and stands up, handing the jar and lid over to Sandor. "I really should be the one to leave." She raises her chin and smooths her skirts, "Will you see me to the door, Alayne?"

"Of course." Alayne rises and follows Randa to the door and holds it open for her as she exits. As she begins to close it Myranda turns.

"You've been holding out on me, Alayne." Randa teases, eyes sparkling in the firelight. "I always knew you were keeping a secret, a big one, but you're even craftier than I imagined." She leans forward conspiratorially. "How is it that you know Joffrey's Hound so well? No wonder you never seemed interested in squires..."

Alayne's tongue darts between her lips before she answers. "King Robert's court stopped briefly at Gulltown once. I met him there."

"Well, have your fun, Alayne, though you must pay for it tomorrow." Alayne feels the blood drain from her face and Randa must have noticed for she strokes Alayne's cheek comfortingly for a moment then continues. "Oh don't be silly, girl. I only mean that you must join me for breakfast and tell me absolutely everything."

"Yes. I will." Alayne gives her friend a small smile and begins to close the door. "And thank you. For the ointment."

"I am at your service." Myranda Royce gives Alayne a mocking curtsey before melting into the darkness.

Sandor is still sitting on her bed when Alayne turns from the door. His expression is unreadable in the flickering light of the brazier, but Alayne would swear that he is amused. His next words confirm her suspicion. "Gulltown?" he chokes, "Cersei wouldn't pause there for a piss if her smallclothes were bursting."

"I was brought up there." Alayne says defensively as she returns to sit by his side once more. "In a motherhouse." This time Sandor actually laughs. "It's not funny!" she says, nudging him with her shoulder irritably. "I was to have been a septa!" Then he puts his arm around her, ointment and cloths forgotten in his lap and shoulders still shaking with mirth, and draws her toward him. Finally, Sansa thinks as his lips meet hers, and, I remember this.

But she doesn't. The kiss moving over her mouth is far gentler than the one she remembers, slower and less insistent. It is a kiss with a smile behind it and even as her unburned hand lifts to touch Sandor's face she isn't sure what to make of it or how best to respond. But then his tongue flicks against the seam of her lips, parting them to deepen the kiss and Sansa stops questioning. One of his hands has moved up to rest against her throat and a calloused thumb rubs along her jawline, fingertips exploring the curve of her ear in the same unhurried way his tongue explores her mouth. Sansa makes a small sound in the back of her throat and tilts her head slightly, strangely gratified when the press of his mouth against hers becomes harder, hungrier. His body follows, leaning her back toward the surface of the bed. A tendril of anticipation curls in Sansa's stomach and she moves her arm behind her to adjust her descent, only to bring the full weight of them both down on her burned hand.

His mouth muffles the sound of her yelp, but he is off her in an instant. "Bloody buggering hells," he rasps, grabbing her wrist and yanking her arm forward into the light. A few of the blisters had burst and were seeping a clear fluid. "Damned stupid." He pushes the jar and cloth toward Sansa and rises to stride to the window once more. The snow he returns with melts quickly in the warmth of the room, but to Sansa it feels wonderful.

She watches him as he busies himself tearing the cloth into manageable strips. He is unguarded and it is the first time she has been near enough to look at him with sufficient light to see properly. No wonder Randa was skeptical, she thinks. I'd forgotten how terrible his scars can seem at first. There are new ones too; when he bends his head Sansa notices the white weal of a more recent injury shining through the dark fall of his hair near the back of his neck. It startles her. I wonder how many more can't be seen, she thinks. But that thought brings a brief image of Sander unclothed to her mind and Sansa can feel a flush flooding her face before her imagination has removed much of anything more than his shirt.

"Here," he says, "give me your hand." She slips her right arm through his and holds on with her free one while he works. She feels the clenching of his muscles beneath where her cheek is pressed, and the movement of his fingers as he dries her hand and begins spreading the ointment. She can smell him now, all sweat and horses and the cold outdoors mingled with roasted meats and woodsmoke. It isn't an unpleasant scent, quite the opposite in fact, and when he begins binding her hand loosely in the strips of cloth Sansa closes her eyes, buries her face in his arm and inhales. I could be in Winterfell, she thinks. He smells of home. She remains like that for a long while and doesn't know he's finished until he lifts her chin. "Did I hurt you, little bird?" he asks, and she realizes there are tears in her eyes and a patch of wetness on his sleeve.

"No," she says, drawing herself up and wiping at the remaining tears with the back of her hand. "Thank you for binding my hand, Sandor."

He looks at her for a while and then seems to come to a decision. "Get some sleep, Sansa," he rasps, and he pushes himself up off her bed. "Tomorrow will be a busy day and you'll need your rest."

Sansa blinks up at him, confused. "What is happening tomorrow?" she asks. "We aren't planning another feast and most of the lords of the Vale are already here so, apart from the arrival of a few stragglers, nothing of importance is bound to happen."

"Sansa," he kneels in front of her then, and gingerly takes both her hands in his. "I'm going to the Blackfish tonight. Tomorrow we will enlist the aid of the lords of the Vale, seize Littlefinger for the grasping trickster that he is, and help you claim your birthright."

Fear clutches at her so tightly that Sansa almost moans. "No! Please no." Her hands withdraw from his and move to the growing tightness in her throat. "You must not do this thing."

"Sansa..." he begins, but she stops him.

"Alayne," she corrects, eyes snapping to meet his fiercely. "If you value my life in the smallest way you must use no other name for me henceforth."

His scowl deepens into something achingly familiar that Alayne ignores. "Don't be stupid, little bird." He moves his grasp to her arms and stands back up, pulling her along with him. "The Blackfish has already had assurances of loyalty to him and young Robert from Royce and the others. Littlefinger will be removed and no one will care whether he has a daughter or not." The look he gives her is hard, but Alayne doesn't look away. "He must be told who you are if you are to remain safe."

"I am Alayne Stone." Her chin raises defiantly. "I'm the bastard daughter of Petyr Baelish and there is no one in this castle who will say any different." Her hands are resting on his forearms and she digs the fingernails of her unbandaged hand in as she speaks. "Save you."

Sandor Clegane makes a sound of disgust but doesn't push her away. "I watched them beat you bloody and strip you bare in the courtyard of the Red Keep, little bird." His mouth twists into a grimace, "I turned your father's head on its spike to give you a better view and I killed men during a riot to keep your virtue intact." Alayne trembles at his words but meets his gaze resolutely even when his face comes close enough to feel his breath on her cheeks with every word. "That girl was gentle and strong - a Stark - and she would have the courtesy not to conceal herself behind someone as insignificant as Alayne Stone."

"I am Alayne," she nearly spits. "And I am not insignificant. I am useful, and brave and far more capable than Sansa ever could be." She jerks out of his grip and continues. "Besides, if it's your precious little bird you want, you've only to wait."

"Wait for what?"

"I'm to marry Harry the Heir, Falcon of the Vale." Alayne says proudly. "It is all arranged; a falcon for your little bird. Sansa can return then, you see."

His snort offends her almost as much as his cruel opinion of Alayne. "You're already married."

"Alayne is unwed."

"You aren't Alayne."

Alayne nearly stamps her foot in frustration. "I am so!"

"Very well." His limp is more pronounced as he crosses to her door. Alayne tells herself that she is happy he is leaving, but gasps when he flips the latch.

"What are you doing?"

"If you are merely Alayne, bastard get of Littlefinger, there isn't any reason for me to go."

Her breath catches in her throat. "I want you to leave."

"No." He is before her again, looming over her in a way that makes her retreat.

"You've already given Myranda the most appallingly false impression of my character…"

"You have yourself to blame for that little tale, Alayne." He calmly unbuckles his sword belt and lowers his weapons to the floor. "Nevertheless, we can remedy that impression." He takes another step, pressing Alayne back farther.

"Good." Alayne resists the urge to cross her arms over her chest. "How do you propose?"

"We remove the falseness." One last step and the back of Alayne's legs bump against her bed. She might have fallen onto it had his hand not shot out to steady her, but then he releases her.

He is almost close enough for their bodies to touch, and Alayne stands very still even though her heart is pounding so hard she's sure he can hear it. She could call for help, she knows. One scream would bring any number of knights to break down her door. But this is Sandor. She stares tensely at the laces fastening his shirt, waiting for him to touch her. For something, anything. But nothing happens. Her breathing slows and she begins to feel a little foolish just standing there. What is he doing? she wonders, and when she tilts her head up to ask his lips come down to meet hers.

This isn't the same kind of kiss he'd given her before and it isn't, some part of Alayne's mind tells her, anything at all like the kiss Sansa remembers. This kiss is entirely new, raw, and full of a kind of liquid heat that spikes through Alayne's body like a quarrel from a crossbow. His mouth moves on hers firmly, communicating an urgency that his stance belies; he isn't touching her and yet Alayne can't pull away from the feel of his tongue inside her mouth, his teeth lightly scraping her lips, and the mingling of his breath with hers. It isn't until she sways against him with a tiny whimpering sound in the back of her throat that his hands reach up to touch her.

When she feels his fingertips brush her face she opens eyes she doesn't remember closing. He is featureless, a shadow between her line of vision and the weak light from the brazier, and Alayne wishes she could see whether or not his eyes are open as well. She suspects they are, and the thought rocks her forward until she is balancing on the tips of her toes to better meet his kiss. His hands move to her waist to steady her, his fingers gripping so tightly Alayne thinks they'll leave bruises behind. As her hand slides up his chest to curl around the back of his neck his lips leave her mouth and begin exploring her face, her jawline. For a moment Alayne's lips seem to almost pulse in protest, but then his teeth discover the throbbing in her neck and Alayne forgets the abandonment of her lips entirely. Her head falls back and her fingers curl into the hair at the back of his neck, tracing the raised line of the scar she'd noticed earlier. She isn't sure what to do with her other hand; she wants to touch him, to hold onto him the way he's holding onto her, but the bandage is in the way.
Sandor's bite turns to suction at the same time his hands lower to curve around her backside to pull her up hard against him. Her gasp is answered with a groan and his lips move along her shoulder and lower tracing a line of sensation along the edge of where fabric meets flesh. One hand slides up her back and around her ribcage to cup a breast, and Alayne wonders if it's possible for a lady to faint from touch alone. But then he's kissing her again, a series of soft, hungry pecks that are teasing reminders of earlier intensity, and his hand starts pulling the laces out of the eyelets of her bodice one by one. It isn't at all proper and Alayne knows she would most certainly stop him, were she not otherwise occupied.

"Sandor?" she begins between kisses, but then his fingers swipe inside her loosened bodice to graze a hardened nipple, and she has to begin all over again. "Sandor...?"

"Little bird." It's almost a sigh and Alayne is about to respond when he lifts her onto the bed and lowers himself down beside her. She hadn't realized how many of her laces he'd managed to undo, but without his body pressed against her the coolness of the air is raising prickles on her flesh. She lifts her hands to cover herself, but he pushes them away. When she lifts them again he grasps her wrists and raises them over her head, pinning them with one hand. "Pretty little bird," he says, as he shifts to lean over her, the weight of one leg sliding between hers. "I'll make you forget all about the Imp." He dips his head then and any words Alayne might have said are lost in a gasp as he takes her nipple into his mouth.

His mouth is so warm against her, such a startling contrast to the chill of the air. When his hand covers her other breast and begins describing circles that mimic the movement of his tongue Alayne's hips move in unconscious response. His grip on her wrists has loosened and she draws her unbandaged hand from his grasp to cradle the back of his head. But then he suckles and something within Alayne breaks. Oh, merciful Mother, Sansa thinks. I want him. Her hand brushes against the scar at the back of his neck again and Sansa remembers her earlier curiosity. She begins tugging at his shirt insistently, suddenly annoyed that he should have access to so much of her naked flesh without offering her the same courtesy. He makes a sound deep in his throat that resonates within her before sitting up and pulling his tunic over his head.

"Oh." Sansa says quietly. She props herself up on her elbows for a better look in the dim light and then sits up entirely, heedless of her bared breasts. She'd been right about the scars, but she wishes she hadn't been. There are so many: old cuts on his chest and arms that could have been from the practice yard but probably weren't, and covering his forearm a more recent one, red and shiny with new skin. Another burn. She swallows hard. He wasn't burned when he came to me after the battle, was he? No. He couldn't have been.
Sansa raises her eyes to Sandor's face and something there makes her heart squeeze so tightly she can't bear it. She reaches out to his burned arm first, fingers hesitant, and is surprised at the taut slickness of the scar. She runs her hand up his arm, noticing when the texture of his skin acquires the softness of hair and a smooth warmth that is more familiar. His shoulder is taut and Sansa is suddenly unsure; she begins to drop her hand, stroking swiftly down his chest to his stomach which hollows with his sudden indrawn breath beneath her touch and causes her to jerk her hand back altogether. I'm breathing as heavily as he is, Sansa realizes. She runs a nervous tongue over her lips and then reaches to touch him again, tracing over the ridges of the scars on his chest and brushing her hand over small, hardened nipples until her palm comes to rest over the thudding of his heart. His hand covers hers then and his other arm encircles her, drawing her toward him until their hands are trapped between them and a hot hardness that Sansa tries very hard not to think about is pressing against her hip.

"Sansa." He is raising their joined hands now, and the press of his lips against her fingers is almost as distracting as the sensation of his bare chest against hers. When he lowers her to the bed this time Sansa isn't foolish enough to try to assist; she wraps her injured arm around his neck instead, inwardly cursing the bandage for depriving her of the ability to touch, and lets his strength support them both. Sansa had imagined that his weight would be unpleasant, suffocating, but she had been wrong. Sandor Clegane is hard and hot and heavy and utterly unfamiliar against every part of her as he presses her deeper into the feather mattress of her bed, but Sansa only wants more. His lips are on hers again and again and there is something about the rocking of his hips and his hardness pressed against her that makes Sansa want to break apart and fold herself around him all at once. Her leg comes up and wraps itself around the back of his and her nails dig reflexively into his shoulder at the increased sensation. Sansa knows that the whimpering sounds and little cries she is making against his mouth aren't ladylike at all, but she doesn't care, especially when they result in another, harder, thrust of Sandor's hips.

She almost doesn't notice when he begins pushing up her skirts. She doesn't want to notice, but when his hand moves between their bodies and slips inside her smallclothes Sansa can ignore it no longer. It almost hurts to tear her mouth away from his, especially with the stroking motions his hand is beginning to make between her legs, but Sansa does.

"Tyrion never touched me."

His hand doesn't stop moving and he leans down to kiss her again, his tongue sliding against hers with delicious slowness before he draws back. "You mean he never touched Alayne." He kisses along her jawline to her ear and scrapes the lobe with his teeth before growling "Say it. Say your name for me, little bird."

Sansa bites her lip for a moment when Sandor's fingers flick something that makes her want to shout. "Sansa," she replies, breathless. "He never touched Sansa."

She wants to hit something when his hand stops touching her and moves up to grip hers where it rests on the pillow beside her head. He has buried his face in her neck again but he isn't kissing her, and for a long time the only sound in the room is that of their breathing, hurried and harsh in the darkness. Then he rolls off of her with a groan that is almost a sob, turning to sit on the edge of her bed with his back toward her. Sansa sits up behind him, pulling her skirt down and drawing her knees up into a hug. I've ruined it, she thinks. I ruin everything I touch. She reaches out toward him but her fingers barely graze his shoulder before he reacts. "Don't touch me," his words are almost a bark and Sansa feels the prickle of tears in her eyes. "Don't touch me, Sansa," he says again. "And stay there." His stride is fast and angry as he goes to the window and the yank he gives her drapes as he closes them behind him is downright vicious. Sansa flops over onto her belly testily and hugs one of her pillows, doing her best to both ignore listen very hard for any sound from beyond the curtain.

When he returns he doesn't look at her. He begins gathering his things and with every garment or weapon Sandor picks up Sansa's misery grows. When he is done fastening his cloak he finally speaks and the lack of emotion in his voice chills her to the bone. "What would you have me tell the Blackfish in the morning?"

"Tell him nothing." Her hand is beginning to throb again, or perhaps it has been paining her the entire time and she's been too distracted to notice. It was foolish of her to ignore reality but Alayne is far too clever to be foolish twice. "He can't help me."

"Sansa..." he beings but she cuts him off.

"I am Alayne Stone. Petyr Baelish is my father and I am a bastard." He turns away at that and is almost at her door before she says, "I had to tell you."

He turns the latch with more force than necessary but his voice is a quiet rasp. "I know," he says, then he closes her door behind him.

Alayne spends the next few days avoiding the Blackfish and his company, but doing so required a great deal of effort and scheming. Myranda Royce had taken the dark circles beneath Alayne's eyes as an encouraging sign and began constantly scheming for ways for Alayne and the Hound to meet clandestinely despite Alayne's protests. It wasn't enough that Alayne lived in a constant state of agitated anticipation for the time when the Blackfish would make his move against her father, but Randa's delight in her innocent bastard friend's involvement in an illicit affair is nearly too much to bear.

Alayne begs a stomach upset - even going so far as to drink some of Sweetrobin's sweetsleep to give her lie credence - and stays confined to her chamber. But that solitude is nearly as unbearable. Every item in her room holds a memory of that night. His scent still lingers in her bed and Alayne knows she could simply order a chambermaid to strip it and bring fresh bedding, but she doesn't. Her burn prevents her from occupying herself with needlework and none of the books her father brings to make her confinement less tedious are able to distract her. For a time Alayne submits to the solace of sleep, only then her dreams become a heated confusion that leave her with a profound sense of dissatisfaction upon awaking. On the day she throws Miranda's ointment jar across the room in a fit of pique Alayne decides her time of hiding is done.

She visits with Sweetrobin for a time before Maester Colemon shoos her off and is on her way to see Randa when the sound of laughter from the courtyard draws her to a window. A number of men are practicing with swords and Ser Lothor has, as Alayne judges from the bloody nose of his opponent on the ground before him, just won a match. She is about to lean out the window to congratulate him when the sight of the Hound at the other end of the courtyard stops her. He is smiling at the combatants along with the rest, and he isn't alone. As Alayne watches, Mya nudges Sandor on the shoulder and he turns to her to resume what had clearly been an interrupted conversation. Something curls unpleasantly in Sansa's belly at the sight and she has to look away. The sensation lingers during her visit with Randa, making her peevish and so short-tempered that the visit ends with harsher words than either of them had spoken to one another before without apologies immediately following. She is stalking through the corridors still fuming from the encounter when she is pulled unceremoniously into an alcove by a pair of strong, familiar hands.

"Release me at once." Alayne sputters and stumbles back surprised when her demand is obeyed. She collects herself and frowns angrily at Sandor. He is entirely too composed for her liking and she has to fight not to grit her teeth, especially when his first words are so polite.

"Are you well?"

"As well as can be expected," she sniffs. "It was merely a stomach upset."

"Of course." He is laughing at her again, Alayne can tell. "No one ever said it wasn't."

"I've seen you with Mya Stone," she blurts and looks away quickly. "You seemed very...friendly."

"Mya is an attractive woman." She can feel his gaze on her, heavy the way his body had been, and Alayne flushes at the memory. "She knows who she is. What she wants."

"And she's free to have it." Alayne mutters bitterly. "No one is going to tell her who to marry or where to give her affection."

"True, little bird, but as you can see she is still alone."

"Lothor Brune loves her, did you know that?" Alayne's fingernails leave half-moons in the palm of her hand.

"I didn't. It's a good match for them both."

His continued laconicism infuriates her. "She's refused him." Alayne turns to face him then. "So, you see, she doesn't really know what she wants either."

"Or maybe she's just harboring a secret passion for one of the hedge knights." His fingers hurt a little where they grip her chin, but at least he is finally touching her. "What is the point of your peeping, Sansa?"

Her throat is so dry she imagines that her voice sounds like the scratching of pen on parchment. "Alayne is a bastard," she croaks. "You could have Alayne."

"I don't want Alayne."

She draws back stung. "Well, perhaps I want the Hound."

He scowls then, "You don't mean that, little bird."

"Maybe I do." She swallows, "The Hound would never reveal Sansa if it meant he could have her."

"Sansa..."

"They'll make me an adventitious match." Sansa swallows again hard. "As soon as Tyrion's death is confirmed they'll marry me to Harry the Heir or maybe even someone worse but with more to recommend him." His silence is a confirmation and Sansa's throat has begun to tighten with tears when he finally speaks.

His words are slow, almost hesitant, "No one knows the Imp didn't take your maiden's gift, Sansa." His fingers fidget on the pommel of his sword and Sansa blinks hard as his meaning sinks in. "Save me."

She licks her lips nervously. He is right, of course. It is like a gift from the gods, but also a jape. Like a song, she thinks, just not one of the happiest ones. And it could be hers. Sansa imagines removing Alayne like a garment. But what will remain? She thinks of her murdered mother and brothers, of the godswood and the sept and Winterfell burning in the snow, of her father's head and traitor's blood, of Hodor and old Nan and Arya scowling at Septa Mordane, of direwolves and the softness of Lady's pelt. "I'm afraid," she whispers, but then his touch is on her arm.

"I'll be right here," he says quietly, and she believes him. So Sansa draws herself up, straightens her skirts, and with her hand on Sandor's arm she goes to meet her great-uncle.

fin