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They'll Never Let You Walk Away

Chapter Text

Part One


Sansa Stark had always wanted a life like something out of a movie. There are few things more theatrical than running for your life.


The little bird is trembling and her pale face is flushed as the tears fall. She won't look at him. She never looks at him, but it's different now; all wrong. She stares at her shaky hands because she is ashamed of herself, not because she is afraid of him.

Instinct tells him to help her. Reflex tells him to replace shame with fear again.

Her arms move around herself, over her breasts as if she still feels naked before him.

There's a feeling in his gut that is much like her own shame; guilt and self-loathing eat away at his insides while his dick remains uncomfortably hard. He got an eyeful he can't say he didn't want.

Just not like that, with her weeping while terror made her obey Joffrey's command to strip before him and his thugs.

"Enough," he'd said. Enough, as she choked on a sob when her bra fell from her breasts. Enough, as all the men leered and licked their lips and their fingers all twitched to grab and grope. Enough, as Joffrey stared at her like she was a doll he was finally ripping apart.

(But it was the fucking midget that got Joff to put an end to it. The fucking midget that liked to pretend he was above all of them no matter how horribly he'd treated women in his past.)

He'd given her his jacket and gathered up her things and led her out - Joffrey didn't trust his dwarf uncle and his dwarf uncle's right hand man - and he'd waited while she had changed.

She'd sobbed the entire time; broken cries becoming more violent until he'd thought she might even vomit.

But the little bird was made of stronger stuff than he'd given her credit for back when he'd first met the girl. A sleek, slender thing, all pale, perfect skin and fiery hair and awestruck, blue eyes. She had always looked so fragile being slowly dragged deeper and deeper into the Lannister underworld of guns and drugs and sex and anything they could slip their fingers into.

He holds out the jacket she'd returned to him. "Here. Keep it." He speaks gruffly, as if he's ordering her.

She flinches, but she takes it. She wouldn't have if he'd offered it kindly.

"Thank you," she whispers. She is a polite thing; old fashioned and gentle. She once was spoiled and sheltered, but their masters (she is much their pet as he is, though she put her collar on blindly) are eagerly tearing all of that away.

Today was just another layer to peel away in this vicious striptease.

He keeps trying to warn her, but all his warnings come out more like threats. His mouth twitches; her fear of his face and his size and his whispered reputation certainly don't help him.

If she stays, they'll kill her. They will do it slowly, because Joffrey loves to watch her squirm and cry (all while telling her to smile as if she truly is displeasing him). They will do it slowly, because they are a poison.

This world was never meant for her, but he just stands by and watches them drag her down.

(And it was the fucking midget of all fucking people that smacked their hands away for a short while.)

It's a tense drive from the club to the estate, and she sits there clutching his jacket around herself as if it will cover up the memory of him and Joffrey and Meryn and Boros and everyone else staring at her nearly naked body. As if it could ever erase the sight of her shaking and crying and all that pale skin and smooth flesh and the ugly bruises Joff's ordered given to her.

There will be more bruises and more blood and more skin bared.

He's fucking hard as stone, hands balled into fists and jaw clenched and eyes staring ahead (gaze flickering to the corner to watch her next to him). He feels like shit, because she's seventeen and still a child no matter how hard they try to make her a woman used and abused. He feels like shit, because there's already talk of another fiancee to replace her.

And then all the hungry eyes that saw her today will be hungry hands that take her and hungry mouths that taste her.

Sansa Stark will become nothing but a casualty of Lannister cruelty, one of many who won't even be remembered in a few years when her body is dumped in the river (like her father's).

He should know, he's added many bodies to that long list. Thug, hitman, bodyguard; he's killed in each and every capacity they've put him in. He's a bitter, old dog that grew up even earlier than this slip of a girl, and he'd thought he wouldn't ever give a damn again.

But she's swallow and starting to whisper, "Thank you. For speaking up for me," in a tremulous voice. She's fucking thanking him for saying one word after she was down to nothing but pink panties so pale they almost blended into her skin.

(It was the fucking midget that did more for her today.)

Sandor parks the car and sits in silence while she finally looks up at him.

"Thank you," she whispers again.

"Pack a small bag. Only what you need."

She stares at him, uncomprehending. She freezes when he reaches over, as if waiting for him to tear her clothes back off (because they both know she's starting to understand the way he looks at her).

He grabs her chin so she will keep her eyes on him. "We're going to go inside. You will go to your room and pack a small bag. Only what you need. And then we're going to leave."

Sansa's eyes do not leave his, not once. There is no sign of the usual aversion, no blinking, no brief darting about before focusing on him like she knows he wants. She stares him straight in the eyes while her baby blues get that childlike awestruck look they had the first day he saw her (but she was looking at Joffrey back then).

It makes him feel pathetic. It makes him feel good.

"I understand," she whispers.

They get out of the car and go inside. She runs to pack a small bag while he discards their cell phones and grabs a briefcase he hasn't touched since becoming Joffrey's bodyguard.


Later, as Sansa sits clutching Sandor from behind on his motorcycle, she thinks to herself that it's terribly romantic. Just like in a movie.

Chapter Text

Part Two


 

When she curls into a ball that night and presses her mouth to the pillow to muffle her cries, Sansa reminds herself that every movie needs a little tension, a little heartache. All the best movies do.


Sandor gambles and drinks and engages in plenty of expensive and unsavory, personal endeavors when he's off duty - but in his line of work it's always good to set aside 'for a rainy day.' He's set aside enough money in case the time came where he needed to disappear (he just didn't think he'd disappear with pretty girl in tow).

They switch from his motorcycle to his SUV when he stops to grab the cash he has hidden away at the place he hasn't slept in enough to even jokingly call it home.

The little bird is quiet and nervous. Her eyes flittering about as if regret and fear is creeping in, making her question her compliance with this plan. Little doubts fluttering in her head like the flapping of wings; she'll be all alone with him wherever they go.

It makes no sense that he feels insulted she might even briefly think that is worse than staying there as Joffrey's plaything. He's not the nicest guy (not even among Lannister goons).

But she keeps her second guessing to herself and like a good girl gets into the backseat of the SUV. She still has his jacket wrapped around her little frame, draped in it as if it's a cloak. She looks so small when she curls into a ball in the back, and his gaze flickers to the rearview mirror far too often.

He doesn't say a word. He hasn't spoken since telling her to pack. What the fuck is there to say? He tells himself he's making a mistake; they'll have an impossible time disappearing from the Lannisters.

They could cut and dye her hair. He could make her buy clothes that Sansa Stark would not be caught dead in. They'd still know her if they spotted her.

And his face and height make him stick out like a sore thumb. Bugger all, he's a fool - but he checks on the sleeping girl in the rearview mirror and keeps on driving.

At most they have five hours before their absence is discovered. Possibly less, but four to five hours is the more likely. When he's the one put in charge of the girl, the Lannisters never worry to check in (up until now he's always been a loyal dog).

So Sandor drives. He drives for five hours, six, seven. He stops only when he has to; when his legs need a stretch and he has to take a piss and the tank needs to be filled and the little bird is chirping about her bladder between naps. He gives her money to buy gas and some food to get by for a few more hours and keeps his head bowed enough that his too long hair curtains the burnt side of his face.

The little bird peeps up when they hit the road again; not so exhausted and not so ashamed. She sits in the front seat now, legs pulled up and crushed to her chest.

His jacket is still hanging from her shoulders.

She eats daintily - like a little lady - and asks him where they're going.

"Where we won't be spotted," he snaps.

There's the hint of a flinch, and then a timid voice asks, "Where is that?"

"Just keep your mouth shut, and you'll see when we get there."

She looks down and puts away the other half of her sandwich. She hugs her legs and stares outside the window, and Sandor sees the way her shoulder shake under his jacket. But she's quiet, and that's all that he cares about right now.

He's tired of hearing her cry (and the way it makes him feel useless). He's tired of her stupid questions (because he doesn't have answers for her yet). He's fucking tired (and there are not enough miles between them and the Lannisters).

They make it another two hours before he knows driving any farther will put them in as much danger as stopping for the night will. He pulls off at an exit where there's only one grungy motel waiting and one boarded up gas station that any sane driver would avoid.

Sansa looks less than pleased about their accommodations but keeps her mouth shut.

He gets one room and lies that he's alone. He's grateful when they go in and see two beds; his dick isn't. But he sees the flicker of relief in her eyes when she spots the two beds, and he tells himself it's better this way.

This is about getting her away and keeping her safe (but why did he have to be on the list of scum to protect her from?).

"May I get a shower?" she asks him pitifully.

His gut clenches, and he's uncomfortably hard again - and he hates that she thinks she has to ask him such a request in such a voice. It isn't all that shocking after everything she's been through; in the past six months, in the past twelve hours.

"Don't use up all the hot water," he growls and busies himself with checking over the few belongings he brought with them. He can't look at her; can't see her gratitude or watch her gather her clothes or let his eyes follow her into the bathroom where she'll strip completely for her shower. He can see her, pretty little thing with her ugly bruises, wet all over, and he feels like a wretch.

"Thank you," she whispers (she thanks him in a small voice that transforms the words into a prayer) before she digs through her bag and slips into the bathroom.

Sandor checks all the locks. Rigs the window to allow for something of a head's up. Hides a gun and a k-bar under one of the pillows on the bed closest to the door. Puts all their bags in the space between beds. Checks his weapons and his cash. Checks them again.

Anything to keep his mind off the hard-on he's been battling for hours. The reason he's still awake and restless while his eyes burn and fatigue wears away at him.

The shower's on. The little bird's naked in the bathroom of their cheap motel room, and he can still see her in front of them all.

He doesn't like taking girls who are crying and trembling. He hates the smell of fear and the taste of tears when he's fucking (he's not his brother, he's not). But that doesn't stop him from feeling uncomfortable in his jeans at the memory of her stripping there for Joff and all the men present to see.

It would be so easy. There's something besides fear in her eyes when she glances at him now, ever since he instructed her to get ready. It wouldn't have to be horrible for her; he's paid for it enough times to know a few tricks that even prostitutes genuinely enjoy.

But he's wound up tight and aching for it. If he gets his hands on her, he'll break her. Break her all the same as Joffrey and the others; maybe worse, because she doesn't have any more illusions about what kind of people they are.

When she tells him thank you now, he knows she thinks he's different. Thinks he's better.

And he fucking wants to be, like some pathetic lovesick fool - but he has no delusions. He wants her; he wants to keep her safe and keep her for himself, and there's no trace of purity in his intentions. But he's not his brother.

The water finally turns off. Several agonizing minutes later she emerges, her hair wet and skin glowing. She's in a t-shirt and loose pants, practical and innocent and unflattering, but his dick twitches all the same.

"I didn't take too long, did I?" she asks. Her mouth forms a shy smile she's never given him before.

"Not quite," he mutters with enough irritation to make the smile fall. He can't have her smiling like that at him when he feels this way. "Don't turn on the tv, leave the lamps off, and don't touch any of my things." He gives her a small knife, ignores the wide-eyed fear she stares at it with. "You hear something, you come in the bathroom and tell me."

That wide-eyed fear moves to his face, a tiny gasp escaping her. But she swallows and shakily nods. "I-I understand," she manages to get out.

He grunts and grabs one of his handguns and storms into the bathroom. He doesn't mean to slam the door shut, but he does. Almost locks it, but then he remembers what he told her and what they're running from and leaves it be.

The hot water feels good when he steps in. Cold water might be more appropriate, except that's never worked for him. Sandor doesn't bother to wash yet, his hand moves straight to his dick and starts to stroke. He's so hard it almost fucking hurts, and he groans. Doesn't care if the little bird hears, doesn't care if she comes to check on him and catches an eyeful of him jerking off in the shower.

It'd be so easy to take her. He feels like a wretched fool, fingers tight around his dick and the other hand braced against the wall, wanting the slip of a girl in the other room. He feels like a pathetic dog that he's so careful with her - feels like a sick fuck because part of him wonders if this is how Gregor feels.

That it's just so easy.

He's not his brother. He's not. He tells himself that when he thinks of her breasts exposed for just a moment before her arms crossed over them instinctively. Swears by it as he comes so violently he sags in the cramped, little shower and presses his forehead against the wall as he pants and grunts through gritted teeth.

It's only after the fog lifts and he's starting to clean himself off that he realizes he was probably loud enough to be heard. Too fucking bad; he can't seem to care.

Better she hears an old dog finding a little relief with his own hand than having to lay under an old dog finding relief in her.

No matter how fucking easy it might be.

When he steps out of the bathroom, the little bird is laying on her side, facing the other bed (his bed). He ignores her eyes on him as he pulls his shirt on and lays on the other bed. He doesn't get under the covers, and his sleepwear is simply what he'll be wearing when they get back on the road.

"Sandor?"

His eyes, already shut, clench shut tighter.

"Thank you."

"Shut up and let me get some fucking sleep, girl," he snarls and rolls onto his side, facing the window (because his eyes are open, and he doesn't want to see her face fall in the dark).

Sansa shifts on her bed but otherwise doesn't make a peep. Even when she begins to cry again, she's hushed and quiet - and eventually, it lulls him into a fitful, guilt-ridden sleep.


Sansa Stark thinks of all the little things that movies leave out; like when princesses bleed for a few days and when heroes have to go to the bathroom and the long nights of fitful sleep where nothing important really happens. Because otherwise the movies would drag.

Chapter Text

Part Three


 

Sansa Stark always wanted a whirlwind romance, with sparks flying across her silver screen. Love comes as easily as lust in the movies.


There is a soft weight on his shoulder and a hushed voice in his ear, dragging him from sleep and dreams. Instinct kicks in; a second later he's holding the little bird by the arm with the barrel of his gun pressed to her throat.

"Sandor," she gasps out, sounding pitiful and meek and terrified. Her blue eyes are wide and round, and her body's shaking.

"What?" he rasps out, groggier than he'd like. He's slow to move the gun away and slower still to let go. But he lowers the gun and slips it back under his pillow. He pulls his hand away and sits up so there's a bit more space between them.

Dreams are fading fast from his memory, but he recalls Sansa Stark moaning under him. It'd be so easy to grab her and pull her down, flip them over; it'd be so damn easy.

"I can't sleep," she whispers and averts her eyes. It's not fear; no, she doesn't fear his face like she used it. Her lack of fear sometimes drives him more insane than her fear ever did. She's blushing; it's obvious even in this dim light. "I keep hearing things."

Sandor pushes her aside and gets off the bed. He doesn't snap, because as annoyed as he feels the little bird's paranoia is a good thing.

It's been six days since the first night on the run; six days of driving, of switching out vehicles, of sleeping in those vehicles because motels are too risky. The first night was an indulgence (for him as much for her). Since then it's been parking in secluded areas for a few hours at a time, catching enough sleep that he can think straight again and drive without wrecking.

Some days he really hates Sansa's fear of driving.

Tonight is the first time in a real bed again since that first night. They stink, and naps aren't taking the edge of his exhaustion. He's wound up too tight, she's quiet but miserable with her greasy hair and dirty clothes, and the soreness caused by the tight quarters he's been sleeping in doesn't help him keep a clear head in the slightest.

But it's still a risk.

He grabs his handgun and checks out cautiously from the edges of the window. Listens for several moments. He can hear the motel clerk on his cell phone, yelling at someone; girlfriend or mistress or wife. There's a train passing through a few miles away. No other cars in the lot. No other travelers sharing the rat's nest they're hiding in.

"Nothing. Get some rest," he barks at her as he puts his gun back and stretches out on the bed once more.

Behind him, the bed shifts the tiniest bit, and her hand is on his shoulder again. Her hair tickles his arm when she peers over. "Sandor?"

He doesn't say a word. He stares at the wall straight ahead, tense and silent and one hand gripping the sheet under him so tightly that his knuckles are white. He can smell the cheap motel soap-shampoo combo and a smell that's just her, something almost sweet. He feels her heat against his back, her breath on his skin, her hair and fingers feather light on his arm.

So damn easy.

"May I please lay on your bed?"

Fucking hell.

Sandor doesn't mean to let it, but a grunt escapes him. She shrinks back and quickly mumbles an apology, starting to pull away. He grabs her wrist.

"If you lay on my bed, little bird, sleep won't come for some time."

He lets go. It's a warning, one he thought should have been clear from the get-go (at the very least since that first motel stay when they both know she heard him groaning with his release in the shower). He grinds his teeth together when she slips back over to her bed, quiet as a mouse. He hates her for not even realizing she was teasing him; he hates himself more because this is so fucking low.

They both lay in silence for several tense minutes. He tries to get back to sleep, back to that dream where she didn't shy away from the promise of more than sleep. She says nothing, but he can hear her tossing and turning, driving him wild.

"Do you actually know where we are going?" she eventually asks.

"Not enjoying the road trip, little bird?" he spits back.

Her response feels like a riddle. "I didn't say that."

Sandor sighs. He doesn't know what to make of that, and he's too tired and too aroused to care to even try figuring it out. "We're taking the long way to see an old associate of mine."

She's quiet, probably mulling over this piece of information. She knows what he is, what he used to be; all the nasty things he's done in life. "And he won't-"

"No, little bird. He won't sell us out. Now shut your mouth and let me sleep, or I'll make you drive today while I nap," he snaps. He just wants some fucking sleep; no, he wants more than that. He's tempted to go to the bathroom to relieve himself a second time (he was quiet in the shower this time, perhaps he should be loud and foul-mouthed, that might shut her up).

Fuck, this is pathetic.

Sansa makes a little indignant noise, and it does nothing for his hard-on. She shifts restlessly on her bed behind him, driving him mad. Eventually she stills - but now he's wide awake.

He waits for a few more minutes. Listens to her breathing calm, deepen. He stays on his side with his back to her and moves his hand down, starting to unzip the fly of his pants - when he hears her shifting again. He freezes when he hears the soft padding of her feet on the floor, when he feels the bed sinking ever so slightly.

The little bird's slender form is suddenly pressed up against his back. Her hands on his shoulders.

"Why are you doing this?"

For a moment he wants to snap at her, wants to ask her what the hell she thinks he's doing this for - but then he realizes through the fog of his lust that she's not talking about what his hand was moving to do. He closes his eyes, memorizing the way she feels pressed up close to him, her breasts at his back, arms clutching his shoulders, mouth so close to his neck he can almost feel her lips.

He's doing this because he wants her for himself. He's doing this because he wants to fuck her; wants her under him, on top of him. Wants her mouth on his cock, her back against the wall. Wants her ass pressed to his groin, wants her cunt at his mouth. He wants to hear her sing her favorite songs and sing secret songs just for him. He wants her to give him one of those shy, sweet smiles every day; he wants to see her cry when he takes things he can never give back. He wants her to give those things freely, wants it so badly he feels like a pathetic, sick sap.

He's doing this because he can't take a chance that next time the midget won't be there to stop Joffrey from letting all his dogs have a go at her. He's doing this because she has a better chance of coming out unscathed now than she would if he waited and wound up killing Joffrey.

"I gave you a warning, girl," he growls and grabs her arm and drags her over him. He pins her down while she lets out a startled yelp before staring up at him with round, blue eyes. He glares, angry, frustrated; why does she keep making it so fucking easy?

"I know," she whimpers. She's breathing erratically, her little body trembling under his. There's no fucking way she can't feel the bulge under his jeans against her abdomen, no fucking way.

He could rip her clothes off and finally get her out of his head, his skin, his bloodstream. Have his way, have his fill. He could squeeze his eyes shut and focus solely on how good he knows she has to feel and ignore her crying.

He's not Gregor, he's not. He's not as bad as Gregor, he's not as bad as the midget pretends not to be, he's not as bad as little, fucking Joffrey.

She's watching him, and it unnerves him how calm her gaze is. She's scared, he knows it; can smell it. But her lips are moving, curving, slowly forming that shy, sweet smile, and her voice is tiny but curious when she asks, "Is this why?"

Fuck, she really does believe he's better than the rest of the Lannister lot.

Sandor gets up and stalks towards the bathroom. He can't; not like this. He can't when all he wants is to hurt her and make her remember when she feared him. He can't take the way she's looking at him, like he's some fucking hero in a movie. Fuck it all, he really does want to be better, he really does want that adoring look in her eyes.

"Did I do something wrong?" she asks, and it sounds like she could be on the verge of tears.

"No, child," he groans out. She is a fucking child; maybe he's still in his prime but he feels old. He's too old for her, he'd be too old no matter the circumstances. And he's fucked; he's so thoroughly fucked up.

He'll get her out, and he'll get her somewhere safe, someplace pretty that she can start over. Then he'll leave, he'll lead the Lannisters so far away they'll never get the chance to hurt her ever again.

"Sandor?"

Against his better judgment, Sandor lets himself glance over his shoulder at Sansa Stark, sitting on his bed. He sees in the dim light the way she's shaking like she does when trying to fight off the urge to cry, he watches her hands twist and tug at the too tight t-shirt she wears in motel rooms.

"I want to."

He snorts and turns away. "No, little bird, you don't."

"Yes, I do!" she cries out.

He turns, surprised, and she looks just as shocked at her little outburst.

"I mean, what if...what if this doesn't work?" She's standing now, moving towards him. She's tiny - tall, certainly, but she's slender and graceful and pretty and he could stop her easily. But she nears him and somehow makes him feel like a cornered animal. "What if they catch us? I...I don't want..."

Sandor snarls and grabs both her arms, dragging her to him until she's pressed tight up against his body. "You'd rather Joff's old dog fucked you, good and proper, before they kill you, or worse? You want it cause it's your only fucking option, that it, girl?"

She shrinks and shakes and her head drops the way it did when she started stripping in front of Joffrey, in front of him, in front of all the others. "Why are you doing this?" she cries again, her little hands curling into tiny fists and beating against his chest. "Why do you keep ruining it? Why did you make me run if you don't want me?"

"Never said I didn't want you, girl," he mutters as guilt weighs down on him like a heavy blow. He hadn't meant to make her cry; he tries to tell himself it's for the best.

"Then why?" she chokes out. In the sliver of light from the cracked bathroom door, she's red-faced and her nose is scrunched up and her cheeks are wet. Somehow she still looks perfect, a pretty thing he'll smudge up and break. She's not a plaything for Joffrey to destroy, but she's still something too good for him.

That sort of thing never fucking mattered before in his world. Not until Sansa Stark.

"Because." He doesn't know how to finish that. He wants to snap at her until she quiets down and goes to bed and lets him jerk off in fucking peace (because he doesn't want to tell her the truth).

She sniffles, gaze lowering, and mumbles, "That's a statement, not a reason."

And Sandor can't help it. He laughs. He can imagine her mother or her tutor drilling that into her head as a little girl, and she says it with such absurd disappointment that the laughter rumbles from him, unbidden but deep and amused.

Sansa looks embarrassed and annoyed - which only makes him laugh harder. "Well, it is!" she insists.

That doesn't help him stop, either.

Much of the tension leaves his body with the laughter, and Sandor moves his hands to wipe away her tears. He stares at the hint of a pout, at her timid gaze; he takes note of her hands still on his chest, palms flat against the fabric of his shirt instead of balled fists. "Yes, it is," he rasps. "Go to bed, Sansa. Get some sleep."

She smiles again - tremulous and nervous and sweet. "You called me by my name. You never called me by my name before."

Sandor blinks; he tries to recall if that's the truth of it. "Don't go making a big fucking deal out of it," he mutters. He still wants her; wants to nibble on her lower lip and wants to feel her hands under his shirt. He starts to pull back, not wanting this moment ruined. The humor's calming effect on them shouldn't be wasted.

But the little bird is persistent, and she moves closer. She's everywhere now, invading all his senses. "It isn't just because I'm scared of...of dying a, virgin. And have no other option." She looks down again; he's certain she's blushing. "You were always nicer to me."

Another bark of laughter, but this time it's harsh and humorless. "And there are plenty of other boys and men out that nicer than me, girl." He grabs her chin and makes her look at him, like he used to do when she feared his face and couldn't look him in the eye. "They won't catch us. I'll get you somewhere safe, and then you can have a normal life, like you should have had all along."

Her fingers curl against his shirt until she's clutching it. "What about you?"

He shrugs. "I'll keep them away from you."

"By leading them away, you mean."

"Yes."

Quicker than he would have ever given her credit for, she pushes into him and stands on her tiptoes until her mouth meets his. Her arms wrap around his neck, and she holds, tightly, while he stands there in shock.

He could have stolen this kiss a hundred times over (and he's not even sure why he never did) but it's her. It's his little bird clinging to him and kissing him and moving her lips and tongue awkwardly but insistently against his mouth.

Had he been a decent sort of man, he'd have pushed her away and rushed into the bathroom, locked the door, and taken care of himself. Come back out, put her to bed - tie her up if need be - and get some sleep. Had he been a decent sort of man, he'd have stood up for her months ago when Joffrey ordered Meryn to hit her for the first time - or stood up for her any of the countless times since.

Sandor is not, by any standard, a decent sort of man. He grabs her by her ass and lifts her up - and the little minx wraps her legs around him like it's nothing - and sets her on the sink counter. It's his kiss now, his mouth open and his tongue against hers, and she's completely lost and blindly following him. He groans into her, grips her hips and pulls her tight to the bulge of his erection.

Sansa gasps, a breathless cry as his mouth moves across her jaw and over her throat. She lets out an insistent moan, like a wordless and confused plea while her body wriggles against his. She's fucking seventeen - all hormones and innocence and ignorance, but she wants it.

He doesn't know why it's with him, but she wants it.

"We do this," he groans out; he already sounds out of breath, as though he was some fumbling teenager as well. "We do this, and we make it out of this alive, you're mine."

His little bird smiles - fucking smiles, sweet and shy and bright and big - at him and nods. "And you're mine?" she asks. As if there's any fucking question.

"Yours," he growls and leans in, hungrily exploring that little mouth of hers. He can be a loyal dog with the right master.

Sansa's hands slide down his chest, down his stomach, down to the hem of his shirt, and then they drift under. Her fingertips dance across his abdomen, just above his pants; she giggles into him when he groans. The noise encourages her, and she lays her palms flat against his skin. Her hands are cool and soft as they move over his torso, going up and dragging his shirt with them.

He groans again and does the same. Slips his hands under her shirt and feels the smoothness of her flesh - gentler than he'd normally be, because he doesn't know if she's still bruised and sore from her last beating. He bites on her lower lip when she jolts slightly and whimpers and lets her body arch into his touch.

Fucking hell.

His dick twitches and he sucks on the lip he bit. His fingers slide up until he feels her bra and he reaches around.

She trembles, panting between hungry kisses, but doesn't tense or start to protest. She wants it, he reminds himself; she wants him.

Sandor unhooks her bra but lets his hands linger there for a moment, fingers tracing circles to keep her relaxed. He doesn't want her thinking back to that day, to that moment. It's killing him, taking his time - but he won't do that to her.

He's not his brother.

"I'm all right," she whispers in a throaty voice that makes him shudder and his hands grip her sides just a little. She giggles a little, sounding almost drunk; Sandor can vaguely remember feeling the same way years and years ago even if it was a generally emotionless affair. "Just, show me what to do?"

Oh fucking hell.

Sandor buries his face in his little bird's hair and clutches her tight, grinding into her for just a little taste of relief as need takes on a whole new meaning at her words. He thinks of all the things he could show her to do, and the craving for her becomes agonizing. "I'll show you," he grunts out, trying to sound reassuring rather than threatening - but that request of hers is a loaded gun.

Sansa shivers, and her fingers curl against his skin so that her nails scrape lightly. She giggles again when he shudders in response and then repeats the motion.

Sandor nips at her ear and moves his hands around to her front, sliding under the loose bra and cupping her breasts like he's being dying to do since long before he actually saw them. He struggles not to squeeze too tight or dig his fingers too deep.

His little bird is soft and perfect. Her nipples already stiff, his thumbs trace circles around them until she's whimpering with her head falling back against the mirror. He pulls back to watch her, shirt still on but her chest arched towards him while he kneads her teats and teases the nipples. Her mouth is open, her eyes closed, and her thumbs are moving to follow his example.

"That's it," he grunts out encouragement. He doesn't know why her tentative touches are driving him so wild, but he's too drunk on lust to care. Sandor finally moves his hands to pull her shirt off, then her bra.

Sansa sits up then. She doesn't cross her arms over her chest - not like that day - but she moves closer to him so she's not in plain view. The light is still dim, but their eyes are well-adjusted. She's already given him an eyeful as she moved, and he longs to turn the light on but refrains.

The last thing he wants is to spook her, because that will cripple him.

"Nothing to be ashamed of, little bird," he murmurs, awkwardly stroking her arms to try and relax her again.

"I know, it's just..." she chews her lip, and her hands still against his chest. "Are they, um, are they a nice size?" she squeaks out - though she says it so quickly it sounds more like "Are they, umaretheyanicesize?" to him.

Sandor feels a rumble of laughter building, but he kisses her to squelch it and merely groans instead. It's another absurdity; that she would feel self-conscious around him of all fucking people. But his little bird is a young, shy thing, and he doesn't want to ruin this. So he nips at her earlobe and growls, "Fuckin' perfect," in her ear. To his delight, she gasps - whether at his language or the compliment he isn't sure - and her fingers claw at him.

"Oh!" She starts to pull her hands back, but he grabs her wrists. She looks down. "I didn't mean to."

Grinning, Sandor lets go and then moves his hands to her back; his fingers curl. He doesn't have nails like her, but he has enough that there's a scratch to his touch when he drags his fingers down.

Sansa's eyes go wide and her mouth forms an oh, and she lets out a shaky, little moan. "Oh."

"A little friction is a good thing. Just don't try to tear off skin," he chuckles.

"Okay," she giggles back. Her thumbs are circling again, and then she stops. "This isn't exactly fair."

"Then do something about it."

He loves the embarrassment and shock he can make out on her face. He thinks maybe now would be okay to turn the light on, but he holds off. Part of him feels - absurdly - nervous. Not that he would ever admit it. He doesn't want to remind her that she's giving herself away to a big, ugly lout; can't take the chance she'll change her mind.

When did this happen?

When did he become so consumed with Sansa Stark that it rendered him a lovesick teenager, a pathetic fool desperate to play the good guy in her idealized view of reality? When did he become so desperate for her that he cannot stomach the thought of not listening should she say stop?

The little bird overcomes her shock at his words and shyly tugs his shirt up. Obediently, he lifts his arms to let her remove the article of clothing - and then he pulls her to him. She is cool and smooth and delicate against him; so small and feels so fragile.

Sansa sighs and wraps her arms around him. She hides her face against his chest, just clutching him. "You're so big."

Sandor bites down on the lewd comment that comes to mind. He feels strange, his whole body and mind in turmoil; the words wouldn't have come out right anyway. "You're small."

"I'm tall for a girl."

"Still small."

She pauses and looks up at him. "Is that a good thing?"

Fuck. "Yes," he somehow chokes out.

She smiles, shy and sweet - and then she reaches an arm out to the switch on the wall. It's his little bird that turns the light on.

The light is bright, blinding and yellow, and he blinks a couple of times. Then he's staring, looking over her exposed skin, fully illuminated now. He swallows and stares at her - avoids looking at the mirror or at her eyes now that the light's on.

Sansa chews on her lip and slowly moves her hands up his chest to his neck. One hand moves to his cheek; he hates it, hates it in this moment because he cannot truly feel her fingers caressing that cheek. She smiles at him though, her two smooth cheeks still damp but pink now with bashfulness.

His hands cup her head, fingers burying in her hair, and he kisses her again. He can't wait much longer; seeing her in the light, in almost all her glory is wearing at his paper thin patience. He knows foreplay, but he's never been much for it. He wants to just sink himself in her flesh, teeth and fingers and cock, but she's such a delicate looking thing.

She wants it. She wants him.

And he's not Gregor.

She sighs into him, her fingers stroking his neck, brushing through his hair, leaving tiny, thin trails of heat over his shoulders and down his arms and sides. She's squirming a little, grinding innocently; is she so close to the edge she's about to lose control as well? Is this as maddening for her as it is for him?

Sandor tears his mouth from hers and suckles on her earlobe. His hands move down her back to her ass. He slides his fingers under her pants and panties, and she squeaks but holds onto his shoulders to lift herself up from the counter for him. He drags her clothing down and pushes them off.

The little bird is blushing furiously now, blue eyes darting everywhere while she giggles sheepishly. It's an entirely new sight for him; she's coy and demure and completely honest, something he can't remember ever having with a woman before (not a woman he fucked at least).

He strokes the underside of her thighs and then around, dancing up the front of her legs towards her cunt. He moves slow - too fucking slow, but she's breathing rapidly and her hands are gripping tight and he won't spook her. One hand slides up her side, rubbing awkwardly to keep her calm, while the other reaches her - fucking slick already when his index finger traces her slit.

Sansa gasps and clings to him, and Sandor moves the hand on her side to brace against the mirror, head pressed to her shoulder as a shudder ripples through him.

Entire body tense, it's nearly impossible to resist the urge to plow ahead. She's wet, he could make it feel good, he could.

"Sansa," he chokes out, barely able to think straight. "Last chance. It's gonna hurt. No matter what, there will be some pain, so if you have any second thoughts better fucking speak up now, cause any further, and I won't stop."

His little bird trembles in his arms and makes a little mewling noise that causes his fingers to curl. "I know it'll hurt," she whispers. Oh, she knows, she just doesn't understand. But then she pleads, "Please, I don't want you to stop."

"Just remember that when we're done, little bird," he growls before his mouth is on hers, thumb at her cunt moving to stroke her clit. His hand against the mirror moves to his fly - and both of her hands follow. They fumble with his pants until finally he's pushing them down while her wicked fingers are tracing over his hips and almost to his cock before shyly stalling.

"Sandor," she gasps against his lips between kisses. She's wriggling, hips writhing forward into his hand, and her legs are restless and rubbing up his.

"Touch me," he growls. Just for a moment; he just needs to feel her long, slender fingers on him for a moment. He can feel her body jolt at his demand, the rush of air as she exhales shakily before he kisses her again. If he looks at her face he will lose the last, flimsy shred of control he still has; it'll be difficult enough once he feels her - oh, fuck.

Her fingers are timid and uncertain, but she's stroking him all the same. Both hands at his cock, fingertips dancing down the length of him, light as a feather. One thumb brushes over his tip, and his thumb strokes her faster, and she cries out insistently; "Please!"

Sandor steps out from his pants pooled at his feet and wraps an arm around her waist, holding her to him. He can feel her slick and hot and ready against him, and he bites on her lip while her hands move to his shoulders, her grip nothing but nails digging into his skin. He somehow finds his way to the bed - blindly moving about until his legs hit the edge - and then he lays her down, crawling on top of er.

She giggles under him, beaming and blushed and shy. She looks up at him, stares him in the eyes until he can't take it anymore. Her arms cradle him to her, and it feels foreign but wonderful while his hands hold her thighs apart. She takes a deep breath, and there's an instinctive flinch when he presses into her.

"Cry or scream, but don't hold it in," he whispers roughly into her ear. He doesn't want her to think he'll take offense; he doesn't want her to pretend when it hurts.

"O-okay," she mumbles awkwardly and gives a nod.

Slow, he tells himself. He guides his cock to her cunt, pushes in; he meant to be slow, he did. But she's tight like a vice, and he thrusts before he can think. He feels her flinch, feels the tiny, little tear, feels her body stiffen while her fingers claw at his back and her head twists away. He grits his teeth and clenches his eyes shut but holds still, buried in her.

Nothing has ever felt better, but she's breathing deep and slow and when he finally forces himself to look at her there are tears in her eyes.

He knows he should say he's sorry, but he won't lie to her. He's not sorry, no matter how much he hates that it had to hurt. He's selfishly proud that it's him hurting her, taking this from her and watching her swallow and stare him in the eyes and form a wavering smile.

No matter what happens, nobody else will get this. Nobody else will ever see this. Just him.

He's not fucking sorry.


In the movies passion is perfect, a beautiful, emotional, physical connection. Girls don't hurt afterwards, and their leading men never go too rough. But for once Sansa doesn't mind - laying sore and stiff and sleepy in a too tight embrace - that life isn't always like the movies.

Chapter Text

Part Four


 

Sansa Stark always wanted a life like something from a movie. But not every movie is easy for some people to stomach.


Sandor hadn't liked the idea of another motel only two nights after the previous one; he should have listened to his gut instead of the little bird's strained smile (or was it his other head he'd been thinking with?).

It was dumb luck on Blount and Trant's part and sheer stupidity on his. That's all; nothing more, nothing less and just enough to put him in this situation.

With Blount nothing but butchered pounds of flesh in the sink, it's Trant that Sandor's going to have to work with. Not that there's much difference between the two; both cowards who enjoyed hitting his little bird whenever Joffrey gave them the word.

Sansa is hugging herself in the corner, staring, and it unnerves him. She should wait outside, wait in the car - wait somewhere else so she doesn't have to see or hear this, because it won't be pretty. She looks like she might vomit again, and Sandor can't really blame her.

He never claimed to be a good guy.

"Don't look," he tells her.

She meets his eyes - she meets his eyes constantly now, seeking his gaze out where he used to force hers. Her fingers are clutching his jacket, hanging on her shoulders like a cloak, and she shakes her head.

"I'm okay," she lies, but she lies so bravely it makes his gut clench.

He wants her again already, even with his gloved hands soaked red and Meryn Trant wheezing and tied to one of the chairs.

"Little bird, you won't be if you watch," he snaps, condescending and acidic. He has to scare her. Has to make her look away. He doesn't want her seeing this. Sandor doesn't know which would be worse; her watching and always looking at him like a monster, or always looking at him like some fucked up hero.

She doesn't flinch, his little bird. Hurt flickers in her eyes briefly before she slowly sits on the edge of the bed facing away from him. Her hands move to her ears. Such a clever girl.

Sandor turns back to Trant and forces himself go cold. He wants to beat Meryn Trant to death with his bare hands; hit and hit and hit until his knuckles feel Trant's skull shatter. Crush his jaw, chop him up, toss the chunks of meat into the tub with Boros Blount. Set fire to the place and get the fuck out. All that has to wait, so he goes cold.

It's always been so easy; now it feels like a losing battle.

"Does anyone else know we're here?"

Trant glares at him. His nose is broken and blood is still trickling out.

Sandor grabs his nose and twists until Meryn shouts a few choice words before grinding his teeth together.

"Does anyone else know we're here?"

He lets go after he asks a second time and stands back, waiting. Sandor doesn't think it will take much to break the man.

Trant is nothing more than a low-rent thug with no stones and a fondness for his own skin. He also happens to know exactly what The Hound is capable of when let loose.

"How do I know you'll believe me?" Trant hoarsely asks.

Sandor shrugs. "You don't. But I'll know when you're telling the truth. The sooner you start, the quicker this goes." He glances briefly at his little bird; back to him and hands over her ears and breath coming in ragged, shuddering gasps. Yes, quicker is better. He doesn't want to drag out the screaming.

"No," Meryn spits. Once he starts it all comes pouring out. "No, nobody else knows. Blount and I were alone, we were supposed to meet up with Greenfield and Moore tomorrow. The others are in New York, in case you took her to friends of the family. Blount and I decided to wait until we had you both in custody before we got in contact with anyone."

Smartest idea Trant and Blount had ever come up with. Not to mention convenient.

"What about Payne?"

Payne's the one that worries him; if Trant and Blount could find him and the little bird, Payne might could too.

"Payne's still in Atlanta."

Sansa whimpers. She never saw what happened to her father, but Joffrey was happy to tell her about the "mercy" he had Payne give Ned Stark.

Sandor's gut clenches. Is his little bird going to see Payne when she looks at him after this? He's a killer the same as Payne. All this time she's been making him into someone better, and fuck it all, he'd wanted to be something better.

He's not Payne, he's not Gregor. He's not a fucking Lannister man anymore, but he's still covered in blood and there will be three bodies in the bathroom when they leave and set the place on fire.

"I swear, it's the truth. Joffrey didn't want to chance Payne killing you. He wants you alive, you and her both."

"I believe you," Sandor rasps and stuffs a handkerchief in Trant's mouth. "Whatever you do, Little bird," he states loud enough for her to hear through her hands, "Do not look over." He grabs Trant's left hand and breaks the man's index finger. Then the middle, then ring finger, then pinky. Bends them backwards fast and hard until bones are splinter out through skin.

Trant screams against the gag and thrashes in the chair.

Behind them, the little bird is whimpering.

He's not a fucking Lannister man anymore; doesn't make him a better man, just means he has someone better to protect.

Sandor does the same to Trant's right hand. He breaks each finger and then the thumbs and wants to go even further. He glances at Sansa, the girl hunched over and trembling - but he can tell she isn't crying. He doesn't see the tell-tale tremors, doesn't hear her sniffling quietly to try and hide it from him. He wants to touch her hair, but he knows she'd recoil in this moment.

Fuck Blount, fuck Trant, fuck all the damn Lannisters to hell.

She had been his this morning, his for days now, but it would never be enough.

"Now tell me again," he barks after removing the handkerchief from Trant's mouth.

Meryn is shouting curses in a voice laced with pain, but he gives the same story.

Payne is in Atlanta. Joffrey wants them both alive, so he can rape Sansa, then either kill her himself or, "Give her to Gregor. He thought it would be fitting punishment."

Sandor digs his thumb into the deep gash his knife left in Trant's thigh. He covers Trant's mouth with his other hand and watches the fucker's face grow purple as he screams and thrashes. Sandor sneers at the way Trant's eyes bulge when the thumb hooks into Trant's flesh and pulls at the torn skin, widening the tear.

The mere thought of Gregor touching Sansa has him seeing red.

Trant isn't screaming anymore though, just wheezing and groaning. Reluctantly, Sandor stops before Trant passes out.

"Go on."

It takes the man a moment, heading swaying and eyes blinking rapidly; Sandor slaps him lightly to make him focus. Trant curses wearily, voice strained and hoarse, but he continues. Tells him Joff's plans for his favorite Hound, that the boy wants Sandor tortured, broken; Sandor isn't surprised. Joffrey thinks he might be loyal again one day, once he learns what's good for him.

"What about Tywin? Or Tyrion? Have they sent out their own men?" Sandor slams his fist into Trant's belly after the question. Best not to make the fucker bleed more (yet).

"Yes!" the fucker gasps. Blood and spittle spray out when he speaks. "But I don't...I don't know where they are." He's wheezing harder. The blood at his nose is drying, caking.

Sandor punches him in the face.

"I swear!" Meryn yells, though it's hard to make out, it comes it in a gurgle with more blood.

"Sandor. Please."

He turns toward his little bird; hunched over and clutching his jacket and staring at the floor, never looking over. He wants to yell at her. Wants to go over there and grab her and shout at her and shake her and snap her into reality. Grab her chin and make her look. Tell her that this little fantasy they've been living in for just over a week is over; shattered and ruined and nothing but a farce.

He's no fucking hero, she won't come out unscathed, and they're fucked.

Sandor thinks of her in Gregor's hands, and he thinks maybe he will vomit. He can't; he can't let that happen. As bad as he is, as much damage as he's done...he can't think of Sansa in Gregor's clutches, can't think of her back at Joffrey's mercy.

"Go outside."

"But, what if-"

Sandor reaches her in three long strides. He grabs her arm and yanks her up. Blood gets on his jacket but it's his jacket; not her. "Nobody's out there. Get in the back of the car," he snarls, like he should have done from the start. He shouldn't have let her hear this, let her be anywhere near this. He opens the door and makes certain the coast is clear. "You are going to stay on the floor in the back of the car. You won't move. You won't make a sound," he hisses, leans his face in close as he speaks.

She meets his stare, just like she's done for days. She doesn't flinch though her eyes are watery and her body is trembling. "I understand," she whispers.

But she doesn't, he knows that. She doesn't understand why he made Trant tell him everything and then tortured him and made him tell it again. She doesn't understand why, let alone how. She's fucking seventeen years old, a virgin until two nights ago, and she doesn't understand how any of this can really be happening.

Sandor gets her in the car and walks back into the motel room.

Trant is almost worthless by this point. He's barely even fighting to stay conscious at this point; they both know the longer he's conscious the more pain he'll be in before Sandor finally puts the fucker out of his misery.

There's only one question left to ask anyway.

"Do they know where the spider is?"

Meryn slowly shakes his head. "No. I heard Cersei mention him, but, they didn't think you would be able to find him either."

"Good." Sandor snaps Trant's neck and enjoys the loud crack it makes. He stands to his full height and closes his eyes for a moment, just breathing. He has to calm down, he can't go back out there where the little bird waits in the car, not when he's so high on the bloodlust. What he wouldn't give for a fucking drink.

It's hardly satisfying, butchering a dead man. Not now, not with thoughts of Joffrey getting his greasy, little hands back on Sansa and ruining her, breaking her and tossing her over to Gregor to be chewed up and spat out, nothing but a limp, bloody mess with vacant eyes staring into nothing.

Sandor has seen what happens to women after Gregor gets his hands on them; his little bird would be better off if he went out and shot her here and now than if Gregor ever got her. He feels sick just thinking it, but it's the truth.

No. No, he's not offing his little bird (and then himself) as if there's no chance of getting her to safety. He's got at least one trick up his sleeve, one advantage over the Lannisters. He makes quick work of Meryn and tosses everything into the tub with the mess of Boros Blount. He undresses and tosses all his bloody clothes into the tub and changes into fresh jeans and a clean shirt and dry gloves. Packs everything up and heads outside with Blount's gun tucked into the back of his jeans.

Sansa is sitting in the floor in the back just as instructed. She looks up at him when he opens the door and tosses their bags in. Her little fingers poke out from the sleeves of his jacket; she looks tinier than ever. But she smiles at him; tremulous and frail and sweet and shy. She scoots over, her chin quivering as she licks her thumb and reaches up. Like a little angel - nothing but innocence and goodness and things he shouldn't be allowed near - she wipes a bit of blood from the burnt side of his face.

That fragile smile never falls.

"Don't," he chokes out. He's not sure if he's about to vomit or cry - even though he hasn't done either in over a decade - or if he's just about to snap. He suddenly realizes how tense he is, how near she is, and his hands are shaking as he pushes her away for her own safety.

"Please," she whispers, clutching his arms. "Don't push me away, not now."

"Now more than ever, little bird."

She scoots back over to him and leans up until her mouth is at his. It's tight-lipped and awkward; she's probably afraid he'll taste lingering bile. But she kisses him all the same, as if nothing happened, as if he didn't just brutally murder two men who would drag them back to their long, painful deaths.

"Please," she says in that same reverent tone as her thank yous.

He doesn't touch her, doesn't respond. He can't; if he does he's lost.

"Stay here, little bird," he rasps and steps back, shutting the door. He knows she's watching when he heads into the motel lobby; knows that she'll know. He stares her in the eyes when he comes back out.

She looks down - for a moment, only for a moment, but her gaze still falters.

For once he doesn't mind.

When they take off a half hour later, Blount and Trant's car hidden in the woods a ways off from the motel with the license plates missing and their motel room on fire, she reaches over and clutches his hand in hers.

"Thank you," she whispers. Like a tiny, meek prayer.

Sandor grits his teeth together while his dick twitches and every part of him wants to pull over and fuck her, bury himself in her and forget all about the shit they're in; he squeezes her hand, too tightly, and nods.


Later, as Sansa curls up with her head on Sandor's lap while he drives, she tells herself that it had to happen. That the worse it gets, the happier their final escape will be; the happier it has to be.

Chapter Text

Part Five


 

Sansa tells herself that the rift between them is necessary; that there must be obstacles to tackle, tension to overcome. Everyone faces hardships of some kind in the movies; it's what makes the endings a worthwhile payoff. That's what she tells herself when they stop to relieve their bladders on the side of the road before he chops most of her hair off while barely saying a word to her.


It's just over a day later when they're finally slipping into a trailer while thunder booms and rain beats down on them. The storm started up suddenly as they were nearing the old trailer park where an old associate used to live; late summer storms around Vegas are rare but not unheard of. It'll likely be over by the time they're ready to head into the city.

He pushed the beat up ORV to reach Las Vegas as quickly as possible; thankfully it worked, without any hiccups (like cops patrolling for speeders on backroads and lonely highways). He's exhausted and cranky, and he knows he's snapped at her too many times - but they made excellent time.

Still, the little bird smiles at him tentatively once they're inside.

He doesn't smile back, just sets down the flimsy plastic bag with the local drugstore's name in big, bold letters on it before checking the water. Still running; good, considering the payments he's been secretly making to keep it up in case of emergencies (though this emergency never once crossed his mind until it happened).

"Sandor?"

"Water still works. The storm will be over in a few, and then you can-"

"Sandor."

He doesn't look at her. The ride here was mostly silent; he snapped every time she tried to start up conversation, each and every time she tried to ask him any questions.

"Please?"

It's embarrassing, the way her voice pleading out one, little word cripples him. A grown man of fucking thirty-three, and he's brought down by a seventeen year old girl begging him to look at her. As if Sansa Stark should ever have to beg anyone to look at her (it should be the other fucking way around).

"What is it, girl?" he asks - words too curt and voice too harsh, but he looks at her like he knows she wants.

It must be enough, because her tentative smile returns. "It's just...we need to talk." She doesn't give him the chance to argue - because it's obvious how much he does not want to talk, and hurriedly adds, "This man we're going to see, he...you know for certain you can trust him?"

Sandor almost barks at her that of course he can't fucking trust the Spider, but she's a just a girl. A good girl, honest and innocent, and even after everything she's still so naive about so much of this world he lives in. So instead he closes the distance he put between them and gently cups her chin to make her look at him (though it's entirely unnecessary). "Not exactly, little bird. But there's no love lost between him and the Lannisters, I can promise you that. I know how to make sure he helps you, though, don't worry about that."

Sansa slowly nods, though she appears uncertain. She leans in closer to him. "How do you really know he'll help us?"

Us. Sandor had worded his last sentence rather specific, but she didn't even listen. Us.

"It's not us he'll be helping," he mutters under his breath. He hadn't wanted to tell her. He knows it will worry her, upset her; maybe make her fight this and get stubborn again; but it's time to face the music. His hand drops from her face. "He'll help you because I'm going to help him. A favor for a favor."

"What do you mean?"

He turns away from her again and reaches for the drugstore bag. Turns away because there are accusations in her eyes; she looks at him as if he's betraying her, as if doing whatever he can to make sure she's safe and sound and that the Lannisters can never hurt her again is wrong. He tells himself it's only the fear of being alone. He doesn't see how she could be that attached to him after yesterday.

(But he remembers three nights ago; her warm body under him and her mouth on his and her arms cradling him while he came, too selfishly caught up in his own pleasure to give her enough back. He remembers little moments since then, and how she smiles and curls up into him and touches his hair and seeks out his hand every chance she has. He remembers the night before Trant and Blount ruined it all - when they were tired and cramped, and she was too sore, but still they touched and kissed and tasted, and Sandor knows that was the sweetest night of his fucked up, bloody life; what scares him is the memory of her sighing happily in his arms and drifting to sleep like that was where she belonged.)

"You're going to get a new life, little bird. A new name, a new going to go somewhere safe, somewhere far away. You'll have a quiet life, and you'll find yourself a good man," he explains and grips the flimsy, blue plastic bag as if it's that unknown man's neck. "You'll have a full, happy life. But you can't do that if you remain Sansa Stark, and you can't have that if I stay with you."

She rushes towards him, closing the distance he put between them, and slaps him. Hard as she can, he's pretty damn sure, with her fingertips curved inward so that she leaves red scratches on the good side of his face.

He admits to himself, he hadn't been expecting a reaction quite that violent.

She's crying abruptly, her other hand over her mouth as she sobs (she hasn't cried since the night he fucked her). She slaps him again. She tries for a third time, and he catches her wrist, half expecting her to start hitting his chest. But she doesn't; she pulls back, pulls her wrist free, and yanks his jacket off of her. The little bird throws it at him. She cries like she's been bracing for this and failing miserably.

Sandor honestly doesn't know what to do. He wants to shake her and curse her and tell her to be an adult. Stop her fucking crying, she's always crying - he hates it when she cries. (Hates feeling helpless because this isn't what he's good at, comforting and soothing, no, that's not him at all.)

But he can't do that, doesn't want to do that; he wants to hold her. He wants to go with her, and stay with her, and fuck her. Over and over, every day until he dies, and he could die happy that way.

"You promised!" she sobs. "We're still alive, Sandor! We're both still alive, and you promised! I'm yours! You're mine!" Her entire body shakes violently. It's that day, the day they ran; she's crying so hard she might vomit, and she won't look at him.

He grabs her, holds her while she slaps him again and tries to yank away. He wrenches her away from the door when she tries to grab the doorknob and pulls her in close. "Sansa! Listen to me!" he yells. One hand moves to her hair and grips it tightly and tugs harder than he should. He hates the way she's glaring at him with wet, bloodshot eyes. "Fool's folly! You hear me, girl? It was a silly promise that meant nothing. Didn't anyone ever tell you a man will say anything when he's lust drunk?"

Sansa's glare turns from hurt and angry to shocked in seconds. And then she's shaking her head, clutching him, cupping his face. "No, no - don't. You meant it. I know you did! You meant it then and afterwards, right up until Meryn Trant and Boros Blount found us!"

He could call her a fool - and she is. But in this instance he'd be lying. He already is lying. He hates it, hates lying to her, lashing out and hurting her. It used to feel good, when he'd say something just scare her or startle her or offend her. He used to enjoy watching her squirm, because it was the only reaction he could get from her. Getting close enough so she would stop shying her gaze from his face, close enough so she would stop fearing him - it was too risky.

(He should have remembered that.)

"Do you want to die, girl?" he asks her coldly.

Sansa pulls at him, and despite his better judgment he leans in. "I want us to be happy."

Fuck.

He has plenty enough cash that they could run far, far away. He could track down other sources - none as good as the Spider, but close enough. They could get far away without a solid trail. But his face will always give him away, and the Lannisters would never let this go.

Sandor cannot shake the thought of Gregor touching his pretty, little bird. He rarely sees his brother; rarely sees the aftermath but everyone's heard stories. Sandor remembers meeting his second sister-in-law once, at a dinner party Tywin Lannister was hosting. He remembers the empty, vacant look in her eyes, the shadows of bruises under make-up, the way she body trembled constantly because Gregor never stopped touching her in some way.

"You can be happy without me."

She flinches and clings to him, pressing her mouth to his. "Don't, please don't leave me. I've lost my family, don't leave me too. I love you," she says, like a stupid child. "I love you."

"You don't love me, girl, you're terrified and grateful," he rasps out while his hands shake with the need to crush her to his body. He tells himself she's a child; she doesn't know what she's saying. He reminds himself that she's seventeen and thought she loved Joffrey until the brat and his family had her meddling father killed and started taking out the rest of her relatives. He reminds himself that she's grateful; he saved her life and took her offered virginity, and she's delusional and emotional and a silly teenager caught up in some elaborate coping mechanism.

"I do love you," she tries to convince himself.

"You don't even know me! You think yesterday was bad? I've done worse, for less!"

Sansa closes her eyes and lays her head on his chest. "I know that," she whispers in surrender. "I know. I don't care."

He can't help snorting at that. "Like hell you don't."

"Stop telling me what I think, or how I feel!"

Sandor sighs and gives into the urge to stroke her hair. He holds his little bird in his arms, her wet face pressed to his chest with tears soaking through his shirt. He wishes - and he can't even remember how often he's wished this since finally making the right decision to flee with her - that he would be happy to just hold her forever. Nothing else mattering besides this, besides them. It's the first decent thing in his life since he was a child, since his dreams were burned and melted and his sister died trying to get him somewhere far away from Gregor.

Now he'll probably die trying to keep Sansa Stark far away from the Lannisters and all their men.

"You'll love again, little bird. Someone nicer than me."

She wipes her eyes and looks up at him. "My father told me, not long before he died, that I deserved someone better than Joffrey."

The words strike closer to home than the girl could possibly know; she still thinks I'm a better man.

"I'm not much of a step up."

She smiles, and for a moment she looks older - like a woman grown. Mature and wise and too jaded, too jaded to be Sansa. "That's not the point. You're good for me. Because you care about me. You can protect me. Joffrey never truly liked me, not really."

Sandor brushes her hair back from her face. "You're right, little bird. He never did. And I...you're right, I do care. Which is why I can't stay with you. Fuck's sake, girl. I'm thirty-three and a killer. You saw what I'm capable of. I'm a butcher - I killed both those men without a single fucking regret except that you saw some of it. I killed them, I mutilated them and burned them so they could never be identified. Leaving you is the best protection I can offer."

Her lip trembles and her fingers clutch at him; his beautiful, little bird. It's as if the world itself is out to make her cry.

Damn it all to hell, he meant those words that night.

"You're mine," she whispers in unknowing agreement.

"I said if we make it out of this. We've yet to make it out of this, little bird."

There's too much at stake. Even with her hair cut short, even after she dyes it a deep, dark chestnut brown, he'll stick out like a sore thumb. They'll see him, and then they'll look at her. There's nothing to be done about his ugly head, no dye job will ever make him invisible or harder to recognize.

He can't take her to the remnants of her family, they're dropping like flies like any other fool that trusted the police and the Feds to protect them from the Lannisters.

The only way she'll be safe is hidden far away while those who see her as a threat are being dealt with. Only way those bastards will ever be gone is if they're taken out, and the government will never manage that.

"Dye your hair. Then we'll go to the Spider."

She doesn't let go. She clutches tighter. She opens her mouth to speak, to beg or demand or try to convince him.

He kisses her. Hard and rough, his hands gripping her shoulders so tightly he knows they will bruise. "Listen to me, little bird. If I make it out of this alive, I'll find you. I'll hunt you down and make certain you're safe, and if you'll still have me, you can have me." He prays that this will be enough to make her cooperate.

"Swear it," she hisses, still stubborn and demanding, her eyes not dry yet but her expression hard and set in stone.

Sandor bristles. "You make me swear it, girl, then that means you're mine no matter what," he growls angrily. "So if I find you fucking some other son of a bitch, he's dead. Dead and butchered like Blount, like Trant, and you'll be fucking his killer the rest of my sorry life."

Her expression never changes though her body trembles at his words. "Swear it."

He stares. He can't help it.

Moments ago Sansa was the frightened Stark girl he stole away from Atlanta, from the Lannisters, from Joffrey. Fragile and lost; but she's dug her claws into him and she knows it. He'll never be free of wanting her, and she knows it. There's something almost crazed and desperate to her determination, but he's got no right to talk.

"I swear. If I'm alive when it's safe to find you, I'll find you. And you'll be mine."

She smiles then and kisses the melted corner of his mouth. "Yes. And you will be mine."

Fuck. No matter what happens, this girl will be the death of him. He knows it.

"The storm's over. Take care of your hair," he snaps. It frustrates him when she keeps on smiling and slips from his grasp to grab the hair dye.

She moves lighter now, a bounce to her steps. Just like a child. She's nothing more than a girl who's seen too much ugliness in the world, clinging to the only things she has left that she can paint in rose-tinted colors.

Sandor sits down while she looks over the directions. He watches her, her fiery hair short and choppy, exposing her long, elegant neck. He doesn't call many things elegant, but that's the perfect word for her sometimes. His little bird is elegant; like a girl always prepared for the spotlight.

She could have been a beauty for the whole, wide world to see, with all the world's beauty in the palms of her hands if Ned Stark hadn't let his nostalgia for a college friendship drag him down into the Lannister underworld. Instead she'll be a beauty tucked away from the whole, wide world, with all the world's horrors nagging at the back of her mind.

Damn it all to hell, he hates the fact. That he does makes him feel weak and pathetic, but he hates it all the same.

He looks at his hands and sees all the blood he's shed. If he closes his eyes and thinks of her in his arms, she's stained with it; invisible trails his fingers have left everywhere. He's no good for her. He's no good.

Better than Gregor. Barely. A lesser monster, but a monster all the same.

And she wants him. She wanted him three nights ago, she wants him now.

Sandor knows that if he does manage to come out of this alive, he should just slip away. Go someplace nice and warm and sunny, far away from where she's secluded and hidden away. Leave her to her daydreams and fantasies; let her make up some glorious fate for him. Something that he knows she thinks he's worthy of. But keep away and let her move on once she finally accepts the fantasy version of his fate.

He won't. He knows that if he survives, if there's ever a time when it's safe, he'll hunt her down. He'll kill any man she's let into her bed. He'll keep her, keep her his. He's not a decent sort of man, no matter how pretty a mental picture she paints of him. He's not Gregor, he's not Joffrey. That'll have to be good enough.

If he even makes it through the next few years.

It takes her roughly a half hour to wash, dye, and dry her hair. When she steps out of the trailer's tiny bathroom it's painfully obvious how self-conscious she feels, shifting from one foot to the other and wringing her hands while Sandor takes in her altered appearance. Now her hair is chestnut brown, showing off her slender neck and making her look paler while the blue of her eyes shines even brighter. It's so different that it pains him, but it doesn't change the fact that she's stunning.

"How do I look?"

"Different," is all he manages to grunt out. Like a fumbling, nervous teenager; fucking idiot.

Her face falls. "Am I..." she trails off and looks down. She's chewing furiously at her lip; probably thinking how silly the question is, but she can't help wondering anyway.

"You're lovely, little bird," he tells her. He isn't sure if he makes himself say the words or if they come out all on their own (when they shouldn't have come out at all).

But the girl beams at that and grabs his jacket (that show threw at him not too long ago), slipping her skinny arms into the far too big for her sleeves. "Thank you," she tells him - as always - and he grunts.

"Let's go."


She will not let him go; she will not. As she sits in the car and stares at the bright lights of Vegas, she clings to Sandor's promise, and thinks of all the times she's cried over long-awaited reunions in the movies. Hers will be no different; hers will happen.

Chapter Text

Part Six


 

When they lie in bed that night, Sandor sleeping while she keeps repeating her new life's story over and over in her head, she doesn't let herself think of the morning. Of when he'll call her by another name, and watching her disappear in the crowd of people heading for their flights. She thinks of what he's doing for her and what he's going to do, and that how despite what he says, he really is like someone straight out of a movie. Sansa will never, ever forget that.


The little bird shifts uncomfortably as they wait in a back room of a dimly lit building. She stays near him, one of her hands clasping one of his tightly. Her fingernails are digging in enough that it's almost uncomfortable.

(It's all the muffled moans, and Alayaya's barely there dress that left little to the imagination as she led them back here. It's not her nerves making her claw at him, he almost believes, but something green.)

"Are you sure it's safe?" she whispers. Her blue eyes gaze up at him, her teeth gnawing at her bottom lip.

"Safe as can be," he mutters.

Her expression shifts; confused, carefully studying him. Like she's not certain if he's sarcastic, uncertain, or simply unhappy but truthful. She doesn't ask him any more questions though; no, she presses her face to his arm instead. Her empty hand moves to join the other, clutching his tightly for comfort.

When a few girls come down the stairs and pass by, her fingers squeeze tighter. This time it's not for comfort.

(Fuck, he could stay with her and enjoy this surprising side of his little bird. No one has ever been possessive of him, and he isn't even going to give himself the chance to get used to it.)

"Ah, Clegane. It is so good to see you, old friend."

The sickly, false sweetness of the words, the tone of voice, cause the exact, reflexive reaction as always. Sandor's eyes narrow, and his muscles tense, but he inclines his head towards the Spider all the same.

"You?" Sansa whispers in a gasp. Her fingernails are digging in so deep, Sandor thinks they might draw blood.

The Spider's eyes focus on the little bird, and his false, friendly smile becomes a false, sympathetic frown. "My dear child, it is such a relief to see you alive and safe, and far from Lannister hands." He approaches and reaches for her - but Sandor growls while his little bird recoils. The Spider lets out a longsuffering sigh, and gives a pout. After that, all mockery of sincerity and charm drops. "I must admit, when I heard through the grapevine that you had stolen young Joffrey's lovely fiancee, I was surprised. I never took you for sentimental, Clegane."

Sandor is silent for a moment; silent and tense. He doesn't know how to respond - because it was sentiment that prompted him, wasn't it? It was affection, fondness, compassion, pity - a pathetic soft spot for a frightened and caged little girl that made him act. Never with honest intentions (there was a time when he thought to steal her for himself, take her away and never let her out of his sight or grasp) but honest intentions or not, it was still sentiment.

And he fucking hates the Spider for knowing this.

(But it's the Spider, and that's what he's good at.)

"You know why I'm here."

"Well, it's certainly not to reminisce about the good, old days when you hunted people down and snuffed them out for the Lannisters." The Spider's eyes study Sansa intently which makes her lean against Sandor even more. "Lovely job you did with her hair, Clegane. Would you like to be a hair stylist in your new life?" The Spider flashes a cordial smile.

There's definitely blood starting to leak from between her fingernails and his skin as he answers. "Not here for that. Just for her."

Sansa's nails scrape when her fingers curl in response to his words. She stands stiff at his side. There is a pause where Sandor thinks that she will either protest again or perhaps move away in a silent show of objection - but his little bird remains pressed against him and silent.

The Spider does not miss any of it, his eyes glancing back and forth between the two of them. That obnoxious, little knowing smile forms. "Are you certain of that, Clegane? After all, our young friend here is very valuable."

He tells himself not to take the bait (but he's tense, and he's tired, and he just wants to hide Sansa away from the world where only he can see her and touch her).

"Listen, you pudgy, little cockroach," he growls while his fingers clutch the Spider's neck and his thumb presses against the man's throat. "You're going to give her a new name, new background, the best, fucking thorough identity you can. Get her safe travel arrangements to Alaska, and then forget you ever saw her."

Sandor is vaguely aware of Sansa whispering his name and trying to pull him away. He's vaguely aware of the women and children slipping into that backroom with weapons ready. But all he cares about is the look in the spider's eyes when he adds, "And in return, I'll help you put the Targaryens back on top of the food chain."

"Why didn't you just say so, my friend?" the Spider whispers in a strained voice.

With a huff, Sandor lets go and takes a step back. He lets Sansa hug him and puts a hand on her back.

The Spider gestures for the others to leave them alone once more - and then he smiles brightly, clasping his hands together. "This is indeed a marvelous offer, Clegane. Though I will still expect the regular payment for the new identity itself. Your favor buys silence, not product."

"Same price?"

"As always."

Sandor pulls the exact amount from his pocket and tosses it onto the small table in the room.

"Excellent, excellent," the Spider titters, clapping his hands together. He gathers the money up and counts it - "Just to check," he says as if Sandor really takes it as an insult - before spreading an arm towards Sansa. "Come with my, my dear child. We will need to get your photograph, and take care of some details."

Sansa bites at her lower lip. For a moment she only stares at the outstretched arm. And then she turns away and lifts her head up until her blue eyes are on him.

(He could pull out more cash, enough to cover his own new identity, and they could leave together. Go to Alaska, live in solitude and isolation. He could keep her for his own, try his damndest to make her happy. Spend the rest of his days touching her and watching her and tasting and listening and feeling and wanting and having her. But the rest of his days would be the rest of her days, and sooner or later someone - Payne or Gregor or Joffrey or fucking Tywin himself - would show up and snuff them out. Snuff her out. Make him watch.)

Sandor nods. "Let's go, little bird."

Sansa swallows and follows after the Spider; she holds on to Sandor's hand with her own as he follows behind.

It's late, late enough that some of the Vegas buzz has simmered down, when they're finally leaving the Spider's lair - Sansa's new life in hand. In five hours she'll be boarding a plane that will take her to Seattle, and from there she'll switch flights and finish the trip to Alaska.

She'll be Alayne Stone, eighteen - almost nineteen - and moving there to forget a bad home life. A creepy fuck for a father, dead mother, no siblings. Something different, something that Sansa has a hard time making herself memorize; but it's convincing and most people won't ask questions past the first few details.

Most people don't like to hear about the ugly side of life, the one they pretend doesn't exist (the one Sansa Stark should have never found out about).

"I can never tell anyone about my real dad, or my mother. Or any of my siblings, can I?" she asks when they're in the ORV.

Sandor sighs. It's a stupid, obvious question - but she sounds so heartbroken he can't snap at her. "No, little bird. But I don't think they'll hold it against you in the afterlife. If there even is one."

Sansa's head turns his way, and he can hear her making the little intake of breath that she makes every time she's about to try to argue with him or question him somehow. Then she exhales and settles back. "There is," she merely whispers. But her voice is firm. "There has to be."

He's too tired and too resigned to the truth that he'll never see her again after the airport to bother tearing down her faith. Besides, he's done enough damage; she'll be Alayne in the morning, it's the least he can do, letting her keep something that's so thoroughly Sansa.

The drive back to the trailer is quiet after that.

She's looking over the papers, over the written down history they'll burn in the morning. She helped fill in the blanks; 'To make it easier for her' as the Spider explained. Her teeth worry at her lower lip. Her eyes are surprisingly dry.

It's better this way, he tells himself. Better she goes alone. Better she gets away from the Lannisters - and from him.

But he did swear to find her if he survived.

It isn't until they're back in the trailer that she speaks up again. "When the Targaryens are in control again...that's when you'll come?"

Sandor eyes her, taking in the hope and the worry and the stubborn refusal to let this go. He heads toward the back area where the bed is and lays out a couple of blankets. "If I'm still alive, girl, that's when I'll come for you."

"Good."

"Did you even listen to me, girl?" he snaps. He doesn't want to snap, not tonight. Not when he only has so many hours left with her, and he's hard for her, and he's going to have to let her go, let her disappear from sight. But he can't stop himself. He wants to shake her and wake her up from this new fantasy she's built for herself. "Not everything is a fucking movie! I'm likely to be dead in five years, maybe less. You'll be somewhere safe, living a new life, drowning in it until you realize that you aren't Sansa anymore, you're Alayne Stone - and Alayne Stone doesn't give two fucking shits for some mob family's old dog."

Sansa flinches once or twice during his outburst, but is otherwise calm. She does not break down - no, she cried her tears earlier, he realizes, cried them all out so that she wouldn't break down now, when they know the hour, the minute that their time will be at an end.

"I will always, always be Sansa Stark," she whispers resolutely. "I will always remember my father, my mother, my siblings, my uncle, my cousin. I will remember you, Sandor Clegane, because you aren't just some mob family's old dog to me. Just because I change my new and pretend to be someone else and will play the part to stay alive doesn't mean I will stop being who I really am. And who I really am loves you."

Sandor snorts. He opens his mouth - and she is there, right on front of him with her hand over his mouth.

"Don't. Don't tell me I don't love you, that I'll love someone else, just...don't." She starts off firm, but her last word is pleading. "I don't want to argue anymore, Sandor. Please."

He relents. Because what else is there to say? He'll never change her mind, he knows that now. No matter how much sense he tries to talk into the girl, she's not going to listen. It drives him mad at the same time that he cups her face, one thumb brushing over her lips, and wonders how she's managed to not break.

"If I'm alive when the Targaryens are back in power, I'll find you," he tells her, loving that shy, sweet smile that forms on her lips. He traces it with his thumb and then he steals it with his mouth, hands moving to her hips and lifting her up.

She wraps her legs around him. Her hands are already sliding under his shirt, feeling over him.

Sandor growls and tightens his grip on her hips, making her grind against him. "You feel that, girl? What you do to me?"

Sansa lets out a little gasp; eyes closed and lips parted. And then she blushes, eyes averting as she answers, "You should feel what you do to me." For some reason the almost awkward, hopeful tone of her voice as she attempts a come on does him in more than if she'd managed to get the words out with confidence.

"Every intention to, little bird," he promises before pinning her on the bed.

She gasps, his little bird, and arches her body against his. "Are you going to...I mean, we will..."

Sandor studies her as she tries to find the right words. He knows the question; he unbuttons and unzips her jeans so his hand can easily slide under, under her panties, and feel 'what he does to her.' He groans and kisses her, silencing her attempts to ask him what she really wants to ask him as he pushes one finger into her slick cunt.

"How does that feel, little bird?"

Sansa's eyelids are fluttering while her mouth hangs open and her hips arch. "G-good. It doesn't hurt as bad."

"It'll still hurt a bit, at first," he warns.

She nods and kisses him and wriggles her hips. When he starts pumping his finger and adds another, she whimpers loudly against his mouth. "I know...but I want to. It's our last night for who knows how long."

More than likely their last night, period. Sandor refrains from commenting.

Sansa's fingers tug at his clothes, and he pulls back just enough to get the jacket and his shirt off. She blushes but isn't too shy to keep her hands from smoothing over his chest and stomach, her palms warm and her fingertips tracing the myriad of scars.

"I thought you liked pretty men, little bird," he mocks half-heartedly while kissing over her neck and slowly pumping two fingers in her cunt.

"I like brave men," she moans. Her fingers curl, those claws of her scraping and scratching in response to his thumb brushing over her clit. "Sandor..."

He shudders and uses his free hand to get her shirt off. He kisses her hard while she takes her hands off of him and fumbles with her bra, movements blind and shaky as he continues to stroke her clit. "Not all brave men are good men, little bird."

She gasps when he adds a third finger, his thumb still teasing the sensitive, little nub. Her legs rub against his. She finally gets her bra off. "You're good to me."

Sandor kneads a breast with his free hand and teases the nipple until it's hard, listening to her whimper and watching her body writhe. He thinks she has the right of it, perfectly; he's good to her. Maybe she isn't as willfully blind as he sometimes thinks she still is.

Her hands clutch his shoulders while her body starts to move a little more frantically; hips actively grinding. "Sandor..." She bites her lip, probably trying to keep in all those naughty words he wants her to say, but he helps her out by pressing his mouth to hers and slipping his tongue between her lips.

There is a moment - a brief moment - where she goes rigid, arched up against him with hands clutching and legs pressed tightly to his sides. And then the moment is over, and she's crying into him. Her body trembles underneath his. Her hips jerk. Her cunt squeezes at his fingers while he slides them in and out and continues to stroke her with his thumb. Sansa wrenches her mouth from his to throw her head back as she lets out another keening moan and incoherently begs him not to stop and please stop, too much and don't stop, not enough and oh, fuck.

Sandor watches his little bird, the hand at her breast moving to grip the blankets under them, clenching the fabric tightly. He can't think of anything more fucking beautiful than Sansa Stark when she comes.

(If he dies before the end of this, he'll die with these moments on his mind. Not Gregor holding him to the fire, not the thought of Gregor touching his little bird, not the sight of her stripped down for Joff and the others and the damn dwarf stepping in when it should have been him all along. These moments where she falls apart, just for him.)

He pulls his hand out from under her panties and jeans and presses one wet finger to her lips.

She slowly makes her eyes focus. She watches him, uncertain, but takes his finger in her mouth. She sucks slowly, the way he told her to the night before Trant and Blount, the way she sucked on his finger and then his dick. Last time she hadn't had to taste herself though, and she's nervous at first - scandalized, no doubt. But his little bird does it anyway, tongue licking at the digit.

"Fuck, girl," he groans and removes the finger from her mouth. He buries his face against her neck, biting at her pulse.

Sansa giggles softly and murmurs, "Isn't that the idea?"

Sandor grins and gives her ear a nip. "That it is, little bird." He backs off of the bed - chuckling when Sansa lets out a wordless noise of protest - and finally gets out of the rest of his clothes with a muttered, "Fuck," in relief.

His pretty bird giggles again while squirming out of her clothes in a languid and most undignified manner, and Sandor can't help but admire.

"You truly look the little lady right now."

Sansa pouts up at him sulkily and throws her jeans at his head. "I'm having a hard time moving, and it's your fault."

He kneels on the bed and grabs her hands. Gives a yank and then holds her by her shoulders so she's once again pressed to his body. "You didn't seem to mind," he growls before nipping at her jaw. He savors the way she trembles, the sharp intake of breath when he bites her earlobe; the way her belly sucks in when his hips involuntarily grind and his dick twitches against her abdomen.

One dainty hand moves between their bodies and slowly strokes him. Her blue gaze focuses on him. "Do you want me to?"

Sandor shakes his head. "Not yet, little bird," he says as he moves away and lays on his back. He likes the confused expression on her face before he grabs a thigh and yanks it across him. "Straddle me, Sansa."

She blushes and grins and does as he says. She's slick against him, and at first he simply guides her hips to rock, rubbing her cunt against his dick. Sansa whimpers; her hands laying in his chest to steady her as she falls forward slightly.

It feels so fucking good, and he's not even inside of her yet. He's amazed at his restraint and the slow pace, because he's been dying for this since coming off his bloodlust after offing Trant and Blount and the motel clerk (he's been dying for it since the night he took her first, and it's a fucking lie to say otherwise). But tonight's it; if not for the rest of his life, at least for several years.

Sandor is going to enjoy it. And make sure she does, too.

"Are you ready?"

Sansa pauses, thoughtful, and then twists herself around enough to grab something from the flimsy nightstand's drawer. She turns back around with a condom in her hand, and her face flushed bright red. "I, um...well I got it when I got the dye. I just, because that could be bad if, you know..."

Buggering hell, he should have thought of that himself. Feeling like a teenage fool, he nods and takes it from her.

"Don't worry, little bird. You're right," he reassures her when he sees the nervous expression on her face, the way she's worrying her lip. He puts the condom on - inwardly cursing because fuck, it's the last time and he wants to feel her but she's right, that would be bad (and could still be bad) - and pulls her down for a kiss.

She relaxes against him and kisses back. "I love you," she whispers with her eyes still closed, and Sandor isn't quite sure if she realizes she said the words out loud this time. Her face is too serene, too dreamy, not bracing for an argument or watching him with hope for a return.

Sandor swallows down the guilt and other unwanted emotions her words stir in him and presses the tip of his cock to her cunt. "You ready, Sansa?"

"Yes." She opens her eyes and gives a nods and lets him guide her hips down. Her body flinches, and her fingers curl, but she breathes in deep and slow.

He wants to tell her that she's beautiful right now - she's beautiful all the time - but he'd just fuck up the words and sound like a fool. So he cups her face with both hands and brings her down for another kiss. "We'll take it slow, pretty bird."

She beams at his words and lifts her hips back up until just his tip is left inside her. "It was slow last time." She lowers down, a little faster this time. "It isn't so bad this time, really." She begins to move, awkward, trying to find a rhythm.

He tries to help, he does - but fuck, she's still so tight, and she's beautiful sitting astride him, riding him with her bottom lip between her teeth and her eyes shut tightly and her hands on his chest for balance while her breasts bounce with her movements. He cups them in his hands and kneads gently, thumbs circling her nipples while his hips start moving in time with hers.

"Don't need to rush it, pretty bird," he groans. "It's supposed to feel good for both of us."

Sansa relaxes again and leans over to kiss him. The angle of their bodies changes, and she whimpers, with her fingers curling against his chest. Her movements falter briefly, her face pressed to his neck and nuzzling against his scruff. "Sandor..."

"That's it, pretty bird," he groans, eyes rolling back at how fucking good she feels. He keeps teasing her nipples while his hips slam up against hers, trying to stay slow, trying not to go to hard, but fuck, it's difficult not to get lost in this. He knows she's still adjusting though, so after a moment he moves his hands back to her hips. "Trust me," he mutters and lifts her up.

His little bird lets out a startled noise, but she doesn't fight when he sets her on the bed.

"Face the headboard, on your hands and knees," he growls out, harsher than he should.

She doesn't seem to mind, whimpering and obeying him quickly.

Sandor positions himself behind her, holding her hip with one hand and guiding him dick back inside her with the other. He feels her shudder violently and let out a high-pitched, keening noise. "There you go," he whispers, leaning over and kissing her shoulder. He watches as one hand clutches the blankets and the other braces against the headboard. He thrusts into her again, and she makes the same sound before crying out his name.

"Please," she begs. Her voice is tight and strangled. "It feels...it feels really good. Please."

He finds a rhythm that's not too fast yet but not maddeningly slow either. He lazily strokes her clit and watches as she shudders beneath him. "That's it, pretty bird. Sing for me," he growls.

Sansa keens again. Her head hangs down and the hand on the headboard is pushing her back into him. "...more, Sandor. Please."

"Fuck." Sandor leans over again. He bites at her shoulder and kisses the crook of her neck and thrusts faster, his eyes closing tightly. The hand on her hip moves to the heardboard as well, laying over hers. He strokes her clitoris faster, because he isn't sure he can last much longer. Needed this too much, and the sounds she's making are so fucking beautiful.

The hand clutching the blanket moves to clutching his arm wrapping around her, fingers clasping at his wrist as her strokes her. She keeps making noises like she's trying to speak but can't, crying out as they move faster. When she finally manages to gasp out, "Fuck!" with abandon, he's undone.

His balls tighten for a moment, and then he feels it. Sharp and intense, he presses his face to her back and grunts, incoherent save for a couple of 'fucks' and 'Sansa.' His hips more jerk than thrust, and he grips her hand against the wall tightly while her cunt contracts around him delightfully. He is vaguely aware when they topple over, a sweating, panting tangled mess, but it doesn't fully hit him until after the orgasm is over, and she's crying for him to stop touching her, it's too sensitive.

"Sorry, pretty bird," he groans and nibbles on her earlobe, removing his hand from between her legs while she shudders in his arms. He cradles her to him, her back against his chest, and kisses her forehead.

After several minutes, Sansa murmurs, "We have more. Condoms, I mean. If you wanted to...again."

Sandor laughs, hugging his little bird against his body and turns her head so he can kiss her thoroughly. "You're going to need sleep, you know. It's too risky to sleep on the plane."

Sansa nods and moves one hand to stroke his burnt cheek. "I know. But after this...I want to make the most of tonight."

"All right. But you and I still could use a few more minutes," he tells her and reaches down to give her a little stroke. He laughs when she whimpers and pushes at his hand. "See?" He moves away - reluctant and sluggish - to discard the condom.

"Have you ever been in love?"

The fog in Sandor's head clears instantly at that question, and he looks down at Sansa. "Do I strike you as a man who's been in love?"

"Plenty of women would overlook your face."

Sandor snorts. "Yes, little bird. They would. For a good fuck. There are plenty of women out there who like a big man, and can over look half his face because they aren't after a face to begin with. But those kinds of women aren't looking for love, either."

Sansa scowls slightly. "You don't know that."

"Maybe you're right. But I never cared to find out if I was wrong." He doesn't like this conversation, not now. He settles back on the bed, hoping she'll drop it - but the expression on her face tells him he's said something wrong.

"Have you...been with a lot of women?"

Buggering hell.

Sandor pulls the girl so that she straddles his abdomen brushes her hair back from her face. "Pretty, little bird. I've killed countless people, including a man right in front of you. I worked for the Lannisters. Yes, I've fucked. By most men's definitions, not a lot. By yours, possibly. Meaningless, empty fucks, and nothing more. And if you're worried that I'm going to find someone else, don't. I've no intentions of being with anyone else. For one thing, it puts me in too vulnerable a position."

Sansa nods, thoughtful, and then, "Am I-"

"You are not them. None of them are you, and none of them matter." He pulls her down, kisses her mouth, her jaw, the skin above her pulse. "So let's not waste tonight on anything that doesn't matter."

She smiles then, eyes glassy, and nods. "Okay." She kisses him, her hands on his shoulders, and then nestles atop him. "I love you. Even if you don't love me. I know you don't think I really do. But I want you to know. Just in case." Her voice trembles when she says her last sentence.

Sandor wraps his arms around her and holds her tightly. He doesn't say anything for a long while. He doesn't really know what to say, because right now, he wants nothing more than to believe this girl really does mean what she's saying.

(And if he could stay with her, he might just would mean those words right back.)


She tells herself that this doesn't mean anything; parting happens all the time. It isn't always final, not in the movies and not in life. She tells herself that as she holds back a breakdown, sitting on the plane and clutching Sandor's jacket tightly around her body.

Sansa Stark had always wanted a life like something out of a movie. Alayne Stone is her role.

Chapter Text

Part Seven (Epilogue)


 

When she sees him step out of the dinner, everything stops. Time slows down and nothing else exists; it is exactly like in a movie. Only better. Better than any movie, any book, any story. Because it is real, it is life, and he is alive. Sansa Stark breaks down underneath the shell of Alayne Stone and cries, because he is alive.


Five fucking years, and countless deaths later, he can finally disappear. Fade into the background, find some place peaceful and quiet. Retire in comfort. Some place warm and sunny and breezy. That had been the plan, once. Nowhere obnoxious, some place calm - but where there weren't extremes in weather, in cold or heat.

He'd live in a shack by the sea. Maybe get a dog; he misses the greyhounds from his childhood, the ones that would come and go in brutal blurs yet somehow he always wound up attached.

Instead he finds his way to Alaska, to a small town that isn't even on most maps. There's a tight feeling in his chest, in his gut. He can't shake it, no matter how hard he tries.

It's been five years. She might have moved. She might have stayed and...but she made him swear, and he told her what would happen if she found someone else.

But it's been five fucking years - he couldn't have been expecting her to wait for him forever. He honestly doesn't know what he will do if he finds his little bird here with some other man's jacket hanging over her shoulders, another man's hand touching her hair or holding her close or sleeping in her bed.

He knows what he'll want to do. He knows his fingers will twitch with the need to strangle or beat the life out of the lousy fucker. He knows he'll want to snuff the man out and then have his little bird again. But he's not Gregor, though he's possibly bathed in more blood than his brother by this point.

Sandor parks his motorcycle in front of a small diner and looks around for any glimpse of a girl that could be her - what if she's changed her hair? What if it's red or blonde or black? Short or long? A day like today, she might wear a hood or a cap. He strides into the diner and glances round briefly before taking a stool at the bar. He feels huge and cumbersome, but there are a few other men that aren't too much smaller than him - several far rounder than him - so he doesn't feel too out of place.

The waitress behind the counter looks a few years older than Sansa - no, Alayne - would be now. Her name-tag reads 'Mya.'

He orders a coffee and waits until she's set the mug down before asking, "I'm looking for someone. Her name's Alayne Stone."

'Mya' studies him hard before snorting. "Can't say you're what I expected."

Sandor blinks.

"Alayne is at the vet right now. Right across the street," the Mya girl tells him, still giving him a hard look. "You better be sticking around this time," she mutters before taking the mug of coffee and walking off to see another customer.

Swallowing and wondering what the hell his little bird has been telling people, Sandor walks back out of the dinner - and freezes.

It's her. Instantly he knows it's her. Chestnut brown hair that reaches past her shoulders and blue eyes staring across at him. Tall and slender and pale, it's her. Despite the slightly fuller curves and the touch of age to her features, it's her.

With an obviously pregnant dog and a small child clutching her hand.

Sandor feels that tightness in his chest and his gut constrict, almost suffocating him. For a brief, painful instant he thinks that she's married. That she's started a family. That she found someone good for her, someone good, and realized that was what she needed.

But then she's stepping towards him, dog following and child skipping along beside, and it hits him how old the child could be.

They weren't careful that first time.

He has no fucking clue what to do - so he just takes a step towards her, and then another, until she's only a few feet away. He looks at the dog - an Alaskan Malamute he's fairly certain - and then the child - a girl with grey eyes and auburn hair. He then stares at her, his little bird with tears in her eyes and that shy, sweet smile - only he thinks it isn't shy anymore, but hopeful.

"Alayne." He doesn't know what else to say.

She swallows and then laughs, maybe to keep from crying, he isn't sure. "Michael," she whispers after a moment, the fake name he gave her five years ago when she insisted she needed a name for him because she insisted she needed him in Alayne's life somehow.

"Momma?" the little girl questions very softly, her grey eyes darting back and forth.

The dog at Sansa's side is sniffing his hand.

His little bird swallows and then crouches over and picks the child up. Her face is full of worry and hope when she looks at him again. "Michael, this is Lilyanna. My daughter. Lily, this is Michael. He's...he's a friend."

Sandor stares at the little girl with a round face and her mother's cute, little noise, his grey eyes staring from the child's face.

The girl beams at him. "You're the biggest man I ever saw!" she whispers, waving small fingers at him.

He doesn't know what to do. He sees his little bird's face, watching him with fear in her eyes when he doesn't react, doesn't speak, doesn't even mind the dog sniffing at him insistently. He looks at Sansa, at the girl - Lilyanna, such a Sansa name - and thinks he should leave. Because he'll ruin this. He'll destroy the happiness she's found, he'll destroy this little child, he'll hold her and soak her in blood.

But he swore, and his little bird is about to cry.

"Likely the biggest you'll ever see for a while, too," he says. He smiles at the child, hoping that the burnt side of his face doesn't twist too badly, doesn't frighten the small girl, but she just continues to grin.

Sansa bites down on her lip and blinks; he can tell she's trying not to cry, sees the way her body visibly slumps in relief. She then remembers the dog that's sniffing all over him, inspecting him. "Lady!" she says sternly.

The dog whines and sits obediently at Sansa's side.

Lilyanna - Lily, her mother called her - giggles. "She just likes him, Momma."

Sandor smirks at that. "I'm pretty good with dogs."

Sansa smiles back, laughing a little. She sets her - his, their - daughter down. "Lily, I want you to wait in the car while I talk with my friend, okay?"

The child pouts - he swears he sees a bit of the other Stark girl in his daughter for a moment - but nods. "Okay, Momma." She does not protest when Sansa guides her to the car and gets her in the back, 'Lady' carefully climbing in as well.

He swallows at the sight of the child and the dog in the car, the little girl watching him while Sansa walks back over. There's a pecular feeling in his chest; not unlike the tightness but different. Something foreign and unfamiliar, something that scares him when he watches Sansa smiles at the little girl and the dog in her car.

Family.

It surprises and even overwhelms him how natural it all looks for her.

Sandor meets his little bird's eyes and finally gives in to the urge to brush his fingers through her hair. "Lilyanna?"

His little bird blushes and shrugs. "I always liked lilies. And it's a way to remember my family, even if I never knew her."

"Did you find the extra cash in my jacket?" He'd given her several thousand to get started, cash he'd set aside from old jobs. He'd stuffed another five hundred in the inside pocket of the jacket he'd given her.

"Yeah. Thank you. I...I'm not sure I could have gotten by without...everything you gave me," she whispers. Abruptly, she surges forward, her arms encircling him, and presses her face into his chest.

Sandor inhales deeply and wraps his arms around her like he's wanted to since seeing her from across the street. He buries his face in her hair and breathes her in. He's shuddering, he knows, but he doesn't fucking care if he's obvious.

Five fucking years.

"You still want me, little bird? I warn you, I haven't grown any nicer these past few years, and I don't know the first thing about taking care of a child. Though I am good with dogs."

She laughs - loud and light - and pulls back enough to kiss him full on the mouth. "I want you," she tells him. "I've missed you."

Not the three words she said before they parted, and that sticks in his gut. Has his little bird grown wiser? Learned the gravity of her words, that some things can be said and fully believed in and not at all true? She cups his face, and doesn't add anymore - and he's scared. Scared that maybe she isn't saying them because she thinks he'll scoff at her again. Or that she doesn't believe them anymore.

But he smiles and kisses her forehead. "I missed you too, little bird." He sees their child - Lilyanna, his daughter - watching them with wide eyes while Lady barks. "And what do we tell her?"

Sansa pulls away and turns back to see their daughter and then blushes, burying her face against his chest again. "I always meant to tell her, but I wasn't sure how."

"Well, I think now we owe her an explanation."

"She'll love you," Sansa tells him. Her head lifts up again, and she cups his face. "I love you."

Like a fool, like a fucking, bloody fool, Sandor grins and kisses his little bird hard, cradling her head in his hands before blurting the words out. "Love you too, pretty bird." He feels her grin against his mouth and kiss him again - and he knows that this is the moment she convinced herself she'd get five years ago, when she thought of life as a movie.

He'll find work. Sleep in her bed, and watch their daughter and play with their dog, and try to give her the life she deserves. He'll be a father, and try not to fuck that up - because his daughter is beautiful and deserves the life that he never got, the one that Sansa lost.

And if his little bird asks, he'll get her a ring, and they'll put fake names on a marriage certificate.

Because she's Sansa Stark, and he really does love her.


She watches him let their little girl sit on his lap, and ask him if this means he'll be staying over tonight, and if he'll read her a story. She watches him scratch Lady's ears, and sneak her bits of meat during dinner - while Lily does the same and giggles at him. She watches as he promises Lily he won't disappear in the morning, and that Momma wasn't lying when she said that once Daddy came, he'd never leave again.

Alayne Stone watches the man who got her out of a bad home life, and sent her to a new beginning in Alaska awkwardly tuck his insistent daughter into bed, and then leads him to her bedroom that will never feel oppressively lonely again, she knows.

Sansa Stark got her movie. Now, Alayne Stone only wants her family to always be happy; together.