Prompt 3: Sansa and Sandor struggle to make a living on a desolate island near the Fingers, and a storm is coming…

He finally found her standing atop the cliffs watching the storm roll in, sky an ugly yellow, the wind whipping clothes and hair hard enough to sting. She had not spoken to him since the morning. Since the argument.

"Sansa!" he shouted, voice barely audible over the howling of the wind, the booming of the sea.

Gods, he had not known she had such passion in her. He did not even remember what they had argued on, only that he had been hard and dazed by lust by the time she had shaken his hand from her arm with a look of fury and stormed out of their tiny stone house above the harbour. Her cold veneer of courtesy shattered and discarded on the floor.

"Sansa!" he tried again, salt spray lashing his skin, but it was no good, she could not hear him.

Funny how his little bird, who was still at times scared of the shadows, could stand up there in the gale and not feel afraid. And yet, she somehow did not look dwarfed by the storm, but part of it. As though the years of captivity, the weeks of running, the lifetime of fear had not diminished her as he had feared that first day he had snatched her out from Littlefinger's clutches, but strengthened her.

Looking at her now, he saw for the first time a woman who had steel in her spine and fire in her heart, water at her feet and wind in her hair, the elements at her command.

And him, too. Him most of all.

Later, as the storm raged against the house he had taken to hide her away in, the shutters groaning and banging, fire roaring, Sansa Stark pushed him down on the sheepskin and fucked him with all the fury, all the passion of the elements.

He had thought he was waiting for her to feel stronger, safer. He had thought he was holding himself back from claiming her. It turned out he had been waiting all along for her to claim him.