Sansa wondered what became of Sandor Clegane nearly every day: what he was doing, if he had finally found the peace that she prayed he would, and most of all, if he ever thought of her, too. Staring out at the storm clouds gathering over the Blackwater Rush, she gently fingered the small piece of his white velvet cloak that he left her which Sansa had carefully cleaned, cut and embroidered with a dog and a bird at play. Replaying her one night of pleasure with the man was all the joy that life afforded her now, and If not for the babe inside of her, Sansa believed she would have taken her own life long ago.
One day I'll have a song from you, whether you will it or not. In the darkness of the bedchamber she shared with Tyrion, Sansa could still hear the words the Hound rasped low against the shell of her ear, his hot breath warming her as he spoke. His battle hardened, muscular frame pressed against her body as he gripped her arms as he spoke. The feel of him sent a sharp shiver of excitement coursing through her then. Her response shocked Sansa to core, and, despite the fact that he was drunk and unsteady, she was powerfully aroused by his close proximity.
The Hound recognized her reaction to him, too, for first his deep grey eyes grew widened, then sparkled with a wicked gleam as his gaze fell to her chest. Overwhelmed as she was by the very nearness of the fierce, imposing Hound, her breasts heaved wantonly and strained against the confines of her too-small gown as Sansa struggled to control her breathing.
Chuckling, the Hound loosened his hold on her. "Gods, too much wine. Do you like wine, little bird? True wine? A flagon of sour red, dark as blood, all a man needs. Or a woman."
Mustering her courage, Sansa remained quiet, hoping to let him believe she was too naïve to understand his true meaning behind his words. But nothing could be further from the truth; despite her naiveté, his bawdy innuendo was not lost on her, and so she offered the Hound the song Florian and Jonquil to let him know she understood him.
But in a bitter twist of irony, the Hound who did not grasp her meaning. "Pretty little innocent bird."
When they first met, it was true that Sansa had been wholly naive, but Joffrey took care of that quickly enough the day he placed her father's head on a spike. Under different circumstances, she might have missed the Hound's meaning entirely if he had not already mentioned that he thought her pretty not once and not three times more.
Sansa might have even remained ignorant of the Hound's ever growing desire for her if not for his remarks about her developing body. Sandor was drunk when he made such comments, but it did not matter: her lord father had always said there was a measure of truth in the foolish words of a drunk, and in Sandor Clegane, Sansa found that such proved to be true.
While his interest in her had piqued her curiosity, at the time nothing could be done about it, for Sansa belonged to the king. Before long, though, Joffrey had grown tired of her and very likely would throw her over for another and then use the opportunity to take her head, as he had her father.
At first the thought frightened her, but as time passed, Sansa slowly changed her focus. Instead of worrying on how to please Joffrey to ensure her survival, Sansa decided that regardless of the consequences, she would live for herself. She would take any and all opportunities to find pleasure in the short amount of her life she had left, and so lived as though each day were her last.
However, Sansa was not reckless when she began watching the Hound as he watched her, and the realization that he held more than just a desire to use her body, more than a mere passing sentiment for her astounded and thrilled the young woman in equal measure.
Unfortunately they had very little time alone, but by the time the Hound came to her on the night of the Blackwater battle, Sansa both knew full well what he truly wanted from her, and she clearly understood what she wanted from him as well.
"I'll have that song. Florian and Jonquil, you said." Sandor growled at her while holding cold steel to her throat. There was no real threat in the man, she quickly discovered, for one look at him told Sansa that he was as broken as she. Laying beneath him, Sansa boldly stared into his deep gray eyes and pushed the hand that held the knife away, her fear melting as quickly as a dusting of summer snow on Winterfell's roof.
The Hound noticed the change in her at once. "Sing, little bird. Sing for your little life." He prompted her roughly, though he dropped his knife to the floor and his eyes betrayed his insecurity.
Under any other conditions it would have made her laugh, the idea that the Hound would be so easily dissuaded by a young defenseless woman, but there was nothing funny about the situation they both were in. Taking the Hound's face in her hands, Sansa had sang the Mother's hymn to him instead, hoping it would soothe him, and soothe him it did.
"Little bird," the Hound had rasped as she cupped the burned side of his cheek, his tears wetting her fingers. All of the anger had left him in that moment, and so tentatively Sansa leaned forward and placed a tender kiss on his mouth.
"What in bloody hells are you doing?" Sandor jerked back, the fierceness in his eyes burning hotly once more. When she merely smiled at him, he added quietly: "What do you want from me, girl?"
Daringly Sansa reached out to him. "I want to give you the song that you wanted." Turning toward the basin, Sansa wrung out a rag and began gently bathing his brow. Surprisingly, he allowed her ministrations, his breathing slowing with each pass of the cloth.
"Florian and Jonquil?" Sandor spat out when she finished, all the vitriol in his tone gone. "A fool and his cunt; spare me."
"Perhaps another kind of song, then." Coyly Sansa looked up at him, and felt her face flush as she waited for him to speak. "You tried to help me here…you were the only one." She paused, unable to decide how to word her request. "I won't last much longer here, I think we both know that. Ser Ilyn will have my head this very night if things take a turn for the worse. But before I quit this world, I want to feel…what other women feel. I want to give my maidenhead to you of my own free will."
Clearly stunned, the Hound blinked several times, trying to clear his wine addled head. Would he refuse her? To help him decide, Sansa walked over to the bed, laid down and raised her skirts. "Come into me, Sandor." It was the first time she used his first name.
Sandor gaped at her for a moment and then hurriedly stripped out of his armor. "You're certain?" He asked as though he thought he heard her wrong. "I'm an ugly bastard for true; sure you don't want to hold out for your pretty knight in shining armor?"
"Yes, I am certain I want to be with you." Sansa bounced her feet impatiently on the mattress. "And you are not ugly, even with your scars." Daringly she glanced at him.
"You've never been with a man, little bird? No one outraged you?" Sandor grunted into her ear as climbed over her. "Tell me truly." His body trembled above her as he took her into his arms.
Sansa shook her head. "No. I've never been with a man and I have not been raped." She felt so awkward, and was growing more nervous by the second. "Do you doubt me, my lord?"
For once, the Hound didn't scold her for calling him by that particular missive. "I knew as much already, lass, I just needed to hear you say it." He rasped almost sadly. Cautiously Sandor then reached out and stroked her thumb across her bottom lip while eying her with the same look of lust she had so often seen shining in his eyes as he stared at her in court. "You're certain you want this with me and not one of your pretty little lords?"
To answer him, Sansa drew Sandor's head down and kissed him slowly, languidly, as though they were lovers who had the entire night ahead of them. "I want this with you, Sandor Clegane, you and no other."
With a gentleness that surprised her, Sandor began to kiss her while slowly running his calloused fingertips over the soft flesh of her thighs. When she stiffened a bit, Sandor stilled his hand, allowing her to get used to the feel of him there before pushing her smallclothes aside. Slowly, Sandor then traced his hand over her mound and then dipped his index finger into her slit, causing Sansa to cry out into his mouth as he kissed her. After a while, it started to feel good, and she wriggled impatiently beneath him when suddenly he thrust his finger in deeper still, breaking her maiden's veil.
"It had to be done, lass, or else I'll hurt you," Sandor panted out, the man already so aroused he began trembling. "Hmm, you're wet for me. It goes easier when a woman wants it as much as the man. Try to relax now." Patiently he began moving his hand and the initial pain was soon replaced by an unusual feeling of fullness.
Nodding, Sansa drew a deep breath as Sandor reached his other hand around her and began massaging tight circles over her center of pleasure. Leaning over her, he then nuzzled her breast and then began suckling her nipple as he pleasured her. Before long, Sansa was writhing and moaning beneath him, gasping and calling out his name until she cried out her completion.
"Good girl," Sandor grinned approvingly at her when she came to her senses. Blushing, she lowered her eyes, and soon felt his hand tipping her face back up to his own. "By gods I could spend a lifetime learning every inch of your sweet body, Sansa." He clenched his jaw tightly as though he wanted to say more but the man held his tongue.
Satiated, Sansa closed her eyes and leaned back among the pillows. Her haze pleasure was soon replaced by apprehension as she felt him move over her and place his manhood at her entrance. When Sandor entered her, there was another sharp pain, and Sansa bit her lip to keep from crying. Sandor felt her tense in his arms, so he ceased his movements and gently wiped away her tears with the rough pad of his finger. Afterward Sandor kissed each of her cheeks. "It won't hurt anymore, lass," he grunted as he began to move once more.
The act itself was over rather quickly but Sansa enjoyed being so close to him. Sandor seemed completely lost in his own pleasure, although Sansa did experience a second release at the same time he emptied his seed inside of her. "I ought not to have done that," Sandor chuckled somewhat self-consciously as he climbed off of her. "Might get you with child. You're so bloody delicious I couldn't help myself."
"I-I would love to carry your child." Sansa blurted out stupidly, for both of them knew it would mean certain death if she were to become pregnant while still betrothed to the king. It saddened her to realize that Sandor, having deserted the king, was already as good as dead. "That sounded foolish, I know. Let me say it this way: in another life, I would do so gladly."
Frowning, Sandor stopped dressing, gripped her jaw and stared into her eyes questioningly, all of his previous anger draining from his face, leaving him pale and drawn. "Fuck me sideways, I believe you would at that." Sandor muttered low, the irritation in his eyes fading as suddenly as it came. Gently he swept her up into his arms and kissed her with a tenderness that took her breath away. "But I have to leave, lass, else Joff wi'll have my ugly head."
He trembled even harder as he held her until suddenly Sandor asked her to go with him. But Sansa refused: he was drunk when he made the offer and most likely would have regretted it the moment he sobered up. And this was one area in which she could protect him, for if word got around that the Hound had made off with the King's betrothed, he would be hunted like an animal.
When Sansa whispered her answer to him, Sandor abruptly tore himself away from her, yanked off his Kingsguard cloak and threw it on the floor and left the room without so much as a glance behind him. Little did Sandor Clegane know that his words were actually oracular in the sense that Sansa did, in fact, become pregnant. Ilyn did not come for her, and Sansa survived that night. Now she wallowed in her own purgatory of sorts, married to the Imp and still living in the Red Keep all the while carrying Sandor Clegane's child.
Startled by the sound of the solar door opening, Sansa turned away from the picture window to see her lord husband staring intently at her. "Good evening, devoted wife," Tyrion jested in his usual manner, though concern was written plainly on his face. "You seem even more distracted than usual, my lady. Are you quite well?"
How can you even ask me such a thing? Your family holds me as a prisoner and forced me into a marriage I never wanted to begin with, inwardly Sansa screamed, as she did any time a Lannister spoke to her. She was angry with him for interrupting her thoughts, angry with him for even speaking to her, but outwardly Sansa showed no emotion as she discreetly hid the material and folded her hands and turned toward him politely. "I am quite well, my lord."
Tyrion looked startled but he grinned at her anyway, his eyes reflecting no good humor, only genuine unease. It was lost on her however; it had only a fortnight since they had heard of the Red Wedding. The Lannisters killed her father, mother and brother, and with them, any kind feelings she may have had towards Tyrion. His concern was nothing to Sansa.
Glancing at the clock on the mantle, Sansa discovered that she was still sitting in the exact same spot and staring out at the Blackwater Rush just as she had been when her lord husband left her four hours prior. She had spent the entire afternoon daydreaming of Sandor Clegane, and of the last time she had seen him. "I-I was thinking of my family, and the time slipped away from me."
Tyrion watched her curiously while waiting for her to speak further.
Schooling her expression into one of passive pleasantry, Sansa offered him a demure smile. "Forgive me, my lord. Physically I am fine, thank you. Grief has overtaken my sleeping and waking hours alike, and I must admit I am no longer interested in even the most basic of daily activities." Absently Sansa rubbed her belly as she spoke. "I will try to do better tomorrow."
"I hope you will, Sansa, if not for my sake, then for the sake of your unborn child." He handed her a glass of milk and a bowl of iced raspberries. "Here, you must take nourishment. Podrick," he motioned for his squire, "bring the lady a roast leg of lamb from the kitchens."
"Thank you, my lord." Sansa assented, accepting her husband's offerings with another smile.
They had not lain together as husband and wife, so Tyrion was well aware that the child is not his; in fact, he recognized the symptoms of Sansa's pregnancy before she did, not long after they first wed. But to his credit, the man himself did not reveal her secret and had been attentive in his own way. To Sansa's surprise, he did not even inquire about the identity of the father; his only concern had been if she had gone with the father willingly or if the child belonged to some knight whose bloodlust after the battle had gotten the better of him.
It troubled him so much that Sansa finally admitted she was not raped, that she had gone with the man willingly and that he was no knight. She regretted her last choice of words as soon as they came out of her mouth that day. But if the one clue to the father's identity she let slip led Tyrion to determine the man in question was Sandor Clegane, he never let on.
"Joffrey weds on the morrow, my lady. He has asked us to break his fast with him." Tyrion studied her closely, as though he were trying to read her thoughts. "Do you think you will feel up to attending? If not-"
Sansa's distant demeanor was unwavering, and her eyes were as far away from him as the north in that moment. "Yes," Sansa finally answered decidedly, surprising the man. "It will be my pleasure to attend."