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Sansa plays the word association game while watching Sandor sleep. Caution for needless amounts of fluff, inner-monologueing, and Sansa objectifying Sandor's hot bod.
His name was one that was never far from her tongue, these days. Of all the men sworn to her service, none were more reliable (or indeed present) as Sandor Clegane was. Her shadow, her sword, her sole companion most days. Months had passed since she had grown accustomed to his steady gait at her side, only slightly behind her and only ever so slightly limping. She had told him a thousand times (and would a thousand more, she'd no doubt) that he ought to stand next to her, at her side as her equal, but he wouldn't hear it.
A good dog knows his place, my Lady.
She had heard the growl enough times that it had lost its terrifying edge in her ears anymore, though the tingle down her spine rang true every time. Impatience won out most days when he said such a thing, and the tongue-lashing he'd receive was one truly worthy of a dog, if that's what he wanted to be.
A hound. No, not a hound. The Hound. The fearsome brother of the Mountain that Rides. A more evil man, Sansa never knew. The Mountain was aptly named, and feared by all—including his younger brother. Though the Mountain had died some time ago, fear of his ghost was still strong enough that many of Sansa's people looked at the Hound, whose strength and size were nearly equally matched, with wary eyes, and backed away from him as though he were as likely to split a man's skull as his brother had been.
Sansa must have told the people of Winterfell countless times that the Hound was dead. Sandor Clegane was the man who stood before them, not some beast, half-mad with anger and drink. A beast, Sansa was forced to admit, who had gained quite a reputation at a very young age.
He was laying stretched out on their bed, limbs sprawled about like a doll's (she wondered wryly what he'd have to say about the comparison) and his mouth half-open with the effort of his snoring. With each inhale, his belly rose and with each exhale, it fell. A wandering hand of Sansa's reached out and touched the dark curls over his abdomen, stroking them with care. Beneath her touch he jerked and quivered, and then laid quite still.
He grunted once, then resumed his snorting.
You are a fighter, aren't you? thought Sansa. His entire body was like a canvas for a sword, bearing the marks of blades and bows like Sansa wore her frills and ribbons. She traced the white indentation above his navel where, Sandor had explained to her, a woman had tried to stab him when he'd killed her son before her eyes. The boy had stolen from the royal carriage, and he'd paid the price dearly. Sansa put her palm over the small nick in his flesh and covered it for a moment, wondering to herself whether she meant to hide it or caress it. In the end she simply let her hand fall, turning her gaze studiously to his hands.
They were rough and weathered, full of callouses and blisters from whichever weapon he'd been holding last. A sword, most likely, though it could have as easily been a lance, a spear, a mace, even a shield. He wasn't shy of changing weapons, she knew, though his sword was never far from him if he had a say about it.
Sansa had asked once why he felt the need for it. His answer had puzzled her then, and it did still. "You would miss your arm if it weren't attached to your elbow, wouldn't you? Aye, that's how I need my sword, little bird." Another limb? That was how he compared his need for steel?
Perhaps it made sense. Sandor was a fighter, a true warrior. She had seen him ride into battle, fierce and wild, and she had seen him coming home, bloodied and bruised, but not—thank the old gods and the new—beaten. Some men, some who had ridden out alongside Sandor, had come home with a new nickname for him. The Warrior. That was all they called him, and it was a suitable name. Everyone knew who they were talking about when they said that, though most still called him the Hound or—gods forbid—Lannister dog.
No. Sansa shook her head from those thoughts quite quickly. No, she wouldn't think of them while she was in his bed. Sitting on the end of the bed, Sansa was perched cross-legged and head tilted as she stared at him freely. He hated when she tried to do this when he was awake. Scowling, he'd snap and snarl until she either gave up or met his anger head-on with her own.
Staring at him now, all Sansa could see was skin and bones. Muscles too, for he wasn't starved like some of the other men, but he had a quality to him while he slept that vanished in the light of day.
Vulnerable. Gods, he looked so vulnerable laying there in bed. She could slit his throat and rob him of his soul and he'd be none the wiser until it was too late. In the cover of dusk, his face looked relaxed and his body eased like a great weight had been taken off his chest. In the cover of darkness, he nearly looked dead.
The thought sent Sansa's hands shooting out, grappling for his hand, his wrist, feeling for the strong and steady pulse of his heart pumping, faithfully. Sandor had had plenty of night terrors in bed with her, after they had fallen asleep and dozed off beside one another, and as such Sansa knew a great deal of what scared him. Most were memories of near-death experiences, although some simply contained the Mountain's face, some the ghostly broken body of a grey-eyed girl he could scarcely remember.
But most nights he dreamt of fire.
The worst, she recalled with a pinch of pain, was when he woke, and felt trapped in a face-full of her bright red hair. How many times had she sworn to shave her head, only for Sandor to yell at her for being foolish? How many times had she cried for being the cause of his fear when he woke, and not his comfort?
But you are my comfort, you daft little bird, she could hear him scolding her. You and your fire and ice. I am not scared of being burned by you, my brave little bird.
Sansa leaned over him, careful not to wake him (for a skillful warrior, he slept like a log) and gently touched the hard ridges of his melted face. The wounds had never closed over completely, though they had relaxed somewhat with Sansa and the new Maester working over him. Not, she had told Sandor, because she wanted him changed. Only because she could see that they pained him still, and if there was a way for her to help ease it, then she would most certainly do so. The pus had gone away, so too did the charred bits of flesh. It looked older now, not as fresh as it had looked for the past twenty years. It was still hideous and still sore and Sandor still kept his hair long enough to cover it a fair bit, but he could at least relax his face now.
Once he had felt comfortable enough to talk about it with Sansa. "I don't care much how ugly they make me. Ugliness and beauty don't have use in this world to anyone. Only…" he broke off with a scowl. "They make me look weak. The men…they think I was weak enough…"
"No!" Sansa had protested ardently, and not without reason. "Sandor, my love, these scars do not show how weak you are—they are your strength. You survived, my love, and none will think less of you for that."
He was strong. Strong and scarred, her poor man. Sansa wanted to weep some nights at the sheer pain she felt for him, not pity but misery on his behalf. Jealousy for the life his brother stole from him. Anger at the Lannisters for exploiting him. Hurt at the world for shunning him.
She laid down lengthwise beside him, and tucked her hand in his.
"You are so brave," she murmured. He stirred, but didn't wake. His hand gave an odd twitch.
He had survived the unthinkable, the unbearable, and he had lived to tell the tale. Some days Sansa could forget that he was merely a man, made of flesh and blood and bones and a beating heart and a ravenous appetite. Some nights she could forget that he was fallible.
Some days she forgot he was only a man. A mere mortal man.
"I can hear you thinking."
She blinked, startled to hear his voice in the room when his lips had hardly moved at all. "Oh?" Her lips curved unwillingly into a smile. "And what am I thinking, then?"
He turned his head to face her and cracked one eye open, frowning at her in the darkness. He smelt of sweat and dirt, from the training yard and—she made a face—not taking a bath afterwards. Sandor grinned as though he knew what she was thinking and rolled onto his side, draping an arm carelessly over her.
"Dirty lecherous thoughts," he rumbled, pulling her into his chest until her lips touched skin. "Did you touch my face?"
His tone held only curiosity, no anger or threat. Sansa blushed all the same. "I didn't mean to wake you. I'm sorry."
"Forget it," he mumbled, dropping a kiss into her hair. "Nice way to be woken up."
"I might be able to think of nicer…" Her lewd suggestion wasn't wasted; at once he rolled atop of her, lazy and lumbering like a large cat, but warm and caring all the same.
By the gods, she swore to herself, smiling through a kiss. He might be a mortal man, but I'll be damned if he isn't a healthy one too.
Hound, beast, warrior, survivor—they were all part of the man. Sansa sighed happily as he flicked his tongue out over her neck, tasting the soft skin there and moaning gutturally in her ear.
Lover, she added onto the list, dragging her nails down his spine. And an excellent lover he was. His knee pressed down between her thighs until she admitted entrance to it, allowing the limb to rub between the sensitive flesh of her slit.
"Ohh," she whispered, raising a hand to stroke his hair, cradling him close to her. "Yes, this is…much nicer."
Husband. She fought back the tears of joy as he wiggled his fingers down in between their rutting hips. He found his target, and varied the pressure of his middle finger over the button of nerves.
"There, now," he was rasping to her like she was his most prized horse. "Like that, little bird? Mmm? Like that? Oh gods you do."
"Mine," Sansa whispered into his chest, refusing to sniffle lest she let Sandor know what an awful sap she was being. Still, she repeated the word fiercely, fingers nearly bruising in their grip on his back. "Mine."
"Of course I am," Sandor said with a grunt, rolling back and forth with swift snaps of his hips. "Who else's would I be?"
Mine. Sansa repeated the word until she sang. Whoever you are, you are mine.
Mine, mine, mine.
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Miss Mallora