There were no windows in the women's cottages on the Quiet Isle, but the young woman had opened the door slightly to let in a bit of the late afternoon light. A chill draft crept in but she relished the coolness on her warm skin. She had pulled on a light linen shift when she rose from the bed, but it was hardly needed. The cottages were built well away from the brothers' cloisters. Her modesty was protected—whatever was left of it, she thought. Her blue eyes took in the bay, the sun hanging low and casting golden and pink light over the mud flats.
On a small table fashioned of driftwood, stood a little pitcher and basin. She filled the basin and after splashing water over her face, ran damp fingers through her long chestnut hair. Dabbing at her cheeks with a rough piece of toweling found nearby, she looked down into the bowl. The light from the door caught the water and she looked curiously into the mirrored surface.
Alayne Stone searched her reflection in the still water. Sansa Stark looked back.
"Tell me," she had whispered, clutching his massive shoulders with her fingers, raking his skin. Bright noon light shone through the cracks in the walls and the door. No windows, but there was light everywhere.
His face was buried in the warm, sweet place where her neck and shoulder met. He lifted his burned lips to her ear, "Sansa," he breathed. "Sansa, Sansa…San.."
She turned her face to search for his mouth with her own. The fierce kiss confirmed his panted declaration: Sansa, Sansa, Sansa…yes. Alayne did not know this cruel mouth, only Sansa had this memory. In the strong arms of Brother Gravedigger she was Sansa. No, the Brother's robes were on the floor. The Hound's helmet long lost. There was only Sandor. Only Sandor and Sansa. Sansa…
Sansa smiled at her watery reflection. He stirred in the bed behind her. She turned to see his eyes open, but his head still pillowed on his arm. He stretched out one hand, his fingertips lightly touching a faint pink stain on the coarse linen sheet. His fingers, their touch so gentle even now, traced the mark that told a truth he had not been expecting, even after…well, after other evidence should have told him. Perhaps he had been afraid to see the truth. There was an incongruous thought to have about the man who swore he never lied, who sniffed out lies as easily as Lady had sniffed out danger.
"Did I hurt you?" His voice grated harshly in the quiet of the room, but he was still except for the delicate touch on the sheet. He did not look at her. She wondered if he were shy. His eyes were fixed upon the linen.
"No…not so much," she paused considering. "Not so much as I thought you would...or it would. Hurt, I mean." She felt a flush stain her cheeks as she spoke…yes, that is something Sansa would do. Sansa blushed often. Bastard brave Alayne had hidden her embarrassment, her shame. Sansa's shame.
"You were…" Sansa searched for the word, hoping not to displease him, embarrassed to describe all that he was in that moment, but knowing better than to say anything but the truth. "You were very…"
"Gallant?" He brought his eyes to hers for the first time since he woke from his light doze, a sneer playing about his ruined mouth as he dared her to lie. He seemed to have difficulty keep the expression in place. The raw emotion in the eyes quite ruined the mockery of his mouth. He was angry with himself, she realized, for being the one to hurt her. A rush of affection surged through her at that sudden understanding.
"You were merciful and quick," she tried to explain. Sansa noted the stricken surprise on his face before continuing in the same breath, "and gentle and loving."
The maiden was slain, as efficient and kind as any kill he had ever made. She was at the little bed in a matter of two steps, the little bed that seemed even smaller under his bulk. How had it held the two of them? She sat down next to him. He still had not moved but to close his eyes again, though the corner of his mouth twitched. She watched him a moment as he brooded.
Sansa laid her hand on his bare shoulder and felt his sigh. "Sandor," she spoke his name softly.
His mask of indifference cracked and fell at her touch and he grabbed the hand at his shoulder and brought it to his lips. Sansa thrilled to the chivalry of his soft kiss at her knuckles even as she took in the unabashed masculinity of his bare body; the blanket carelessly swathed at his waist did little to hide him. She knew him. She knew him as well as she knew herself. Which wasn't very well at all at the moment, but she would know him and herself, again.
He tugged at her hand and she found herself again embraced by him, back to chest, her bottom snugged against his hips. She took his hand, and lacing her fingers with his, held it to her bosom.
"I don't know what comes next, Little-…. Sansa," his whispered confession stirred a wisp of hair at her ear. She leaned into him, not knowing herself. Did he mean now? She supposed she would go to dinner and he to the Elder Brother to beg forgiveness for abandoning his afternoon's duties. Did he mean after they left the Quiet Isle? Because they surely would leave…together.
No one would ever hurt you again or I'd kill them. He had made a vow to her that night so long ago. Here in this room, in the bright light of noon, she had made one to him.
I am Sansa. I am yours. You are mine.
Sansa heard the chiming of a bell, calling the brothers to evening prayer. Sandor shifted behind her, preparing to rise. She held his hand tight, needing him to stay just a moment longer. He did not resist and pressed another kiss to her temple. Sansa listened to the bells. She felt the rise and fall of his breathing behind her, matching her own. There was Sansa and Sandor and this room. And that was all. That was fine. More than fine.
"We pray," she decided. "That's what Sansa and Sandor do next. It is time for vespers." Florian and Jonquil had time to love. Naerys and Aemon had time to adore one another. Lying in Sandor's arms, she ran through all the stories she had ever known. Every sestina and serena, every lyric she'd ever heard or sung. In every one there was a time for loving and knowing one another. She shifted so she could look into his eyes.
"We pray and we love and we rest. Nothing else will matter for a while if we manage that. Even after, nothing else will matter." She believed she spoke the truth. His gray eyes, once so full of rage, seemed to shine with a desperate hope at her words.
She allowed him to roll her to her back and as he hovered over her, his gentle hands running through her hair, down the length of her thigh, she reflected that every love story she knew had an interlude, a period of respite for the lovers before the end. Perhaps their own ending would even be a happy one.