Author's Note:Hello, SanSan fandom. So, this is my first ASoIaF fanfiction. Any and All criticism that you have to offer, whether it be good or bad, is welcome. In order for me to grow and improve as a writer hinges on it, and I do not mind if you criticize me on things that you do not like. My tumblr account is mysuiciderecovery if it is easier for you to give feedback there.
Also, Sansa's age (though she has not had her period in the start) is not explicitly stated, so feel free to imagine whichever age feels most comfortable for you. For Sandor, I like to imagine him looking like Rory McCann because I actually think he's a really good looking dude, but again you can imagine him however you like.
As well, please view the tags and view at your own discretion. This first chapter is the only one I planned that needed any trigger warnings, so here on out it should be pretty smooth sailing. (I mean, as smooth as you can get with ASoIaF). If anyone has any suggestion for tags, feel free to let me know as I'm really bad at tagging things.
Anyways, I hope you enjoy reading, and let me know if you like or dislike something!
Chapter 1: The Wolf Awakens
Sansa Stark is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
The first time Sandor saw her was when he'd rode through the gates of Winterfell, when Robert Baratheon had gone to visit Ned Stark. Robert had decided to bring his whole court and family along, and Sandor was Joffrey's sworn shield. Truth be told, he hated the sadistic little shit. Before Joff was born, he'd been sworn to Cersei which hadn't been much better. He didn't know which had been worse, guarding the manipulative Lannister whore or the spoiled blond bastard.
Sansa had been a young girl when they'd arrived, and she was a beauty just as everyone had ever said. Her fiery red hair had been plaited in a northern style, and a fur cloak was draped around her shoulders to combat the northern chill. Her Tully blue eyes sparkled when she saw the blond prince. She'd no idea what kind of monster the brat truly was then.
That was maybe…a little over a year ago. Now, she grows more and more stunning each passing day.
The godswood is bathed in the amber rays of the morning as he strolls through. The grove is lush with many elm, alder, and black cottonwood trees, and the cobblestones beneath his feet are littered with roots and grass clambering to reclaim the grounds, poking out between the cracks, and reaching for the sunlight. As he approaches the great oak at the end of the pathway, he stops, taking in the sight before him.
Sansa, his little bird, is kneeling amongst the dragon's breath with her back turned to him, the red leaves of the oak falling around her. Her lilac silk dress clings to her form, accentuating her growing curves. Small pockets of daylight shine through the leaves, and all the red around makes her auburn hair glow with an ethereal radiance. He falters on the stones beneath him, the noise breaking through the serenity of the atmosphere. He feels guilty when she turns to him immediately, her eyes filled with unshed tears and fear. She looks at him for a moment as though he weren't real before letting out the smallest of sighs and turns away from him, a pang of hurt twisting in his gut.
"Still can't stand these scars, can you?" he scowls, though he is surprised that she's able to keep her gaze on him for so long, having been startled.
Don't kid yourself, dog, he thinks, She probably thought you were a monster.
"No- I mean, it is not what you think," she stutters, "I was only praying and my emotions took hold of me."
He is silent for a second before withdrawing a scruffy handkerchief from his mailed sleeve. "Dry your eyes, little bird, and calm yourself. If Joff hears of this, he'll make it worse for you." He stands at her side, offering her the cloth. She takes it from his outstretched hand.
"Thank you, ser."
"I'm not a ser, and stop your chirping."
"I'm sor- "she stops herself, "Very well. Have you come to pray as well?"
"I'm here to take you to Maester Pycelle," he tells her truthfully, "He's to check your maidenhead to make sure it's unbroken."
The Bread Riots happened only a week ago, and it still makes his blood boil. They'd all, Joffrey and his court, been gathered on the shore of the Blackwater Bay, seeing Princess Myrcella off to Dorne. They'd been riding the horses back to the Keep when the riot broke out. A woman pushed past two of the watchmen that had surrounded them, holding her lifeless baby out to the king and crying something fierce. Joffrey had moved to run her down, but the little bird stopped him, placing a hand on his wrist and leaning over. The sight was too intimate, and it made Sandor sick.
Can't you do something for her, my king? She'd pleaded.
Joffrey flicked a silver stag at the woman, the coin bouncing off the child's head and rolling out into the crowd. Then Cersei had to open her mouth. The woman shrieked when she heard the regent's voice, calling her a whore and a brother fucker. That was when the dung had splattered against Joff's head, the splash covering the skirts of Sansa's dress. Sandor had liked that dress on her.
Everything happened so fast then. Joffrey was screaming, calling for heads to roll. The crowd went into a raging fury, throwing rocks and more dung. The rest of the party, along with Stranger, galloped ahead towards the palace. He'd been left behind in the confusion, and he searched around for an extra horse. He noticed the horse that Sansa had been mounted on moments before, but she wasn't there anymore.
A rage like one he hadn't known for a while had possessed him in that instant. He desperately searched through the crowd for any sign of where she might be. A flash of red streaked in his peripheral, and he charged towards it, cutting down anyone and anything that got in his way. He'd found her in a stable being pinned down by four men, her skirts had been ripped and two of the men had her legs spread apart while a third man was preparing to take his pleasures from her.
His fury had reached its peak when he approached, gutting the first man who'd been on top of her, watching the life agonizingly drain from his soul. He'd slit the throats of the two that held her legs, and when the third had tried to attack him, he'd shoved his sword clean through the man's belly, twisting the blade as he died.
A sob brought him back to his senses once he'd killed them. He turned around, softening his expression as he gazed down at his little bird. She'd been huddled up in the corner, tears streaming down her face as she held her knees. He approached her slowly, doing all he could to show her that she was safe now. He knelt in front of her. He laid his sword on the ground and delicately caressed her cheek, resting his forehead against hers. The blood on his gauntlet left stains on her pretty porcelain skin, but she didn't shy away from his touch.
You're all right, little bird. You're safe now, he'd said through ragged breaths, stroking a thumb across her cheekbone.
I know.
He'd had to carry her over his shoulder all the way back to the keep. Her horse had either run off in fright or had been killed and eaten. When he'd been questioned later as to whether or not she still had her maidenhead, he'd told all of them that it was still intact even though he didn't really know.
It didn't matter what he said, though.
Her eyes widen as she gazes up at him. "You told them I wasn't violated."
"I did, but they want to check to make sure." Fresh tears spring to her eyes at his words. "Stop your crying, girl. You'll only make it worse for yourself."
"Must you be so cruel to me?" she questions, an accusatory tone overtaking her voice.
"I'm being honest, this is how it has to be," he growls.
She huffs and stands, shoving the handkerchief back in his hand. She walks ahead of him at a fast pace, and he falls into step behind her. Their journey to the rookery is made in silence for the most part, until the little bird breaks their quiet.
"I was thinking of my father while I was praying," she says, her voice soft, "I could feel him with me, and that's why I cried." He keeps his silence as they climb the stairs, deciding not to spoil her mood again, especially after confiding in him such an intimate detail. Why she'd resolved to do so, he can't be sure.
When they make it to the Grand Maester's chambers, Sansa knocks nervously on the hard surface of the door. When the door opens, Pycelle registers their presence with sleepy eyes.
"Ah, Lady Sansa, I've been expecting you," he greets as he strokes his beard.
"Good morning, Maester," Sansa says. Sandor rolls his eyes at her courtesy. "How has your morning treated you?"
"Well enough," he answers, his voice trembling, "I haven't been able to tend to all my duties in a timely manner, I'm afraid. I don't have all my equipment set up for you yet. Used to I'd have my obligations done before breaking my fast, but those times are long gone." He opens the door a little wider to allow her inside. "Please, my Lady, come inside and we can get this done."
"I'll escort the little bird back to her chambers when she's finished up here," Sandor says as Sansa steps forward.
"Actually, Clegane, I need you to come inside," Pycelle says, his words halting Sansa in her tracks.
Sansa locks eyes with Sandor, her features blanching before turning back to the Grand Maester. "Why does he need to come in?"
"Well, my Lady, we need to have a witness here to confirm your maidenhead is either taken or not, so that there's no confusion." He leaves the door open as he hobbles over to a table in the center of his chambers, a device half put together on top of it. "Please, come in and make yourselves comfortable. It'll only take a moment."
Sansa takes a seat in one of the chairs, as Sandor follows behind her. He closes the door, opting to stand as far away from her as he can get. The room is filled with an uncomfortable silence as Pycelle proceeds to screw stirrups onto the strange contraption. Sandor chances a glance at the little bird; her face is a mask of no feeling, staring blankly ahead as if she's imagining an older life she lived farther away.
"It's ready," Pycelle says, gathering a few tools and potions and laying them out on the table. "If you would, Lady Sansa, go behind the partition and remove your smallclothes. You can leave your dress on."
She stands not looking at either one of them as she disappears behind the partition. A couple minutes later she is back, her features still wearing the same expression if not a little flushed.
"Lift your skirts to your thighs and sit at the end of the table." She does as she's bid. Sandor turns his face away from her to give her some sense of modesty and dignity. "Now, shuffle backwards a bit so you can settle your feet into these stirrups right here." His hand tightens around the pommel of his sword as he listens to the sounds of her situating herself on the table. "You can lay back, my Lady. Just relax and this will be over soon."
After a few moments of awkward waiting, Pycelle calls for Sandor. "Clegane, come here a moment." Sandor feels bile threaten to travel up the back of his throat as he makes his way to the other side of the table. Sansa's face is so red, it matches her hair. "Do you see that thin piece of skin at her opening?" Sandor looks for just a second, to confirm that it's there without embarrassing Sansa more than she already is. He is a little relieved at seeing the intact maidenhead, knowing for sure that she hadn't been raped before he made it, but revolted at the little bird's privacy being invaded in such a manner. Sandor nods.
"Good. That's all that needs to be done. I will inform the Queen Regent on the status of your maidenhead, Lady Sansa. You may put your smallclothes on and leave," Pycelle says as he starts gathering up his equipment.
Sansa quickly pushes herself off the table, smoothing her skirts over her legs before withdrawing behind the partition once again. Their trip back to her chambers is filled with an uncomfortable silence.
…
Sansa is back in the godswood once again, the large oak tree looming above her in a comforting manner. How she got there, she cannot remember. For some reason, no matter how hard she thinks on it, she cannot recall how she came to be there or why she's there. She is kneeling on the grass, her hands folded in her lap. Dragon's breath surrounds her form, and the sun is almost blindingly bright as it shines through the leaves. She feels light and carefree, completely at ease with her surroundings.
A scraping on stone breaks her out of her musing, and she turns to find Sandor Clegane standing on the cobblestone pathway. He is staring at her as though she were a goddess, a look of awe and peace overtaking his features. She feels as though she is probably looking at him the same way, for this is the first time she has looked upon him and not seen hatred and anger darkening his eyes. His scars are still there, looking just as terrible as she's always thought them, but it was never his face she feared.
"Little bird," he says. His voice is soft with just a hint of his natural gravel scratching beneath the surface. Her heart catches in her throat with the way he says his nickname for her. "You promised me a song."
Suddenly, her mind is drawing a blank. "I…I don't remember any songs, ser."
He lets out a bitter laugh, his teeth peeking out to bite at his lip. Her eyes are drawn to the gesture. "I'm not a ser, little bird. Did you forget?" He starts walking slowly towards her.
She furrows her brows at him. "What should I call you then?" she asks, her voice trembling.
"Whatever you wish." He's still coming to her. "Sing me a song, little bird."
Almost as if he'd willed it, the song of Florian and Jonquil comes to mind. The song slips past her lips, it's melody dancing through the tranquil air:
Six maids in a pool, they're of noble blood.
One fool, but great, on a shore,
He'd seen that flower, a fool of love,
"She'll be in my garden," he'd swore.
Sandor barks out a laugh as she sings, interrupting her. "A fool and his cunt," he jests. He is right in front of her now, backing her into the bark of the oak.
She blushes at the use of his language. "Sandor, we are in a holy place."
His eyes darken at the use of his name. "Sandor, now, is it?"
"Do you want me to call you something else?" she asks in a timid voice.
His hands are at her waist now and he is pushing her against the tree, his weight pressing against her. "No, I will make you sing my name." He leans his head down and captures her lips in a rough kiss. Her hands automatically come up to rest on his cheeks, holding him in place. Her face and neck are tingling as he kisses her, and she sighs. He lifts her up against the tree, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. He breaks the kiss, and she whines from the separation. His face moves to her ear, the burnt side of his face caressing her skin. "Sing for me, little bird." He bites down on her neck while his hips jerk forward against her, an unfamiliar sensation of pleasure blossoming below her tummy.
A moan escapes from her throat.
Her eyes open as the first rays of morning peak through the curtains. Instead of the godswood, she is huddled beneath the covers of her bed, naked as her nameday. She feels a foreign wetness between her legs that she's never felt before and panic fills her. She jerks back the covers, examining her thighs and womansplace. Finding no blood, she relaxes, relieved to see that she has not bled.
Her mind begins reeling once again when she remembers her dream, her face burning with a flush and the wetness below somehow becoming worse. For some reason, she'd dreamt of Sandor Clegane, of him kissing her and biting her neck. Perhaps it had been a trick of her mind. Dreams were often a fickle thing and didn't make much sense, and this one certainly didn't. Yet, it'd felt so good, so unbelievably perfect.
A knock at her door breaks her reverie. "M'lady, I'm here with your bath," calls Shae from the other side of the door.
Sansa sits up in bed, smoothing out the covers and crossing her legs beneath. "Come in."
Shae enters with two other handmaidens. One places a food tray on Sansa's table before leaving while Shae and the other handmaiden empty hot water into her bath. Once that's done, the other handmaiden leaves. Shae closes and bolts the door before approaching Sansa. Sansa lifts herself from the bed, making her way to the bath. She slowly lowers herself into the scalding water, the heat helping to calm her rattled nerves. She begins to wash herself with a scented bar of soap while Shae starts stripping the bed.
Shae stuffs the sheets in a burlap sack and comes to her side. She lathers some scented oil in her hands and begins massaging it into Sansa's scalp. They sit in a discomfited silence as Sansa continues to wash herself, and Shae washes her hair. Sansa's thoughts go back to her dream, how Sandor had gripped her tightly at the waist and kissed her lips. The ache between her legs was back, and Sansa has grown curious.
"Shae, have you ever done anything with a man?" she asks.
Shae furrows her brows. "Like what?"
"You know," Sansa starts, fiddling with her fingers beneath the water's surface. "Has a man ever laid with you?" Sansa felt scandalous discussing this with her handmaiden. She used to only speak of these types of things with Jeyne Poole, and even then, they weren't of this intimate in nature. Now Jeyne's gone and the only person she can talk to about this was Shae. She trusts Shae enough to know that she won't go to Cersei or Joffrey with anything she says.
"Yes," Shae answers.
Sansa turns to the dark-haired woman, her eyes widening in astonishment. "You have?"
"You seem so surprised," Shae laughs.
"It's just that- "Sansa struggles with the words, she is so surprised, "I didn't know you were married."
"I'm not."
"Then how…" Sansa is genuinely confused.
Shae laughs, "I like to fuck."
Sansa's cheeks color. "So, you enjoy it?"
"Men are not the only ones who can take pleasure during sex, m'lady." Sansa's mind is spinning with this new information. "What is this about, Sansa?"
"I had a dream last night." Sansa says, her voice soft.
Shae begins rinsing the oil out of Sansa's hair. "About what?"
Sansa blushes. She can't tell Shae about how she'd dreamt of Sandor. He'd been right when he told her that the people of King's Landing were all liars. She couldn't trust anybody. "My king, of course. He wanted me to sing for him."
"And did you?"
"Yes. Then he kissed me and lifted me in his arms. I felt a strange feeling in my…my womansplace…then I woke up." Sansa turns to the handmaiden, suddenly feeling silly for telling her anything. "Please, you mustn't tell anyone about this."
"I won't," Shae says, and Sansa can see in her face that she's being sincere.
Shae helps Sansa out of the bath and helps her dress. Once she's been secured in her dress, she sits at her vanity as Shae brushes out her hair.
A curiosity overwhelms her as Shae braids her hair. "How do I please a man?"
Shae raises a brow at her. "Do you want to please your king?"
"Of course, I love Joffrey with all my heart," Sansa lies.
Shae smirks. "Did your mother ever explain to you how to lay with someone?"
"She only said to let my husband do what he needed with me and never question him," Sansa tells her.
"It's a little more complicated than that. Do you know anything else?" Sansa shakes her head, a little embarrassed at her inexperience.
Shae pulls a chair from the table to sit next to Sansa, holding the hairbrush so the handle is pointing up. "When a man's cock is hard, any touch against it can be pleasurable." Shae grazes her fingertip across the wooden surface. "However, every man likes different things done to him." She closes her hand in a fist around the handle. "Some men like to be taken in hand while others like to be taken with tongue and mouth."
"He might want me to…" Sansa 's heart starts beating hard in her chest, imagining the look on Sandor's face if she were to use her mouth on his member. She wonders what it would taste like, how it would feel against her tongue and the back of her throat.
Shae continues, "Experiment with different things. Learn what he likes in order to please him, and he'll do the same for you. You should masturbate to learn what feels good for you, so that you can help him."
Sansa furrows her eyebrows. "Masturbate?"
"Touch yourself on your womansplace."
Sansa feels her face heat up again. These were things she'd never even known of. "Do you really believe Joffrey would want to please me?"
Shae shrugs. "If he doesn't you could always take someone else to bed."
Sansa's eyes widen so much, her eyes could've popped out of her head, "Shae!"
"You will be the queen," Shae says simply, smiling mischievously, "A queen can lay with whoever she wants."
Sansa shakes her head. "Joffrey would have his kingsguard beat me." Sansa shudders. "Or kill me. I don't think I should even be talking about this."
Just then, a knock sounds at her door.
"Little bird, I'm here to escort you to the king," Sandor's voice calls.
"Just a minute," Sansa answers. She turns her attention back to Shae. "Please, don't speak of this to anyone."
"I swear it, m'lady, I will not."
The minute Sansa sees Sandor's face she is reminded of her dream, and the space between her legs becomes wet again from its own accord. Sandor gives her a strange look. "What's wrong with you, girl?"
"What do you mean, Sandor?" she asks.
He seems taken aback by something, then she realizes this is the first time she's used his first name. "Well, -uh, your whole face is beet red. Your neck and ears, too."
She brings her hands up to her cheeks, the warmth radiating against her palms. She folds her hands in front of her stomach, willing her nerves to calm and her thoughts to quiet. "Forgive me, I don't feel too well today."
"Do you need me to get a maester?" he asks almost instantaneously, a look of worry on his features.
"No, I'll be fine," she says quickly, "Take me to my betrothed, please."
He leads her towards the king's bedchambers while she follows, taking the opportunity to study her companion's features. She knows how tall and strong he is. The Warrior incarnate, she thinks as she examines his physique. His brow is heavy set over his eyes, and a trimmed, full beard surrounds his mouth, leading up his jaw towards his hairline. Honestly, his scars weren't the worst thing about his appearance, aside from the story of how they got there. It was his eyes that instilled the most fear in her, so filled with malice and loathing.
She misses the way he'd gazed upon her in the godswood.
When they make it to Joffrey's bedchambers, her stomach becomes twisted and fills with dread. What kind of tortures has he prepared for me today? She wonders, her heart becoming heavy within her chest.
As Sandor opens the door for her and she enters, a crossbow bolt whizzes past her shoulder and shatters a vase on a small stand. Sandor pushes his way in front of her, an arm held out protectively. She gasps out, her eyes widening in shock. Ser Meryn claps in praise of his king from a far corner of the room.
"Ah, Sansa, you've come." Joffrey smiles at her as though he hadn't done anything wrong. "I was just practicing my aim. What do you think?"
She straightens her back, holding her head high. "It is remarkable, my king." Her tone is steel and holds no emotion behind it, though she does not care anymore and he doesn't truly care either. As long as she says what he wants to hear, it will not anger him.
Though, sometimes she doesn't care about angering him.
"Of course, it's remarkable," Joffrey says dismissively, "I'm the Protector of the Realm. Everything I do is remarkable."
"Of course, my king."
He turns to her, the look of adoration on his face causing bile to catch in her throat. He reaches out to her and holds her chin in his hand, his thumb lightly caressing her bottom lip. She cannot even bring herself to smile.
"You're as brainless as your damned traitor brother," he says in a sweet tone, "It's good your beauty makes up for it." He sits at his table, gesturing to the chair across from him. "Sit and break your fast with me."
"As you command, my Lord," she says.
"Your Grace," he snaps at her.
She gives him a small curtsey. "Forgive me, your Grace."
She can tell her tone does not make him happy, but he brushes it aside as she takes her seat across from him. There is an assortment of foods placed on the table, but she has lost her appetite. She resigns herself to drinking wine.
A look of offense fixes itself on his face as she sips from her goblet. "Will you not eat this delicious food I've had prepared for you?"
"No, your Grace. I am feeling unwell today," she answers.
"Why are you sick?"
"I don't know, my king."
He slams his silverware on his plate. "Are you pregnant with some peasant's bastard? Mother said that your maidenhead remains intact."
"My maidenhead has not been broken. Maester Pycelle checked a few days ago, and the Hound was his witness," Sansa argued, her tone icy, "Besides, even if I had been raped by all of flea bottom, I have not bled yet."
Joffrey stands from his chair and approaches Sandor. "Dog, did you see her maidenhead?"
"Aye," he answers simply.
"Tell me, Hound, how pretty is her cunt?"
A surge of rage fills her as Joffrey's question echoes through the chambers. "It's just a cunt. Same as all the rest of them in the world."
Joffrey lets out a hearty laugh. "You're being too kind, Dog. I'm sure a traitor's daughter like her probably has a disgusting, oozing cunt to match." He moves to stand beside her, lightly stroking her shoulder with his finger. "Why don't we take a look at it?"
Sansa furrows her brows in confusion, then he roughly pulls her to her feet. He shoves her forward, her torso slamming into the table and sending metal platters clanging to the floor. He tears the back of her dress, from neck to waist.
Her blood begins to boil. She has an epiphany then. No matter what she says or does, nothing will satisfy Joffrey. No matter all the begging, sweet words, and vows of devotion, Joffrey will never end his torment of her. Her tears turn to fire in her eyes, and she bares her teeth. The fear trembling inside of her crescendos into a ground trembling snarl. She is a Stark, the daughter of Winterfell.
She turns briskly, the back of her hand smacking him with a force she had not known she was capable of possessing. When her hand collides with his mouth, he lurches to the side, releasing his grip on her and holding his mouth. A groan of pain escapes from his mouth. When he turns back to her, his lip has split open, and his teeth are stained red from his blood.
"I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell, daughter of Eddard and Catelyn Stark, Robb Stark the King in the North is my brother, and I am the Princess of the North. The blood of the First Men pumps through my veins. Don't you ever presume to touch me again."
She knows that she will be punished greatly for her defiance, but she no longer cares. Let them beat and torture and lock her away forever, but she will fight, and she will keep fighting for as long as Joffrey is on the Iron Throne and until she is reunited with her family. She is a direwolf, a wild and clever and strong direwolf.
She won't let it be forgotten again.
All is silent as she towers above Joffrey's cowering figure. He looks up at her with a mixture of disbelief and cowardice as he holds his broken lip. Suddenly, his mouth cracks into a smile, and he begins laughing. She does not shrink or back down as he straightens himself, his eyes becoming teary from mirth.
"Or you'll do what?" he asks, "Shout at me? Beat me? Kill me?" He lets out another bark of laughter. "What a joke." He gestures to Ser Meryn. "Meryn, beat her until I tell you to stop."
Meryn strides to her at a quick pace. She does not flinch when he stands in front of her. Though she grunts loudly when his knee collides with her stomach, she holds back the cry in her throat and shuts her eyes tight to keep the tears at bay. She will not scream for them ever again. She feels two punches to her stomach, but still she does not shout or collapse. She cannot keep it up for long as Meryn fists a chunk of her hair in his mailed fist and bashes her into the ground. When he unsheathes his blade and slams the flat of it against her bare back in successive quick strokes, she can't help but scream out in agony.
"Stop this now!"
She gazes up weakly to see that Sandor has pushed Meryn down and away from her. Sandor unsheathes his sword and holds it off to the side, ready for attack. Joffrey is smiling at him wickedly. "Do you wish to have a go at her, Dog? I'd love to see how you break her."
"Enough of this," Sandor growls, "She is to be your wife, your queen, your key to the north, the only way of getting your uncle back. Do you want her dead?"
A look of fury takes Joffrey's features. "Does she look dead to you? I would've stopped Trant before he killed her, I don't need you to make my decisions for me." He waves his hand in a dismissive manner. "Besides, what does it matter if she's killed. She's got traitor's blood in her."
"If she dies, Jaime Lannister dies along with her!" Sandor yells, trying to reason with the boy. Pain is coursing through her body, and she can feel something hot and wet dripping from her back. She can barely keep her eyes open.
"I DON'T CARE IF MY UNCLE DIES! HE MEANS NOTHING TO ME!"
"WHAT IS GOING ON IN HERE?!" All eyes turn to the door to see Cersei Lannister bursting in, Lancel Lannister tailing close behind her. When she takes notice of Sansa, Cersei's expression becomes desperate and horrified. "Oh, gods. Joff, what have you done?!"
"She slapped me! I only did my duty as king to put this traitorous whore in her place!"
"Seven hells, Joffrey, she is a child not even flowered yet, and you make this bumbling fool Trant beat her as though she is the Mountain." Cersei kneels next to her, checking Sansa's face. "At least her face is undamaged. If word gets back to her family that you beat her this badly, they'll kill Jaime." She grabs Sandor's arm to capture his attention. "Take her to Maester Pycelle immediately, and don't stop for any reason. We need her alive."
Sansa would rather die than have Maester Pycelle touch her again, let alone still be at Joffrey's mercy.
The next few hours are a blur to her as she fades in and out of consciousness. She remembers being held by Sandor, the scent of Dornish sour red enveloping her. She remembers waking up briefly, screaming in pain when Maestor Pycelle massages a burning thick paste into her wounds. She remembers Sandor depositing her in her bed, a stern Don't ever do that again, coming from him as he leaves.
When she becomes fully awake, it is dark outside and she is alone again. The tears come unbidden in the silence of her chambers.
At least they cannot see her cry when she is alone.
…
It has been two months since Sandor's seen or heard anything from Sansa. After that day, she'd been locked in her room, no longer allowed to roam the castle. She'd never been in the godswood again, never allowed to overlook the city over the battlements, she was allowed nowhere. Sandor finds himself thinking of her every waking moment, and it's driving him insane. He does not know if she's all right, and it's killing him.
As if that doesn't make his situation dire enough, the war is quickly approaching King's Landing. The whole castle is in a catastrophic race to prepare the city's defenses against Stannis' assault. The smoke drowning out the sky and talk of wildfire does wonders at unsettling his nerves to no end.
No matter where he goes or what he does, he cannot escape the never-ending anxiety that fills him to his very core.
He is watching over Joff as he breaks his fast in the queen's chambers when he hears of his little bird again.
"Your betrothed has flowered today, my sweet," Cersei says as she spreads a sweet jelly over her bread.
"It's about time," Joffrey sneers, "I will marry her as soon as the war is over and fill her belly with cubs, whether she wills it or no."
"It'll take longer than that for a royal wedding to take place, Joff."
He scowls at his mother as though she is a parasite sucking the life from his body. "The wedding will happen when I say it will."
Cersei smiles thinly, "Of course, my sweet."
"Did she really try to shove her whole mattress in the fireplace?" he asks, a sadistic smile on his face.
"She said that the blood scared her." Cersei takes a sip of wine before continuing, "You know how silly the little dove is."
"She's an idiot," Joff hisses, "When she slapped me she went on about how she was a princess of Winterfell or something. All that because I wanted to see her cunt." He gives his mother an incredulous look. "We're to be husband and wife soon, why should it matter if I want to look at it? Besides, I'm her king. She should feel honored to have me look at her."
"I'm sure she is deep down," Cersei says. Sandor tightens his hands to fists at his side, bile climbing up his throat and threatening to spill forth. Cersei looks at him suspiciously. "Joff, why don't you go shoot hares in the courtyard, I'd like to speak with the Hound alone for a moment."
Joffrey raises his brow before doing as he's bid. Sandor remains where he's standing waiting for Cersei to say whatever she needs to so that he can go drown his worries in wine.
She stands before him, her emerald eyes piercing through his greys. "You seem troubled, Clegane."
"I'm not troubled by anything," he says simply, his pride boiling within him.
Cersei smiles in a way that she usually saves for people she's going to manipulate. Years of guarding her before Joff was born makes Sandor catch it. "Hound, I am not blind or stupid. I see how your brow wrinkles. I only want to- "she places a delicate hand on his arm, inching a little closer to him and looking up at him through her lashes, "-offer to relieve some of that stress for you."
His brows knit together as he backs away from her. He feels like he might've misheard her. "What are you going on about?"
"It doesn't have to mean anything," she reasons, "I've been terribly lonely since my beloved King Robert's death." She begins to toy with the ties at her sleeve. "What's so wrong about two people satisfying each other's needs with no strings attached?"
He shakes his head. "It's not right."
"That doesn't matter," Cersei laughs, "Besides, I am older than you so you do not need to worry about taking advantage of me. I know what I want."
He backs even farther away from her, looking at her as though she's lost her mind. "Hells, woman, I don't want you."
She chuckles as though he is joking and reaches for him again. This time he grabs her wrist in a tight hold, glaring down at her for emphasis. Her expression takes on disbelief. Then she starts giggling, her giggles eventually turning into hysterical laughter, and she jerks her hand out of his grasp.
"What's so funny, woman?"
"This is too much," she sniggers, picking her goblet of wine off the table and taking a long swig. He wishes he could have some wine right about now. "The little dove truly has you ensnared, doesn't she?"
"What are you talking about?" he growls.
"I've seen the way you look at Sansa, how you treat her. Don't think me daft, I've seen what both love and lust looks like, and it's written all over your face even now." She takes another sip of wine. "I'd thought, Oh the big fearsome Hound doesn't love her, he has no feelings, he's not capable of it, yet, when I offered myself to you just now it became so clear to me." She laughs again. "It's hilarious. Surely, you know that she'll never love you. What am I saying, with a face as ugly as yours, no woman of sane mind would ever care for you."
"What do you want,woman?"
"I want to be sure your loyalties lie where they're supposed to," she snaps, "You remember who took you in when you fled from your brother like a craven fool when he butchered your father, mother, and sister like the dogs they were. You remember who fed you, clothed you, armed you when you had nothing to your name." She steps closer to him, her head reaching just about chest height, but she does not recoil as she glowers up at him. "You are a Lannister dog. You'd best remember that."
Though his blood seethes within his veins, her words do nothing to hurt him. He knows what he is. He was never under any delusions of that fact. "Is that all, your Grace?" he asks, his features taking on their usual brood once again.
She scoffs as a triumphant smile graces her lips. "Yes. Go guard your king like a good dog."
He leaves her to her drinking while he makes his way to the White Sword Tower. His room doesn't contain much. Just a large bed, chest, and table with a singular chair. The hearth always remains unlit. King's Landing is too warm for the flames, anyways.
He pulls a wineskin out from underneath his bed and begins drinking, the anxieties of the day seeming to dissolve. He's grown such a tolerance for the stuff that he must drink more wine t even feel a buzz, but he doesn't care. By the time nightfall comes, he is in a drunken stupor. As he sits at his table, lazily bringing the wineskin to his lips, the little bird comes to his mind.
A thought comes unbidden within his alcohol addled mind. She is in his bed, her dress disheveled and her hair pooling about his pillow in the shape of a red sun. He imagines himself kissing up her calves and suckling on her inner thighs. She cries out, a beautiful song serenading from her throat, when he caresses her velvet folds with his tongue. He's never tasted a woman in this manner, but he's sure she's sweeter than any wine he's ever had.
He's hard now, and he undoes his breeches to take himself in hand. He meets his end quickly, his seed coating his hand. Though his cock is satisfied now, it does hardly anything for his nerves. Now that he's relieved himself of the sexual tension, his mind begins wondering to other dark corners, and he feels guilty.
He starts thinking about everything she's been through while residing in the Red Keep. She's been beaten and bruised. Threatened and used as though she were nothing more than a pawn in a game of chess. He remembers how that feels…he knows.
And I allow it to happen to her, he thinks. He remembers Cersei's words. She thinks he loves Sansa, but he knows that can't be true. If he truly loved her, he would protect her with every fiber of his being. He would kill anyone whoever touched her without her consent. He would take her home, to Winterfell, and her family.
Cersei is right, he thinks, I really am nothing more than a dog.
…
No one would hurt you again, or I'd kill them, Sandor had said.
Sansa's still lying in the bed after he's left. Her thoughts are all muddled together, a mixture of sorrow and fear. Her lips still tingle from where he kissed her, pressed his cruel mouth against hers just like in her dreams, the scruff of his beard scratching against her chin. Her hand had cupped his burnt cheek. Please, don't go, she'd begged him, but he could not stay. He'd deserted his king, and if he stayed he would be executed.
She lifts herself from her bed. The cloak is laying on the floor, torn from his armor and stained with blood. She kneels, taking the cloth in her hands and wrapping it around her body, a mixture of his natural musk and the scent of death enveloping her. She finds it strangely comforting.
The sounds of the battle are drowned out as she becomes lost within her own thoughts. She thinks of her father, how he'd always been her protector until he'd died. Her mother, who always brushed her hair. Her brother Robb, and how he'd fought Theon when he'd tried to kiss her. Arya, and how they'd constantly been at odds with each other. The last time she'd seen Bran and Rickon was when she'd left Winterfell, and they were dead now. She even thinks of her bastard brother Jon Snow, and how horribly she'd always treated him.
Tears come unbidden from her eyes. She'll never be held in her father's strong arms again. She'll never feel her mother's fingers in her hair. She'll never be able to see Robb smile triumphantly when he bests Theon in a fight. She'll never get a chance to mend her relationship with Arya. She'll never get to watch Bran climb Winterfell's walls again. She'll never get to see the man that Rickon might've become. She'll never get to apologize to Jon Snow and beg his forgiveness.
She wants to… She wishes she could…
No, she thinks, I am Sansa Stark. I am a direwolf, and the blood of the first men runs in my veins. She resolves it right then and there. She will not die in this city; she refuses. She will see her family again. She will do whatever it takes to make it so, and if she dies, she will take comfort in the fact that she will be reunited with her father and Bran and Rickon and all the other dead Starks. She will die fighting. She will not give up.
She opens her armoire and withdraws a satchel. She grabs anything of sentimental value and necessity, shoving it in her bag: an extra dress, smallclothes, and the doll her father had gifted her. She kicks her slippers off and shoves her feet into her riding boots. She grabs Sandor's white cloak and fastens it about her shoulders with a sapphire brooch, pulling the hood over her head.
When she pulls the door open, she hopes that Sandor has not wondered off too far.
When she opens the door, though, he is there with his back towards her. His sword is drawn within one hand and a wineskin in the other.
He turns his head over his shoulder.
"Go back to bed, little bird. I won't let anyone get to you," he declares.
"You stayed?" she asks, her voice filled with disbelief.
"You begged me to," he says. He turns fully towards her, his eyes roaming her body. "Why are you wearing my cloak?"
"I want to leave," she says quickly, stepping out of the room and shutting the door behind her.
"Little bird…" he starts. He sounds like he's changed his mind about the whole thing and it angers her.
She's had enough of being a prisoner. "I am leaving this city today, whether you think it's safe or not. I refuse to be trapped in a cage any longer." She steps forward and places her hands softly on his wrists, looking up at him pleadingly. "I know that what I ask of you is so much, but please, help me leave here. I cannot survive out there on my own."
He looks down at her for a few moments, his expression unreadable. He sheathes his sword and secures the wineskin on his belt before closing his hand around her arm. He leads her along the halls of the holdfast, checking around every corner before proceeding. They pass by a couple of looters on their way to the drawbridge, but they take one look at Sandor and they go about their business.
They do not meet any resistance until they make it to the drawbridge. There are two guards, and their brows furrow when they see Sansa with the fearsome Hound.
"What business do you have, Ser," one of them trembles.
"I'm no ser," Sandor growls, his large lumbering form dwarfing the man before him, "Let the drawbridge down."
"Queen Cersei told us not to let anyone leave Maegor's Holdfast," the other guard says, though his voice shakes more so than his companion's and sweat has begun to form on his brow.
Sandor approaches the other man, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "The king asked for me to deliver his betrothed to him on the battlements. Should I tell him who refused me?" He lays his hand on the hilt of his sword.
The guards look at each other nervously before one of them moves to the window. "Lower the bridge!" he shouts.
The bridge lowers, and they are gone before anybody changes their mind. It's easier for them to move through the keep since most of the guards are either fighting or looting. The only guards they encounter pay little mind to them. On the way, Sandor makes a stop in the kitchens, grabbing hard cheeses, bread, and dried meats before continuing on. When they make it to the stables, Sansa sees the rotting heads of the ones who'd tried to escape before them, and she starts to feel a little sick. She pushes it down, steeling herself. They can't afford her to have second thoughts now.
Sandor busies himself with saddling a great black courser while Sansa worries the fabric of Sandor's white cloak. When he is finished he approaches her.
"Take off your cloak." She does as she is bid and as soon as it's off, he takes it and secures it around his shoulders with her brooch. He leads the horse to her and wraps his hands around her waist, lifting her up so she's in the saddle. He mounts in front of her. "Cover yourself with the cloak. Don't forget your feet." She pulls the cloak around herself, her heart beating wildly in her chest. "Don't make a sound and don't move."
The only thing that can be heard as they ride off is the battle, still raging on in the Blackwater Bay. She cannot see anything, and this makes her nerves even more restless. She does not move or say anything, fidgeting the fabric of her dress.
"Halt!" she hears a man shout. She holds her breath. "State your business!"
"I mean to go fight and defend my king."
She hears the gates opening, and her heart leaps in her chest. I am free! She rejoices in her mind. For what seems like hours in her nerve wrecked thoughts, the horse walks on. She remains perfectly still as they make their way, the sounds of the battle growing louder, and she is afraid again. She leans her head on Sandor's back, shutting her eyes tightly and trying her hardest to calm her thoughts. Then they are galloping, and the screaming, the burning, the clash of steel on steel seems further away.
It isn't until a few hours later that they stop, and King's Landing and the green of the wildfire is not visible anymore. Sandor dismounts the horse, grabbing her by the waist and helping her down. He removes the cloak from his shoulders and gives it back to her. Sansa situates the cloak around her shoulders and he lifts her onto the courser once again.
Her brow raises in confusion. "Are we not resting?"
"No, little bird," he says, mounting up behind her and wrapping his arms around her so he can hold the reins. Her tummy flutters from the contact. "Once they realize you're gone, they'll send the largest search party they can to come find us. We'll be the most wanted people in all of Westeros. We can't rest a single moment."
"Where are we going?" she asks.
"Last I heard, your mother is in Riverrun."
Sansa's eyes light up at the prospect of seeing her mother again. "How long will it take?"
"About two weeks, if we're lucky."
Sansa smiles, breathing in the crisp night air. The stars twinkle above them as they ride on, the moon lighting their way. She suddenly feels exhausted, and a yawn pushes past her lips.
Sandor pulls her hood up. "Rest, little bird. We've got a long ride ahead of us."
When she leans back against him and closes her eyes, she feels him tense for a moment before he relaxes. They travel like this for days continuous. They eat in the saddle, and Sansa sleeps whenever she feels tired. Their pace changes often, from a trot to galloping and every so often they will dismount and walk to stretch their legs and give the horse, Stranger she learns, a well needed rest from having to carry two people. The route they take has no paths, and they are often either shrouded by trees or out on open fields. They do not stop even for a second. Her thighs and backside are sore from the saddle, and she's begun to get blisters on her feet.
She does not think that Sandor has rested at all during their journey, though. His eyes are hooded and cloudy, dark circles forming underneath them. When he walks, his feet drag along, and he mutters to himself a lot. When she asks if they can stop, he says that there are dangers all around them: Lions lurking in the grass, fire in the distance, soldiers hidden within the tree line. However, when she turns to look, there is never anything there.
They finally stop when a river blocks their path. Sandor dismounts first then grabs her waist to help her. They approach, filling their skins and washing their faces of the dirt and grime. Sansa thinks to ask him if she can bathe, but decides against it, not wanting to hold up their voyage.
"Do you know how to swim?" he asks suddenly.
Her brows knit together in confusion. "No. Why?"
He points upstream. "To the north of us is God's Eye. That's also where Harrenhal is. Last I heard, Harranhal was in Lannister hands, so we can't go around." He points the other way. "The only bridge I know of is located on the Goldroad, but the Lannisters likely have search parties patrolling up and down the road looking for us. Besides that, bridges are too risky for us to take right now."
"How do we get across then?" she queries.
Stranger drinks from the water, his limbs shivering with exhaustion. "I'll have to carry you while we wade across."
Her stomach twists with nervousness. Though the water is calm, Sandor looks on the brink of passing out. She does not know if he'll be able to carry her across. "Maybe it would be better to find another way."
"No, we'll swim," he snaps with a sense of finality, "It is not that far across. Once we're on the other side, we'll be in the Riverlands. The search parties won't follow us there."
He approaches her and lifts her from her legs over his shoulder, much like he did during the bread riots. She lets out a gasp when he falters slightly, but he does not drop her. He holds Stranger's reins in his other hand and begins pushing his way across. Once he is chest deep, the water soaks through her skirts and cloak and leaks into her boots. Then it is so deep that he has to swim, and she can see that he's struggling with keeping his head above the water, having to carry her and lead Stranger. Stranger's entire torso is submerged in the water, and his head is just barely bobbing above the surface to breathe. Sansa's heart aches for the creature, as he has not slept at all either. She prays that the food in the saddlebags has not been ruined from the water.
When they finally emerge on the other side, her skirts cling to her legs and the bloodied white cloak is heavy on her shoulders. Her boots are filled with water, and they squelch uncomfortably against her feet. Sandor sets her down and leans his back against a tree, shutting his eyes for a moment. They don't rest for long, and Sandor is lifting her back up in the saddle a few moments later, mounting up behind her. They set off once again at a sluggish trot.
The sun is now beginning to set, painting the sky in deep purples and burnt oranges. The area around them is barren save for a few patches of trees. As Sansa looks around she feels completely at peace, content atop Stranger, watching the sunset. She is finally free from the grasp of the Lannisters, her horrible memories of King's Landing far behind her. She wonders if her mother and Robb look any different than how she remembers them, and her tummy is aflutter with the anticipation of seeing them again after so long apart.
She feels Sandor start to sag against her then, and before she knows it, he's falling off the side of the saddle. His body collides with the ground with a loud thud and a clangor of metal, his foot still stuck in one of the stirrups. Stranger whinnies in fright and kicks his front feet off the ground, sending a jolt of fear through Sansa when she is thrown off. Her wrist pops when she lands, and she lets out a cry of pain, tears blurring her vision. She does not dwell on the pain long, scrambling to her feet so that she can calm Stranger before he tramples Sandor.
Stranger is still nickering and jumping back and forth on his feet when she approaches him. She grabs the reins, but Stranger moves to bite her hand. She quickly pulls away before he makes contact. She holds her hands out in front of her, her wrist seemingly burning from the inside out. "Easy, easy," she says, though she has no idea how to calm a horse. Stranger pays her little to no mind. It seems as though he is trying to nudge Sandor with his snout, but he cannot reach from where Sandor is still stuck in the stirrup.
Sansa falls to her knees next to Sandor, her hands going to his shoulders, trying to shake him awake. Her wrist is throbbing from the use but all she can think about is whether or not Sandor is all right. "Sandor, get up!" she shouts, panic consuming her thoughts, "You need to tell me what to do!" However, he is completely unconscious, her cries doing nothing to rouse him. She pulls his foot out of the stirrup, and he is free from Stranger. The horse turns itself around and begins nudging against Sandor's side to try and help rouse him, whickering anxiously, but it is to no avail.
Sansa looks around, desperately trying to find something of use. She spies an outcrop of trees just a few feet from them. It would be a good place to be so they can have some shelter. She positions herself at Sandor's head and wraps her arms underneath his and around his chest, pulling with every ounce of strength she has in her. He is so heavy and her wrist is stinging with pain. Her heart beats wildly within her chest, and her vision is becoming woozy.
She's finally able to lay him against one of the trees, her whole body shaking from the exertion. Stranger has followed her to the trees, and he is still trying to wake Sandor, nipping at his gauntlets, and shaking his hands. She reaches and takes Stranger's reins in her hand, and though he is still apprehensive, he does not move to harm her. She caresses underneath his chin, her forehead resting against his snout. She shushes him gently, and he quiets and calms. She stands and secures his reins on a low hanging branch. Stranger grazes while she tends to Sandor.
When she presses her hand to his forehead, he is warm but not feverish, and his breathing she notes is soft and relaxed. His features do not look troubled either, and his eyes are tranquil beneath his lids. He's sleeping, she realizes, relief filling her as she sits back. She really should try to rouse him, but he looks so peaceful and he has not rested at all during their long journey. She removes her cloak and lays it on top of him, removing her satchel in the process. She pulls out the extra dress she packed and changes. It is not one of her prettier dresses like the ones she wore in King's Landing, but it still makes her feel a little refreshed to have changed.
She resolves to stand guard over him while he rests. She carefully unsheathes his sword from the scabbard. The steel is so heavy that she has to use both hands to wield it, and her wrist is throbbing from having to carry its weight. She sits on a small boulder just outside the tree line, planting the point of the sword in the ground. Her fists tighten around the pommel as exhaustion overtakes her.
She awakes to the sound of stone on steel, and she jerks the sword out of the ground. She stands and swings behind her. She stumbles from the weight of the weapon and whimpers when her wrist stings, a cloak falling from her shoulders. Sandor is awake, and he's made a small fire in their little shelter. The moon shines high above them.
He stares at her blankly. "You're holding it wrong," he says.
Her arms are bent with the pommel pointing towards her chest. The blade is sagging downwards, her strength not great enough to keep it steady. She blushes, pointing the blade back to the ground. "You should be resting."
"I've rested enough." He adds a few twigs to the fire.
"You fell from Stranger," she informs him, "I had to drag you here. I couldn't wake you."
"How did you manage that?" he asks. She shrugs, and his eyes widen when his attention is drawn to her hands. "What happened to your wrist?"
She looks, and her wrist is just barely peeking out from beneath the sleeve of her dress. It is swollen and bruising. "Stranger bucked me off. He was startled when you fell."
He stands and takes his sword from her grasp, sheathing it back in its scabbard before laying the weapon to the side. He gently pulls her over towards the fire and motions for her to sit. She does as she's bid while he approaches Stranger and rummages around in the saddlebags. He removes a bundle of bandages and kneels in front of her.
He lightly massages her sensitive flesh and she winces from the pain. "Is it broken?"
He shakes his head. "Just sprained. A couple days and it'll be fine."
They are silent as he wraps her wrist. Her stomach seems to be filled with butterflies with him so close to her. She remembers the night the Blackwater burned, when he'd kissed her. Her face flushes at the memory. As he finishes wrapping her wrist, she lays a hand against his burnt cheek. He is completely still and tense. When she leans forward to kiss him, he grabs her roughly by the shoulders, holding her back.
"What are you doing?" he asks, his eyes wide in confusion.
"Well, I- uh- I- "she stutters. She shakes her head to clear it. She's done with being scared of saying how she feels and what she wants. "I want to kiss you."
He barks out a laugh. "Have you gone mad?"
Her eyebrows come together in misunderstanding. "What do you mean? You kissed me first."
He laughs more, going back to lean against the tree she'd brought him to before. "You really have gone mad. I've never kissed you, little bird."
"Yes, you have." She kneels in front of him on her knees. She is mere inches away from him. "The night of the battle. I gave you a song, and you gave me a kiss."
"I would remember it."
"You were drunk," she says, frustrated, "You probably don't remember anything from that night."
He growls, his eyes filling with anger, "I remember the green flames. I remember holding the knife to your throat. I remember you singing your pretty little hymn. I remember your hand on my face. But I did not kiss you, though I wanted to do more than that to you."
Sansa's brow furrows. Did I just imagine it? She wonders. She shakes her head, steeling her expression. "All the same, I still want to kiss you."
"Listen, girl," he snarls, "I am not some knight from one of your songs."
"And I am not a girl," she snaps, "I'm a woman flowered, and I know what I want." She scoots closer to him and holds his face in her hands. His face seems to soften. "If you don't want me, then tell me and I'll stop. I won't ever try to kiss you again."
He is silent as they stare at each other. The air around them is tense with many different things, and she forgets the rest of the world exists for a moment. She leans forward and her lips barely brush against his own.
He holds her at the waist, and she tenses. Sensing her discomfort, he does as well. She is suddenly bombarded by memories: of the bread riots, of Maester Pycelle and his fingers, of Joffrey ripping her dress.
A mixture of hurt and confusion fixes itself in his features. "Having second thoughts?"
His words break her out of her thoughts. "No, it's just…" She does not know what exactly to say. She's had too many people take what they want from her without a thought to her feelings. She trusts Sandor, with every fiber of her being, but she cannot shake the fear of him taking things from her that she does not want to give yet. She grabs his hands and takes them off her waist. "Please, let me be in control. Don't touch me."
A look of understanding crosses his features and he nods. The air is thick around them with anticipation, and her breathing is coming a little harsher. She's gripping her skirts tightly. She closes her eyes and leans forward quickly, her lips pressing against his in a chaste, lingering kiss. When she separates from him, just an inch from his mouth, she can feel her face tingling, and her heart is quivering within her chest.
When she opens her eyes, she sees that he's looking at her as though she's not real, as though she were a dream. Her hands come up of their own accord and hold his face, her fingers curling against the back of his head. She angles her head and kisses him again. She separates for only a moment before kissing him once more, this time more heated.
As she moves to straddle him over his lap, she bites and pulls on his lip, a groan rumbling from the back of his throat. She deepens the kiss, his tongue battling hers for dominance, but she is the victor. She wraps one arm around his neck, the other moving so she can entangle her fingers in his hair. She is pressed flush against him now, her breasts pressing against his armor.
She separates from him, kissing his forehead and cheeks before tracing his jawline with kisses. His beard tickles her mouth causing her to smile. A wetness has formed between her thighs, and when she suckles on his neck, her hips roll against him. A moan escapes from her.
"Little bird, stop…" he says.
She pulls herself away from him, a worried look fixed on her features. "Did I hurt you?"
A gravelly laugh rumbles from within him. "Of course not. It's late, though. And you need to get some rest."
She leaves his lap, giving him an irritated look. "I'd sooner say that of you. You're the one who fell off your horse."
"Now, that we're in the Riverlands, we can take more breaks," he reasons. He reaches towards her face, but stops himself. He stands. "Don't worry about me, little bird. Get your rest."
She stares at him suspiciously as he fixes his sword belt on. She lays down by the fire, covering herself with his bloody white cloak. She is asleep within seconds.
