A/N: I accidentally wrote a one-shot at 1AM. Oops. The graphic that inspired this (I originally made for tumblr, and the full sized version can be seen on my blog, username ofhouseadama, and then thought 'oh I'll write a drabble to go with this' and then...) can be see as the cover of this fic. Thanks to Jess (lunaticsilver) for the quick beta!
It's um... been awhile since I've written fluff.
She had backed up almost to the wall, hands folded tightly behind her back. She regarded him openly, or in a way that he had come to regard as open. Sandor Clegane, of course, had become well-versed in Sansa Stark's tightly-carved expressions in these past few years.
When she spoke, her voice was tight with emotion that her only her eyes betrayed.
"Do you believe, then, that I intend to give you up, Lord Clegane? Now that some lord, higher and wealthier, has made an offer?"
She gulped, and looked away, eyes on the wolf in front of her, and not the Hound to her back, where he stared at her passively. Where, only moments ago, he spoke to her of his plans for leaving. If he was going to leave her, go back to the holdfast that she gave to him, to repay him, to show her favor in the few ways she felt safe to…
"Think a little kinder of me, Sandor," she whispered. She had taken him into her bed, as her castle and kingdom rose around them, as the snow fell and the darkness descended, by her side he had remained. The first man to swear his sword, his shield. He gave her advisement and friendship. And she… had taken him into her heart, had believed him to understand her, the ice she plied her walls with, where others did not.
For only the Lannister dog could understand the Lannister's singing bird. And for him, she sung gladly. Had she really misunderstood, then, his scope of her affection for him? Or his, for her? Queen Sansa, who prided herself on reading all those who came before her?
She laughed then, short and bitter. "Gods, you must hate me. For what I have become. Like them. Like Cersei."
"I have a great many feelings towards you, your grace, and none of them are hatred," Sandor muttered, pained, as if he did not wish to allow the words past his lips, out of his mind, where they could be solitary and secret—but they escaped anyway.
"Tell me," she demands, the hardness that had encased her, since he had told her of his plans to depart, slowly chipping away. Queens do not weep, she reminded herself. She turned to him again. "And—and tell me why you believe that I would turn you away, when—when I am your friend, and your lover, when you are the only—the only one who stayed—what is a Tyrell to you? Some fat, Southron lord who knows my name and my claim—when you know my—my—"
"What am I, to some Tyrell?" he laughed, and it was empty, ringing with self-loathing. "I have no money, your grace. No family. I am what you have made me, and I will only wreck your kingdom. Think on Jeyne Westerling, your grace. I only think too kindly of you, little bird." His voice turned sad. "And if I stay, if you ask me to stay—then I will hate you. I would hate you, for that. To turn down Lord Tyrell's offer to build your kingdom. For a dog like me. Or if you do marry his son, and ask me to stay anyway… buggering hells…"
The anger sparked in her eyes. "I need no man to help me build my kingdom. Tell me what you feel for me, Sandor Clegane!"
He shook his head, where he sat, dressed like the Northern lord she made him. "You are my queen."
"That is not an answer, my lord." She took a step forward at his retreat. A woman can be just as powerful as a man. I can take what I want. Who I want. Who I love. "You cannot play me like you do others, in my name. I know you too well. Why do you stand at my door at night?"
"Because you are my lady."
"Yes, because you serve me, and the North." Sansa answered, voice mocking, almost mean. She would not let him retreat. Not when she almost broke it from him minutes ago. She was alone, a Queen out of sorts and a woman alone. He would not—he would not run from her. "Sandor Clegane. The Westerman, the commander of my guard. My adviser My confidant. My truest and dearest and only friend in all this world. You cannot lie to me."
"And so you try and force words from my mouth!" His voice rose, and Sansa folded her hands at the small of her back. "You cannot—"
"I love you," she murmured, face tilted towards the floor. "I know have not told you before…I-I love you, Sandor. You did not intend for me to, but by the Gods I have been left with no choice. I have no friends—" her words quickened, slipping past her lips with a quiet ferocity, knuckles whitening. She would not look at him. "—and very few allies. Not many who care for me, truly. Or listen to me. Or like me, really. No one but you. And, I think, my lord, that even if I had a choice, I would still choose you. For you are my match in every—"
"Stop!" he choked.
She lifted her head, and found his face more vulnerable than she could have expected, but did know—for she did know Sandor Clegane in almost every way, but not in this way. Not since green fire filled the darkened skies.
"My lady," he cried, almost. His legs carried him swiftly to her, and he looked as if he was about to place his hands over her shoulders, before the gesture was aborted. "My lady you cannot—"
"I do," she whispered back, unmoving. Her blue eyes, however, followed him. "I am Queen, am I not? Do I not know what I feel in my heart just as I know how to rule over my people?" Her eyes flooded with tears, and she did not wipe them away as they fell over and onto her cheeks. Queens do weep, when they are lone. But I am not alone. I am—in love. "I am in love with you. Love was Robb's great tragedy, but I am not promised to anyone. My heart is free to give."
"My queen…"
Her fingers trembled, hands shook, as she lifted them out to him, cupping the scarred side of his face. "Please," she begged. "Please. Tell me. What do you feel for me? For I have but the heart of a woman."
She knew the feel of his fingers molded to her thighs, but not the sound of the words on his lips.
"No," he told her, gently taking her hands in his, raising them to his lips. He is so much taller than me, she thought. The top of my head barely comes to his shoulder. And I am tall for a woman. He bent to her. "I am a dog, your grace. I cannot—I am not capable. I am your servant. I cannot be more."
"I am not lacking in intelligence, Sandor."
He exhaled heavily. "Bugger, you know what I feel for you," he told her tiredly, giving her no resistance as she moved her hands out of his grasp, bringing them to frame his hound-dog face.
"I do wish to hear it."
"It's wrong, little bird. I am the wrong man."
"I think," she said with a slight giggle, smiling. Once, her head was only filled with stories and songs. But love was a gamble, even there. That much she knew. And while Sansa did not gamble, she did know how to play the game. She could keep them safe. "I know."
"We could… this could end very bad, for us."
"What is it the bards say? Young love is always doomed."
He snorted derisively. "Seven hells, I'm no young pup. Nor are you."
"No," Sansa resolved, voice growing surer as her heart lifted. "We're not. Because we're going to succeed, where they failed. They will not take you from me. Nor I, from you."
"The first rule of the game is to never make promises you cannot keep," Sandor said, head shaking, hands spanning her waist, fingers entrenching in her soft gown. "You said that, Sansa." He paused, and laughed again, more to himself than to anyone else. "Think a little kinder of you, Sansa. I could not."
Her smile grew wider. "Say it again?"
"What?"
"My name," she entreated, bringing him closer. He came willingly, and she burrowed into the warmth of his furs. "Say my name."
"Sansa," he whispered, before pressing his lips to her forehead. "Sansa." Her nose. "Sansa." Her cheeks. "Sansa." Her chin.
"My love."
Her mouth.
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