The maps and letters on the table made for an overwhelming view. Sansa did not yet entirely grasped the nuances of military strategies and her commanders' talk of tactics and logistics left her exhausted.
Still, she listened and learned, remembering the particularly problematic passages or scribbling them down in shorthand on a scrap of paper. She would get back to these later, after the sun set down and her day's duties were done, in the soothing dimness of her tent.
Though her presence on the meetings was not required she could feel the spirits of her men being risen with her just sitting there, tempering the often not-too-diplomatic, passionate exchanges of their opinions.
Maester Wolis sat by her left hand, her brother by the right, both of them silent most of the time and both of them whispering into her ear every now and then, Maester Wolis his explanatory comments and Rickon annoyed questions or silly witticisms.
He stood behind her, slightly leaning on the wall, carefully positioned between two sconces. A brief silence fell upon the room, and she noticed several of the lords struggling to keep their heads up. For the last hour or so had Sansa been overcoming the urge to turn her head around to glance at him - it would have been with longing and impatience - but she dared not. She tried to refocus her mind on the subject at hand once more but finally decided to indulge herself.
She stood up, and with her all the men at the table, except for poor lame Maester Wolis, and those standing or prancing around turned to face her. Rickon was the last one to force himself from his seat, looking both amused and annoyed, for some reason. The silence deepened.
"My lords, I fear the weariness has claimed the better of us for the nonce. We shall continue tomorrow." One of her commanders mumbled a weary "your Grace" and she nodded her head, her hands folded on her belly.
Sansa turned on her heel, mid-turn allowing herself a quick glance at him, the one waiting and watching. As he bowed his head she noticed that for an instant his lips curled into a smirk.
I need to rest. I have to rest.
He followed her through the camp and into the tent, past the guards standing at the entrance. She left them with the instruction to not be disturbed. Her maid was inside - lighting a candle, with a bucket of dirty water at her feet - and she turned at once and curtsied clumsily. Sansa thanked her and sent her away and she went without lifting her gaze.
They were finally alone and Sansa turned slowly, with her head lowered. She realized she was nervously fingering the bracelet at her wrist and forced her hands down. There was a brazier in the corner, sizzling rather impudently in the silent room.
"Weary of war talk, are you?" His left hand was rested on the pommel of his sword, but she briefly studied the other one, unattended and unoccupied.
Then she closed the distance between them and their fingers interlaced. "I am weary, yes." She pressed herself into him, resting her other hand against his chest. His was limp for a moment in her grip, but then it contracted with a force and his other hand slipped from the sword to cup her chin. She bent her neck back to look at him and smiled, folding their entwined hands between them.
Sansa rested her head on his chest again and they did not speak for a long while. She had her eyes closed and knew he did not, that he watched her with that incredulous look he often had.
The moment enclosed them. The perception of each other filled their senses. For Sansa there was the dark behind her eyelids, timeless and uneventful, yet in these moments she felt the most alive. He was still wearing his armour, but his hands were warm, textured and familiar and felt like a part of her. The movement of his fingers made her skin tingle and her insides ache.
Her skin was smooth and silken and somehow fragrant to touch. All of her so tiny and delicate (almost ethereal) made Sandor want to hold her closer, hold her more tightly, to make sure she was there and not merely an idea of her, nor a stand-in paid for deception.
"I wanted to ask you about a few things, but I left my notes at the table." Sansa mumbled as she opened her eyes and moved to undo his swordbelt. As she pulled at the clasp his hand brushed past her body and rested hot against her waist. The belt with the scabbard fell heavy on the floor, with a loud thud.
She moved around him undoing the laces and clasps of his gorget, spaulders and vambraces and helped to remove his hauberk; that left them both fumbling and her giggling. He snorted at that. "Silly little bird. As if you had it any better. Squire or handmaiden, at the end of the day they are both there to strip you down."
There was a flask of wine on the table; Sandor filled two cups and sat down in one of the chairs.
"I can do well on my know without a maid, thank you very much," he heard her smile then, "and you too, so it seems."
He watched her putting her jewelry down and pulling the pins from her hair from across the room. She was slowly walking towards him as she was undoing the laces on her back, eyes cast down, her hair loose and wavy and heavy and bouncing with every step.
Sandor took a sip of wine, his eyes appreciating the contours of her body in the dim light of the tent, the way her skin glimmered. She wriggled off the gown and laid it carefully down onto a chest of drawers. Now she stood in her underdress before him and lifted her gaze to meet his.
Thoughtful and vulnerable and mine.
"Sansa." he said.
She did not answer; she took the other glass from the table, took a sip and put it down again, and then pulled his hand up to touch her chest, so he would feel the beat of her heart as she leaned towards him and kissed him hungrily on the lips. He dropped the glass instantly, deepening the kiss before pulling back to turn her around and pulled her down into his lap, holding her wrists tightly in one hand as he moved the other against her back, up and down. Sansa turned her neck to meet his lips again, moving slowly, rhythmically against his crotch. He moved his hand across her chest, brushing against her breast briefly before resting it hot and heavy against her throat, his thumb and fingers tracing the outline of her clavicles.
Sandor felt her pulsing underneath his fingers, hot and wanting and so beautiful. In the dim red light of the tent she seemed to be made of porcelain and fire.
And she burns, aye.
Her eyelids were flushed, her torso twisted to lean at his chest, his arms encircling her waist.
"Call me it," she whispered.
He smirked when he said it.
He always does that now. He likes it too, though.
It used to remind Sansa of the place and time she did not like to think about, but somewhere along the way she grew fond of the name.
It talks of him as much as it does of me.
Sandor called her it to mock her, at first – or rather to slap her to open her eyes; after that to caress her in his mind without really touching her.
The name touched her - he touched her and ever since then Sansa yearned for that touch to turn real.
"Sandor," she said back.
Sansa felt him shudder slightly as she found his lips again; when he deepened the kiss she felt his need enter her in a bolt. They moved in rhythm – for some reason an image of mating snakes popped into her mind and made her blush. Sansa saw them once and thought for a while they were dancing, until someone told her the truth of it. It became somehow obscene – in a snap – and she averted her eyes then, an innocent child, scarless.
That was so long ago, though. She was seventeen now and had witnessed things that had made her terrified and hurt and nauseous and stunned and pleading and despairing and dumbstruck. There used to be very few things she could cling to for comfort – and only in her mind, in secret. Those were good secrets.
Tyrion never really touched her. The others...
I don't want to think about them. I don't want to think about that. It's all done and forgotten and I'm here now. I. Am. Here.
It was too late though. A slight whimper escaped her lips and she stopped moving. Their faces were still touching when Sansa flicked open her eyes and felt him froze.
"Just... hold me. Please." He exhaled heavily and embraced her tightly against his chest. The hotness of him was soothing, as was the touch of his fingers as he caressed her hair.
Sandor desperately wanted to say something, to comfort her, to offer her a few reassuring words. But the only words that came to his mind were curses – he wanted to curse them all, to seven hells and beyond, them in King's Landing and the Vale and everywhere in between and most of all he wanted to curse the one man that left her behind, left her to suffer it all. He was not there when she needed him most, and she repaid him with her redeeming presence when he felt himself obliterated.
But I never really was, not with her breathing. Only lost an blind. And weak.
He picked her up, clinging to his neck, and brought her to bed. She extended her hand towards him.
Sandor just watched her for a while – and then laid down beside her and, as Sansa moved her hand to cup his cheek, embraced her.