Author's Notes: I had no plans for a companion piece to "Any Less of a Man", but that one little scene that was merely mentioned wouldn't leave me alone, and a short poem by the same title, "Isolation" by Arthur Symons, was the inspiration to finally write it out. Except for the last stanza of the poem which I took out, feeling it didn't go with the story. But feel free to look it up, and tell me I'm wrong... maybe I'll add it later.
I wrote that they only did "it" once, and did not regret it... and I was like "how the...?" I really wrote myself a loose end there (in my mind). So here is my drawn out conclusion that explains such.
I hope this story is as enjoyed as much as the original story from whence this came.
When your lips seek my lips they bring
That sorrowful and outcast thing
My heart home from its wandering.
Sansa lay across Sandor's chest, lazily drawing circles through his chest hair, humming a vague tune. He, in turn, unconsciously caressed her arm and back, staring at the darkened ceiling of her room with many thoughts chasing each other in his head.
There are many questions he'd like to ask, and truths he'd like to share, but none of them break the bliss they share. He'd like to know if he was good, or if her husband had ever pleased her half as well as he had just a few moments ago. He'd like to tell her Lord Stark isn't worthy of her, and then that he himself isn't worthy of her. Somehow, no man is worthy of Sansa, least of all himself...
He wants to ask her if her husband fucked her seven ways to heaven, or if he was as dutiful in the bed as he was in the main hall. He wants Sansa to tell him that he is whom she thinks of when she's moaning for her rightful man... He'd tell her all the whores he's had lately have taken her face, but he doesn't tell her that, either. Nor of his fading lusts, that leave him seeking other pursuits to fill up his hours. As if that would make her any happier; filling his days with things to take her off his mind. She'd rather he married happily himself. He wants to tell her it's too late for him.
He wishes to make plans for more clandestine meetings, to claim her again and again, right under her cuckolded husband's roof. He wants to watch her body swell with his bastards, not his heirs; bastards that will be claimed by his lord as legitimate, but that he and Sansa will know as their own progeny.
It's possible; she is only eight and twenty, her oldest child is only ten. He has reached his forties, but is well aware of men, many examples, older then he who have sired offspring.
But all that comes out of his mouth to break the peace is, "Do you feel guilty?" because he certainly does.
Then ere your lips have loosed their hold,
I feel my heart's heat growing cold,
And my heart shivers and grows old.
Her hand stops moving, and her humming fades to silence. His hand continues to caress her though, allowing her time to reflect, and answer.
She thinks that she should feel guilty; after all, she does love her husband. He is all that a woman could want in a spouse, and more. He has taken her family name for her, and had helped her take her family home back from the traitors. He has given her four children that they both love and he has allowed them certain freedoms even she did not have, and she had it better than others, she knows.
Her husband is out in the waist-high snow, hunting for meat that is scarce, hunting for food that is slowly dwindling in Winterfell's stores. Her people, their people, are cold, hungry, and miserable. And here she is, warm and loved, lying in the arms of a man who is not her husband. A man her husband trusted to keep their family safe, a man her husband knows is loved by her. To place that trust in them and for more than a senight besides...
This man, Sandor, he had followed her, after they saved themselves (at times, it's unclear who saved whom, but it certainly was together), and has pledged his sword not only to her, but to her whole family, including the man he gave her away to. Yes, he had escorted her down the aisle of red leaves, and had gauged the man she had allied herself to, and had delicately, deliberately, slowly, given her hand away under the watchful eyes of the old ones.
Sandor had watched her as a captured bird, and later as a freed one, and rarely gave her cause to worry. He drunkenly threatened her once, and from time to time was rowdy within Wintertown, but he never crossed the line. He even protected her honor with whores, choosing different ones of different coloring so no one could accuse him (or embarrass her) of an inappropriate lust or affair. It was a strange way to protect her; after all, she could hardly expect to be happy about his dalliances. However, she cannot have his devotion in that matter, as much as he can't have hers.
He gave her truths, though, and a sword for her protection, a shield for her children, and a handshake for her husband; he was a soothing presence and a faithful companion.
Her husband was good for her, and for Winterfell. But Sandor, he was her everything.
"No." she replied, continuing again to stroke his bare chest.
He stops caressing her arm, placing a hand over her shoulder and squeezing her closer. He kisses her crown, and releases her again. "He is a good man." He says of her lordly husband. "He deserves better than this."
Sansa chuckles, looking up to his face and finding him looking towards her with a smirk as well, "My dear Master-at-arms," she chides, "I almost feel as if he should be here, instead of me!"
At that, Sandor laughs loud and long, shaking her pleasantly. "Aye," he says, when he calms down, "I admit I admire the man." And he sobers up. "I never wanted to fool him."
Her hand that has been tracing patterns onto his chest now reaches up to caress his scarred cheek. "Neither do I, my love." She now traces patterns onto his lips, "But I cannot help but feel elated right now. Even as I think of him, I think: this isn't about fooling him, it's about us. About how I love you, and you me, and for once, just one night, affirming it for true." And she leans up to kiss him again, not waiting for a reply.
Sated again, this time her back is to him, and he caresses her stomach, while he inhales the scent of her hair. She hums again in contentment.
She has had four children, all ten and younger, two of each. They are good children, he thinks, much better then he and Gregor had been, better even then the Lannister brood, both generations. He feels pride at being the Stark children's protector, more then he has ever felt pride. Even protecting Sansa as barely a woman grown had been more stressful than not. He imagines that even if he and Sansa had had children, they wouldn't have been as perfect as Lord Stark's brood is.
Lord Stark, how Sandor hates the man. He's just so hard to really abhor, to want to kill or remove from the picture, and take things over. It's true, though, the one truth he keeps from Sansa, that he loves her husband. Not in a romantic way, but as a brother, such a one that he's never had. A younger one that looks up to Sandor, and asks for advice and protection and all those honorable things brothers ask of each other. It shamed Sandor at first, how much he still harbored strong feelings of love for Sansa after he gave her away to this good and honorable man.
Now, though, he finds reassurance in her love, and of her family's love. Who knew there would be comfort in such? He gave it five years, in the beginning, before he swore things would become too unbearable. Most days, now, he feels as if he is the father of this family, Sansa and Stark themselves too. The affection is overwhelming at times; he has never known such goodness.
Her reassuring words and gentle touches have calmed his guilt, and this night of perfection is one to treasure, not one to feel shame over. Only one thing could possibly ruin it.
"You'll take the tea, won't you?"
She's quiet for a long while, and he thinks he knows what she's thinking, of wanting proof of their love, of their time together, for they have nothing else. He's prepared to argue, but she so quietly finally responds, "I will."
He takes her one more time, before they fall asleep.
In the morning, though it is still the long dark of winter, they kiss seven and seventy times. He kisses her awake and she returns it as a "good morning". They dress, and hug, and kiss between articles of clothing. They stand at the door, and kiss. He starts to leave, but turns around, and kisses her once more. When she starts to shed silent tears, he kisses them away, before kissing her again, allowing her hands to cup his cheeks, to kiss away his own tears.
And finally, when he walks down the hall away from her, boots silent and grey woolen cape fluttering, she kisses her hand in farewell.
When your lips leave my lips, again
I feel the old doubt and the old pain
Tighten about me like a chain.
A senight later, Lord Stark returns to Winterfell triumphant. Between him and his hunters, they have brought back several sleds of deer, boar, aurochs, pheasants, and other game. He greets Lady Stark last, kissing her as if there was no one else in the yard, causing their household to either hide their amusement or give in to it by cheering aloud. Sandor remains stony, but Lord Stark knows not to be insulted or threatened by it. That night, the lord spends time kissing his lady senseless.
Afterwards, laying on her lord husband's chest, frowning at his chest but caressing it all the same, Sansa tires to remember if she did the right thing or not. Not of loving Sandor, no, never that: but of what followed after.
The morning Sandor left her chambers after a night of affirming their love; she sat in her solar, eating her breakfast and waiting for her tea to cool. The window distracted her, of seeing morning stars of winter peeking through the dour and seemingly ever-present clouds. She had gotten out of her chair, tea in hand, and remembered night lessons with Maester Luwin; lessons of the warrior, Orion, and the women he chased, and of his hunting dogs, Canis' Major and Minor. She smiles as her own stories fill her head. Maybe she'll share them with her children tonight...
As she feels her husband's seed dry on her thighs, she can't recall if she remembered to place the appropriate herbs in her tea, or not, so sidetracked she was by the stars…
Would it matter either way? She can't know now, either way, so what if she became pregnant? Whoever's baby it would be, it would be hers, it would be a Stark, and that's all that matters. And if truth were told, she almost wishes it could be Sandor's.
Her features smooth again, and she contemplates her husband's youthful and colorful hair, as opposed to Sandor's already graying ones. While they are vastly different men, she will not compare their love or sexual ways. That would be unfair to either, and to her. So she basks in her husband's arms, and remembers Sandor's, content to live in a situation she couldn't change if she wanted, and happy Sandor was there to protect her and, constrained though they may be, love her.