The next morning Sansa rose early, despite being tired. She did not know when she'd see Sandor but she knew she should try to keep to her usual routine, no matter how little it interested her.
"Will you be going to the market today, my lady?" Lucy asked as she helped Sansa dress.
"No, San- . . . Sandor Clegane advised against it. He said the rain would make the streets muddy and difficult to travel."
Lucy nodded in approval before bustling off to tend to Sansa's laundry. Sansa looked herself over in the mirror before casting her eyes toward the balcony. She'd felt free and powerful last night. Yes, it was a little embarrassing to think that Sandor had seen her naked breasts but it had only been when the lightning flashed. A part of her wanted him to look at her again and a part of her wanted to show herself to him. A blush crept up her cheeks at the idea. She'd made certain she put on pretty smallclothes that morning, silky things that made her feel like a woman grown. She wondered what Sandor's reaction would be if, her breath caught at the thought of when, he saw them but then shook herself out of such unladylike thoughts.
Sansa clasped the bracelet Sandor had given her around her wrist and slipped the dagger into her pocket. She made her way to the dining hall and broke her fast with Septa Mordane. The two then spent a peaceful hour praying at the sept. As her septa knelt before the Crone, Sansa looked up at the Maiden and wondered if she'd ever longed to be otherwise. The statue of the Maiden smiled beatifically, forever untouched and seemingly happy to be so. For the first time, Sansa's sense of kinship with the Maiden was tinged with pity. There was joy to be had in . . . in Sandor's arms. It seemed a shame to be deprived of that. Perhaps the Maiden does not long for . . . Sansa wondered what it was she longed for. Sandor, certainly, but the power to choose primarily. Sansa would remain a maid until her father allowed her marriage to Joffrey to take place, until the king and queen set a date, and until Joffrey chose to deflower her, no doubt right away. Of course, the marriage would only take place if there was no question her maidenhead was intact. All that was expected of Sansa was that she preserve her body until it was ready to be used by others to secure their own arrangements. The injustice of this, for injustice she now perceived it to be, made her uncomfortable and frustrated almost to the point of being angry. Sandor had given her a choice last night and she had chosen wrong when taking everybody but herself into consideration. She could not feel there was anything wrong in sharing what she'd shared with Sandor. He felt like sanctuary to her and she suspected he might feel the same about her. Still, truth be told, she was afraid of losing her maidenhead. She'd heard it would hurt and there would be blood and mess and just the thought made her shudder.
"Is anything amiss, my dear?"
"It's kind of you to inquire." Sansa took a steadying breath. "I'm merely tired. The storm kept me awake last night."
"Yes, it was quite a gale. It would have left us a foot of snow at home."
Sansa agreed but, much as she missed her home, Sandor was not there and so the north, at least for the present, had lost some of its appeal.
After leaving the sept, she and Septa Mordane made their way back toward the castle, picking their way around puddles and tracts of mud. The sky was the color of dull steel and a dampness hung in the air.
"Lady Sansa."
Sansa had not been aware of anyone behind them and hearing his voice so much earlier than she'd hoped to threw her heart into a spin.
"Good morning, my lord." Sansa fought to keep from grinning. He met her eye but his gaze dropped to her chest for just a moment and she felt her composure slip. Last night had been so wonderful she could scarcely stand still, the thrill of anticipation was coursing through her so violently. For his part, he looked as indifferent as ever and perhaps a little tired.
"I ask your leave to spend the morning in the training yard, if you have no need of an escort."
"The morning is yours, my lord. I don't anticipate leaving the Red Keep today."
Sandor nodded and headed in the direction of the stables.
"He's no fit guard for a lady of your standing, Sansa, dear, the Seven spare me for saying so," Septa Mordane intoned, her forehead creasing in displeasure.
The memory of the wind on her bare skin and the feel of Sandor against her as they lay in bed together suddenly made her blood run warmer. "He's one of the finest warriors in the Seven Kingdoms, Septa Mordane."
"A killer, and you, such a fine lady," her septa sniffed. "Surely one of the knights could have seen to your safety while the hunt goes on, if not someone from our own household."
"He is better than any knight," Sansa replied immediately, aware that a trace of vehemence had entered her tone. "Queen Cersei would not have Prince Joffrey protected by anyone lesser. Everyone knows how much she loves her children."
"As you say, my lady, but Prince Joffrey is a boy and, while such rough company may do well enough for a lad, a lady's escort should be gentle and refined."
"I'm quite certain my lady mother and lord father would agree, having chosen you as my septa and companion."
Septa Mordane looked highly gratified and patted Sansa's arm affectionately.
"Don't fear for me while Sandor Clegane has charge of my care, septa. His address may be lacking but my safety is assured. And it is only for a little while," she added, striving to sound matter-of-fact instead of wistful.
"You have the right of it I'm sure, my dear. Your charming betrothed will return soon along with the rest of the court and things will be as they were."
Sansa pushed a smile onto her face as her heart sank. "Just so."
After she and Septa Mordane parted company, Sansa wandered about the castle. She considered going to watch Sandor train but a part of her resisted. So much had happened the previous night, she needed time to digest it, much as she wanted to be with him again. He'd excused himself from her company so perhaps he needed some space as well.
Eventually, Sansa found herself at the library. Tyrion Lannister was gathering up some books as she arrived. Hearing her footfall, he turned. "Ah, Lady Sansa. What brings you here? I was not aware that you were a great reader."
Sansa fought off a frown. Did all of the Lannisters think her unintelligent? "I enjoy reading very much, Lord Tyrion, but the day is so dreary I thought perhaps a book of songs would be just the thing to lift the gloom."
"I prefer history, even with the gloom, but, if you'll permit me, I believe we have one or two books of song that might serve."
Sansa followed as the Imp waddled amongst the bookcases. After he stopped and scanned the shelves, he pointed to one above even Sansa's head. "That one there may interest you."
Sansa reached for a volume.
"No, the other, the green binding."
Sansa laid her hand on the correct book and pulled it down from the shelf.
"Yes, that's the one. It was a favorite of Myrcella's when she was small and I read it to her often. The songs are organized chronologically by region of origin so, in a way, it's a historical text as well."
Sansa flipped through the pages and saw maps and beautiful illustrations along with a number of songs she didn't recognize. She was excited at the prospect of losing herself within them for a little while. She smiled at Lord Tyrion. "This will do perfectly. Thank you ever so much."
The Imp inclined his head. His mismatched eyes disconcerted her but she held her smile. "Enjoy, Lady Sansa." He made his way back toward the front of the library and, after a moment, Sansa heard him leave.
She walked to a marble alcove removed from the shelves where a grate contained a small fire. Sansa pulled a chair close and sunk into the cushions, drawing her feet up under her and eagerly opening the book. She decided to begin in the north and smiled as she read through the songs she'd heard and sung all her life. Towards the end of the section was a song she didn't know called The First Man. The illustrations were done in deep shades of black and red with touches of blue and grey. The First Man depicted sat tall on his lively black horse, glaring out of the page with the confidence of a conqueror, his dark hair caught in the wind, his strong hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The familiarity of that look jolted her and she stared back at him for a long moment before moving on to the lyrics.
See him there, on his horse so fierce,
Long bronze sword, made to pierce,
Leather shield is his defense,
Grey eyes narrowed, muscles tense,
Think none stronger crossed this land,
For he is the first, he is the First Man.
Hear him there, rasping in Old Tongue,
Harsh, cold language, no songs to be sung,
There is truth in his words, however told,
Angry, bitter, sullen, bold,
He may be savage but understand,
Solitary is the First Man.
Sheltered there, 'hind his icy wall,
A steady warmth will melt it all,
Leaving him open and unprotected,
Hunted, hated, unaccepted,
So, cold and solid, built to plan,
It is this wall that protects the First Man.
Forgive him then, for cutting trees,
Setting fire to the dark red leaves,
He trusts his strength and his eyes alone,
As he strives to build his home,
Opposition will not long stand,
Against the proud and strong First Man.
Know the children were strong, too,
And fought with water, deep and blue,
From their gods they drew their power,
Flooding the Neck from atop their Tower,
Then peace was forged across the land,
They lived in union with the First Man.
Trust him then, for he made a pact,
Protecting those he once attacked,
Horse and shield and sword he turned,
Weirwood trees he left unburned,
Think none more loyal, take his hand,
For he is the first, he is the First Man.
The song reminded her of Sandor in many ways and Sansa sat feeling thoughtful for some time. First, indeed, she mused.
She chided herself for not using their time apart to do something other than think about him so she turned the page and tried to be absorbed by The Night That Ended. She wondered how Jon was and if taking the black had made him happy or if his experience, like her own in King's Landing, had not quite lived up to his expectations. With a sigh, she moved on to the Riverlands and absently read over the lyrics to On a Misty Morn. These songs reminded her too much of her mother and she could feel herself sinking into glumness. Surely a rousing song would be found in the catalog from the Iron Islands. She read Steel Rain with marginal interest. The tune was lively enough but the subject matter didn't interest her. Her heart was not to be captivated by images of rain and the sea on this overcast day. Finally she gave in and flipped to the songs of the Westerlands. Sansa skipped over the ones about Lann the Clever, being in no mood to celebrate Lannister history. Historical ballads for the region were otherwise few and far between (she noticed The Rains of Castamere was not in the volume, indicating it had been compiled at least two generations ago) but she did, however, come across a pretty song called My Knight. Each stanza was illustrated with a gilt-edged oval depicting in lush greens, cool whites, and calm grays the scene described.
Brave and strong and fair and true,
All these things to me are you,
Let me join you on your horse,
And we will trot a merry course,
My knight, my knight, my knight.
Shining steel and sharpened lance,
Thundering hooves on summer grass,
Beating hearts and courtly speech,
Victory's within your reach,
My knight, my knight, my knight.
Righteous cause and noble deed,
Handsome knight on fearless steed,
Truth and justice brought to pass,
Grateful lord, admiring lass,
My knight, my knight, my knight.
Tie a ribbon to your sword,
As you leave to serve your lord,
My faithfulness will never waver,
To you alone I give my favor,
My knight, my knight, my knight.
And when you once again return,
Our lips will meet, our hearts will churn,
And I will pray I may deserve,
My lord, my husband, and my ser,
My knight, my knight, my knight.
Build us castles in the sky,
And up to them we both shall fly,
Stars and clouds our neighbors be,
And I will love eternally,
My knight, my knight, my knight.
Sansa sighed at the sweetness of the images and wished she'd known this song as a child. She read it over and over again until she had the words and melody committed to heart. After that the Reach's When Willum's Wife was Wet and Dorne's The Dornishman's Wife held no attraction for her. A simple life with the love of a good man formed her idea of the seven heavens. Sansa closed the book and stared into the fire, Sandor lingering at the edges of her thoughts. A couple of hours had passed and her rumbling stomach made her extract herself from her upholstered cocoon.
On the way to the dining hall, she walked along an exterior corridor and saw Sandor and Harry in the yard below. She stepped back into the shadows and watched as Sandor pulled off his dog's-head helm and shook out his long, sweaty hair before tipping his head back to drink deeply from a wineskin. Harry was saying something to him and Sandor nodded before taking another drink. A few knights were there but the field was mainly composed of men-at-arms. The atmosphere was mild, it contented Sansa to see, and she walked on.
Jeyne was in the dining hall and Sansa joined her, grateful for the distraction. They caught up with each other as they ate and, over cards in Jeyne's room later, they made plans to pack a meal and eat outside the following afternoon. Sansa returned to her own room and took her sewing out to the balcony. The clouds were breaking to let the late afternoon sun warm the fields and she hummed as she stitched, missing at first the knocking on her door. It was Sandor.
"I've come to escort you to the dining hall for the evening meal."
"How very thoughtful. Thank you. I'll be ready in just a moment."
He followed her to the doors leading to the balcony but did not step outside while she gathered up her sewing. When Sansa turned, she saw him looking at the stone bench and felt the weight of his eyes on her when she returned inside and made ready to leave. After Sandor closed the door behind them, he tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and softly ran his fingertips over her knuckles as they walked down the stairs. She breathed in the clean scent of him and felt as content as could be until they exited the Tower. Sansa then adopted a neutral expression and Sandor conducted her through the muddy courtyard in the most perfunctory manner. They entered the castle and she reluctantly released his arm. She should have had food sent to her room and asked Sandor to dine with her again. Instead, she sat with Arya, who cast a malevolent glare at Sandor, who smirked in return before taking up a post against the wall.
"I wish you two would be civil."
"I wish he hadn't killed my friend."
"I wish he hadn't, either, but you know it was under orders."
Arya wrinkled her nose. "He knew Micah didn't attack Joffrey. He knew it!"
"Lower your voice, please. He wasn't there so he didn't know. Let's not argue about this again."
Her sister gave her a look but only said, "Why do you care anyway? The Hound doesn't care. He just growls and snaps at me."
"Perhaps because you attack him all the time."
"I don't -"
"Arya, please." Sansa tried to think of a way to convince her to stop being so impolite to Sandor. "Maybe it . . . bothers him that he had to . . . do that."
Arya scoffed as she spooned some gravy over her potatoes.
"Not everyone gets to do as they please all the time."
"Joffrey does."
"You're right." Arya looked mollified by that. Sansa continued quietly, "He gets to have Sandor do his bidding and Joffrey is not always fair."
"He's never fair."
"No. He's not," Sansa answered, her voice barely a whisper.
Arya looked at Sandor from under her brow and seemed to consider Sansa's words for a moment. When she spoke again, Sansa was prepared for another argument and so she was surprised when, instead, Arya said, "So he's Sandor now?"
The air seemed to freeze in Sansa's lungs. "He is not a ser or a lord and I think calling him Hound is rude."
Arya took a large bite of chicken and chewed it while looking at Sansa. Sansa did not want to discuss Sandor any further so she asked, "How are your dancing lessons going?"
Her sister's eyes dropped to her plate. "They're fine."
"What are you learning?"
Arya named a couple of northern dances in a somewhat questioning tone.
"Why are you being taught those? It's not likely we'll do them while in the south."
"I don't know!" she snapped. "I just do what the dancing master tells me to do!"
Sansa didn't understand why her sister had to be so touchy. She surmised that the lessons must not have improved her sister's skill. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I'm sure they're a good foundation, and you won't be living in King's Landing forever so maybe that's why you're learning them."
"Maybe."
Sansa delicately cut her string beans as Arya took a drink from her goblet. "Jeyne and I are going to eat our midday meal outside tomorrow. Would you like to come with us?"
"Maybe," Arya answered absently, looking around the hall.
Sansa dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. She was a little put out that she was making such an effort to be courteous when Arya could scarcely be bothered to do the same. It frustrated her all the more because she wanted to spend every moment with Sandor and knowing she couldn't made her edgy. She couldn't even talk about him - not with Jeyne and certainly not with Arya. Sansa missed her mother so much and, not for the first time, she wished she had a sister more like herself and less like the bruised and wild one across the table. The stress of hiding her affair (the very term made her wince) coupled with the excitement and uncertainty she felt over her increasing intimacy with Sandor made her nerves raw and ragged. If she discussed her worries with Sandor, for she'd never be able to tell him how he made her blood fizz with joy, he'd take it as a sign of rejection or, worse, decide the matter for her and stay away. No, she was stuck. Filling the hours she couldn't be with Sandor was taxing enough without enduring her sister's incivilities. Really, what was so hard about making polite conversation?
"What are your plans for tomorrow, that you'd rather not come with us?"
"What?" Arya dragged her gaze back over to her sister.
"I was asking about your plans, since you don't want to join us."
"Who?"
"Jeyne and me. What do you keep looking for?"
"Nothing."
Sansa huffed out a sigh. She let her eyes move to where Sandor was standing. He was looking at her, his expression as stony as ever. She frowned, feeling inexplicably cranky and ill-suited to be in company. He approached the table. "Yes, Lady Sansa?"
"I'm ready to return to my room."
"I'll go back with you," Arya chimed.
Now she starts paying attention? Sansa thought a little resentfully.
The three of them walked through the castle and out into the courtyard. Sandor offered Sansa his arm and she leaned into him. Arya hopped over puddles, making Sansa want to scream. At least she wasn't spraying them with mud. When they finally reached Arya's room, Sansa gave her sister a prompting look.
"Goodnight, Sansa." A pause. "Thank you for seeing me back, Sandor," she added with a wicked smile.
Sansa opened her mouth to scold her sister but Arya ducked into her room and shut the door with a laugh.
"I apologize for her free speech."
"Seems a habit with you Stark girls."
Sansa stiffened.
Sandor brought his mouth close to her ear. "I like it. You're honest."
Sansa smiled shyly and they climbed the stairs arm-in-arm and walked down the hall in silence. Sansa's heart stopped when Sandor followed her into her room and encircled her from behind with his arms. He bent to kiss the back of her neck, sending little tremors of pleasure down her spine.
"You're teasing me."
Sandor gave a surprised laugh. "I can do more than tease, girl, don't you worry about that."
Sansa's stomach clenched.
He chuckled low. "Or is that what you want?" He leaned over her and kissed her collarbone, the hands that had been at her sides sliding up just slightly.
Sansa hedged awkwardly. There was no right answer. She wanted more but how much more, she wasn't sure. More than was good for her, probably, especially if he kept kissing her.
"What do you want?"
"All," he answered quietly, his lips moving from her collarbone over her shoulder to her back. He pushed her gown aside and kissed along her back to the top of her arm, making Sansa squirm. "Send your maid away for the night. Let me have you."
"Now you really are teasing me." She giggled nervously as heat blotched her skin.
Sandor moved to stand in front of her, amusement playing across his features. In a flash, he scooped her into his arms and was carrying her to bed. He laid her down and let his weight press her into the feather mattress. His lips found her neck and trailed down lower and suddenly a hand was on her breast.
Sansa was suffocating. Sandor exhaled noisily and kissed between her breasts, his hand pressing one against his face before he turned to draw his tongue over the top of it. His fingertips dipped into her gown, taking the entirety of her breast into his broad palm. Sansa's hands fluttered against his arms, wanting to stop him and wanting to succumb at the same time. Her mind was racing in circles, helpless against the instincts of her body. "Mmm," she murmured.
"More, little bird?" He turned his wrist, forcing the fabric of her gown aside, exposing her. Her nipple was between his lips before she could draw breath to answer. His suckling seemed to churn a well of desire within her. She pressed herself against him, her strength to refuse him all but gone.
"Much more," she breathed.
Sandor chuckled and returned to her breast, freeing the other one moments later and sipping at it softly. He pressed a kiss to her breastbone while squeezing her flesh against either side of his face. "Gods, you're perfect," he murmured.
For some reason, tears pricked the backs of her eyes.
When she didn't answer, he drew back to look at her. "I'd satisfy you if I could. Believe that."
Warmth stole over Sansa's cheeks. "I do. And I . . . I would . . ."
Joy suffused his face. At least, that's what Sansa thought it was, never having seen him look that way before. "Would you?" he rasped, looking intently into her eyes, his own oddly glassy.
The Maiden help her, it was the truth. She nodded, terrified to voice what might be taken for a promise. Fear pressed the air out of her lungs. He leaned in to kiss her while gently pulling up the neckline of her gown. He stood and pulled her to her feet, hugging her hard against him. Sansa felt him draw in a deep shaky breath. An instant later he shoved her away and sprang toward the door.
Lucy walked in carrying a basket of clothing, singing under her breath, but froze when she saw her lady was not alone. "I beg your pardon."
"There is nothing to pardon, Lucy." She looked at Sandor, her mind emptying of everything but what she'd just said.
"The market streets are still likely to be muddy tomorrow, Lady Sansa." He sounded bored.
"Perhaps you're right."
"I am. I won't have my horse going lame because he slipped in the mud."
Sansa tried to summon a look of annoyance. Lucy was staring at Sandor, a shocked look on her face. "I've been indoors all day and would like some fresh air. You may escort me to the godswood tomorrow, if you think it will be dry enough."
He shrugged. "You don't need my horse to go to the godswood."
Lucy seemed to realize she was staring and moved toward Sansa's wardrobe.
"Fine. I will meet you in the main hall tomorrow after I break my fast. Lucy, has the cobbler returned my boots?"
"I will look, Lady Sansa." She exited into the dressing room.
Sandor bowed his head briefly. "My lady."
"My lord," Sansa answered a little breathlessly.
"Until tomorrow."
