Sleep did not come easily that night. He restlessly tossed for hours, his thoughts racing between the feel of her lips and the tug on his robes from a child's hands. Towards dawn he managed to slip off, only to be woken three or four hours later by a cockerel crowing. It sounded like the damned thing was shouting into his ear at the side of the bed. He groaned, loudly, practically rolling onto the floor before his feet decided they would work after all, catching his weight so he could stand. There was a knock at the door so he shuffled over slowly, rubbing sleep from his eyes. It was probably the Elder Brother.
But it wasn't the holy man. Sansa stood outside his door again, dressed and clean, with her hair twisted into plaits that piled up on top of her head. He'd have thrown his robes on if he had known it was her. Her early morning visit was completely unexpected, leaving him to stand awkwardly in nothing but a pair of breeches.
Her eyes went wide; laughably large and he had to bite at his tongue to stop from doing so. Shifting from one foot to the other she swept her eyes over him from head to toe. She stopped at his chest before moving down along his body where she, oddly, gazed at his bare feet for a few moments before yanking her head back up to look him in the eye. He smirked. Looks of yearning or adoration were lost on him but he'd seen that pleasantly surprised glimpse on a woman's face before. There had been a few whores who had been taken with the same look when they realized that the ruin of his face did not extend to his body. There were numerous scars from battle of course, but nothing to rival what the flames of his youth had given him. Even he wasn't blind to the fact that he made a decent enough specimen; at least from the neck down. Sansa was looking at his chest again.
"You need something?" he tried. Her attention was welcome but it was her after all. The fact that is was Sansa, not a random slag, giving him appreciative stares was a moored ship ready to be set free to sail into dangerous waters. It was best to try and sort out what she wanted, before sending her on her way.
"I . . . um, I," she stammered. He did laugh then. The Lady Stark left speechless and without her courtesies? Because of him? It was fucking hilarious. She'd always kept her wits about her before.
"Did you want to come in?" he teased, opening the door wider. He couldn't help it. This was new for him. She was nervous in front of him and it wasn't because of his piss poor temper.
"No! No, I'm fine," she hurriedly stated, waving her hands at him. "I only wanted to see if you were ready for the first meal. If you like you could sit with me and the rest of the council in my private dining chamber. The Maester and Bullis will be there. Anteros as well."
It was a tempting proposition. It would mean more time with her. And there would be a chance to see the boy again. But he recalled the emotions that had tried to strangle him when he was confronted with the two of them at the same time. He didn't know if he could make it through a meal, sitting as if nothing were out of place with others around him. He wasn't even certain if he could manage to eat with both of them near.
He shook his head. "Another day . . ." he started. She pouted. It was expected. There was no gentle way to tell her that he could see. He offered a hand to her again which she took just as quickly as the previous night. The gesture brought him both satisfaction and a strange sort of grief for the Hound. How many Kings would he have told to bugger off years ago to have her reach for him without a second thought as she did now? Countless thousands if that had been what it took. But it had only taken one and time.
"Not yet, Little Bird. I'll do nothing but stare at the two of you," he explained. She still looked disappointed but gave him a brief nod of her head in understanding. Looking down at their hands, her eyes trailed up past his wrist, eyebrows raising in alarm at the scars the arm bore. Well, that was the end of impressing her, he thought. But she only furrowed her brow in concern, not fear, lifting the fingers of her other hand and letting them hover in the air above his second set of burns.
"What happened?'
"Fire," he told her simply.
"Again?"
"Aye."
"Not your brother!"
"No, not him. Those are more recent. A trial by combat. I won but not without pain."
"I'm sorry."
"What for? You had nothing to do with it."
"I just . . . I don't like seeing you hurt. I don't like thinking about it. The night of the Blackwater, I prayed for you. I prayed you would come back safe. That you would find peace. And then you did come back and I tried to give you what little peace I could."
She let her fingers fall lightly on his arm, the pads skimming over his mottled, rugged flesh. There was no hair from his wrist to elbow. The fire from Beric's sword had burned deep. He could barely feel her; the scars on his arm were nearly as bad as the ones on his face. It still made him pull in a breath though. If she were willing to touch those marks then maybe, one day, she would grace others with her hands.
…..
She had left him shortly thereafter. During their usual morning council meeting he swore his forearm itched and tingled like never before every time he looked at her. Later on in the afternoon she found him in the stables.
"Come," she told him. "Take a break."
The Elder Brother watched them exit the stalls. He would have to explain to the man soon why the Lady was demanding so much of his time lately. He followed Sansa around the back of the house to the large back yard. The activity of the morning had slowed, leaving only a few women hanging laundry and a group of children playing. Sansa led him up into an unmanned guard tower where they could look down on the yard. He spotted the hair that matched his own from their raised height.
"Do you see him?" she asked. He could only give her a grunt in reply. Words didn't usually escape him. Hard or soft he always had something to say. It might be nothing but a string of curses and insults but it was rarely ever silence. That's all he had to give her now. He grasped the railing in front of him. It had been wise of him to refuse her invitation earlier in the day. He would have had to excuse himself within minutes. It was just as overwhelming as it had been last night. Trying to put the lad and Sansa and he all together in his head was a devastatingly beautiful challenge.
There was warmth at his fingers. She had copied him, laying her hands against the wooden railing as well. The sides of their hands touched and she slipped her last finger over top of his. He stifled a biting bark of a laugh. He was a fool. He'd never make it through anything other than kisses with her. Anything more and he'd lose himself to weeping at her feet. She caught him gazing at her.
"Watch him, not me," she scolded. He did as she instructed. The children were taking turns rolling a wooden hoop across the yard while several of them tried to see how many leather balls they could toss through the moving target. Anteros was doing well. While the other children stayed in place, he shifted his body to follow the hoop's path.
"He's seen his sixth name day?' he asked of Sansa.
"Nearly," she replied. "Two more moons and we'll celebrate. He'll start lessons with the Maester then. A few hours every morning to start if that sounds agreeable to you?" she continued.
"You're his mother."
"And you're his father. You have a say in these matters."
"I didn't have any say these past six years."
"That's because you weren't here. If you had knocked at the gate earlier you would have been welcomed and could have started sooner. But you didn't, so you'll start now." There was a bit of a spark in her voice. It wasn't malice, only stark truth.
"I don't know anything about being a bloody father."
"You'll learn."
"And if I don't?"
"I think the important question is do you want to? You're quite capable if that is your wish. I didn't know a thing about being a mother but I've managed just fine."
He didn't have a reply to that. Not one that he could voice. She dug straight into the core of him, leaving him to feel as if his heart were being carved up piece by piece.
"If you don't wish to be a father, you had better say so," she cautioned. "That child is my flesh and I will protect him even from you. I thought it your right to know he was yours but if you're not interested in anything further I'd like to know now."
She had it wrong. He wanted all.
"I should have been there," he said sadly.
"You were." He looked at her, puzzled, and she tapped her temple. "You never left me completely."
"I want to do right by him. And by you," he sighed, stamping down on his pride. "I don't know how."
"By him or by me?" she tried to clarify.
"Both."
Now it was she that was sighing. "Treat him fairly and honestly. You're good at that. That's the best thing you can do for a child and you already know how to do it well. Shower him with kindness often and when he needs it, correct him."
"And you? What do I do?"
"Continue on exactly as you are. I have no wish to see you change. If you did I might not love you the same." Her hand gripped his. He couldn't help but stare again at her flesh on his. She giggled at him. "It's only a hand."
"Never had anyone want to do anything without payment. No one ruts with a dog for free," he rasped. The confession left him before he knew what was happening.
"We're not" – she leaned in close to him to whisper- "rutting. It's only hands touching."
He was starting to feel like he had back at the Red Keep. How could anyone have two men up under her skirts and still be that innocent? Hands, lips, cock or heat; it was all the same to him. It was freely given and she couldn't see how one act was equal to all the others in that respect. It was infuriating. It was magnificent and he never wanted her to lose it. But she never saw what it did to him and it was maddening.
"No, we're not," he shot back at her in agreement, some of the anger he felt coming through. "You don't understand anything, Sansa. You're the only one who's ever given without taking coin. But you take all the same. Every touch, every look you allow, you make me pay for it in bits and pieces of myself."
"I don't mean to," she said, her voice nothing more than a whisper.
"Do you know how much of me you own by now? It's nothing to you, fucking hand on mine, but it's everything to me," he choked.
"You're wrong," she argued. "It's everything to me as well. You asked how you could do right by me. I want to do the same for you. Tell me what to do."
He'd started to shake and it wasn't from the cold. Love me, his mind screamed over and over again, love me and never stop. He wanted to feel her in his arms. But if he asked and she turned him away? He could take rejection from anyone but her. She saw his fear.
"Whatever you want, ask it of me," she bid him. "I won't deny you."
All he could do was lift an arm, hoping she would know what to do. There was a pause while she looked him in the eye. Then she moved towards him, pushing on his chest and moving him backwards until he felt a low bench hit the back of his knees. He went down onto it but she stayed in front of him. She had two or three inches on him while he sat. The bench made it easy for her to slip her arms around his neck to hold him. He felt his body slump into hers. His hands clutched at the air around her until she used her own to guide his arms around her waist. He sensed pressure on his cheek. She'd put her face against the horror that was his. There was heat and the slick feeling of tears between them. He knew they weren't hers. His face burrowed into the furs at her neck; he could smell them and her at the same time. Wolf and woman invaded his senses. It was much like another time she had given him comfort when he was weak with need for her.
"Little Bird," he cried.
"You're wrong," she told him again, her voice wavering. It struck him that she was weeping as well. "You're everything to me."