Author's notes:
Although I usually don't want to bore readers to tears with a lot of character introspection, there is some in this chapter, because I felt I had to explain a bit about Sansa's decisions.
Also, some of the stuff that might merit the M rating, so consider yourself warned.
Thanks everyone for the nice reviews, I hope you'll enjoy reading.
Chapter 10
Sansa woke up with a smile the next day, a smile that wouldn't leave her face even when she donned her dress and had her hair fixed and went through all the other motions required of her during the day. Her feet barely touched the ground, as if she was walking on clouds and everything around her seemed brighter and more colourful.
She did her best to hide her mood from any curious eyes, kept her head lowered and her eyes downcast, but she couldn't be sure that no one had noticed how she randomly blushed when a stray memory from the night before flitted through her brain.
It wasn't embarrassment that heated her cheeks, but that heavy warmth she had felt for a long time when it came to him. Only now it had turned into a fire and flared up every time her thoughts turned to what had occurred between them.
Which they did almost constantly.
How could all that have been hidden from her for all of her life? How had she never heard of the magic that transpired between a man and a woman?
All the songs that told of courtly love or more often of loss and tragedy, why had they never mentioned any of this?
Never mentioned the pure delight of a man's touch on your skin, the shivers you get when rough, calloused fingertips explore the most sensitive parts of your body. The safety you feel when touching the hard, angular planes of a man's body, so different from your own, a body so big and strong, it holds a promise of being your bulwark against anything that tries to harm you?
They heartrending joy of having his mouth and hands worship you until you feel like a goddess, like the most precious thing in existence, until you burn for him in a way that is neither courtly nor decorous.
And – most important of all – why had she never heard of the earth-shattering rapture you find when finally all those sensations overwhelm you and release rolls over you in endless waves of pleasure?
Why had her septa always told her that being with a man would be something that had to be endured, suffered through?
Of course she knew that she had not given Sandor full access to her body yet, that the one act that was supposed to be the most painful of all - the giving of her maidenhead - still lay ahead of her.
And not for any lack of willingness on her part.
Since the vows they had spoken two nights ago, she considered herself his. She knew full well that those vows meant nothing in the eyes of Gods and men, but they meant everything to her, especially since it had been Sandor's idea. He might have been only half awake, but exhaustion had only made him less guarded, she was sure of it.
Seeing him last night, she had known he wouldn't want her to mention this moment of what he would perceive as weakness, so she hadn't. But in her heart, they had formed a bond that was just as sacred as if the vows had been spoken in the Great Sept of Baelor. He was, for the lack of a better term, the husband of her heart.
A husband, she thought with a smile, whom she had to take by the hand and lead where she wanted him to go, even though she didn't know the way herself. She almost giggled at the question what she might need to do to get him to actually take her maidenhead, when last night she had already gone above and beyond what any gently bred girl would be expected to do to entice her husband into her bed.
Then again, it had been more than worth it.
Her thoughts circled back once more to the things that had happened last night and - more importantly - what had not happened.
Could it really be possible that the ultimate act of sexual relations would be so much the opposite of what she had experienced so far? That it would be painful and horrible?
Because, to be quite honest, when she had opened her eyes after the world had stopped spinning, when she had seen him with his eyes squeezed shut as if in pain, stroking his manhood, all she had felt was curiosity.
Maybe she should've been repelled or at least scared of the strange look and the intimidating size of what she knew was supposed to somehow fit inside of her. But when he showed her how and where to touch him, when she felt the velvety softness over the core of steel, the smooth tip, when she
heard him groan her name over and over, when she started to stroke him as he had told her to, all she could do was wonder how this part of him would feel inside her.
If all the other parts of his body could make her feel so wonderful, why should this one make her feel bad?
Musing such as those predictably left her red-faced and short of breath, so she had found herself a nice spot overlooking the sea, where a sharp wind cooled her heated cheeks and the roaring of the see reflected her turbulent thoughts.
Her septa would probably be scandalized at what was going on inside her head, Sansa thought fondly. Carnal urges were supposed to be a man's domain and a maiden's lot in life was it to guard her virtue against men's lustfulness.
So how did a maiden act who felt rather lustful herself?
…
Despite, or maybe because of her restlessness during the day, Sansa had fallen asleep as soon as her head hit her pillow in the evening, so she woke up only when she felt Sandor's fingers gently stroking her cheek.
"You look like a little girl when you sleep," he whispered.
A warm light flickered in his eyes and woke an answering warmth inside her heart.
In quiet moments such as this, when they took the time to just look at each other, she knew without any doubt that this was what the bards should be singing about. This firm sense of belonging, this bone deep trust, this warming happiness.
If this was what they meant when they sang of love, they told the wrong stories. Sandor had been right about that all along.
"But I am not a little girl at all," she said with a sleepy smile and reached out to him. "Want me to prove it?"
He didn't answer but instead leaned in and kissed her, but only for a short moment.
"Want me to leave so you can go back to sleep?" he asked, raising his good eyebrow.
"Don't you dare leave," she growled and pulled him in for another kiss.
He climbed onto the bed, not breaking their kiss and rolled on top of her.
When next they came up for air, they were both panting heavily.
"Do you want something to eat?" she asked, belatedly remembering that he usually wanted to eat first.
He quickly looked into the direction of the table, but then looked back at her, grinning.
"Thanks for the kind offer, my lady, but a man has got to have his priorities straight," he said just before his mouth crashed down on hers again.
"Clothes," she panted a few moments later. "Undress, now."
That earned her another grin, but then he obediently got up and sat back on his haunches, clumsily tearing at his clothes, while she tried to help him with unsteady hands.
They managed to get his upper body undressed – impatience almost eating her alive – then she shoved him until he lay on his back and worked on undressing him completely.
He made a few noises that sounded like protest but otherwise did nothing to stop her until she finally was rewarded by having him lying prone and naked before her. And very much aroused.
Her eyes drank him in for a moment, this body made so magnificently as if it had been meant for the Warrior himself. Long, powerful arms and legs, rippling with muscles, broad shoulders, a wide chest, dusted with curly black hair that thinned to a fine trail that led over a flat belly right to where his manhood - proudly erect - begged for her attention.
He squirmed under her scrutiny, but let her have her fill of looking at him. After the way he had devoured her with his eyes last night, maybe he felt he owed her the same indulgence.
His skin was marred with scars almost everywhere, ranging from old ones that stood silvery-white against the bronze of his skin, and newer ones still swollen and purple. Most looked jagged and left deep indentations, as if they hadn't been tended to properly.
Thinking of all the pain he must have endured in his life, her only wish was to make it go away, at least for a while.
She lowered her head to his chest and started – gently at first – to brush her lips against his skin, feeling the texture of his scars, some not unlike those on his face, and learning the feel and the taste of the patches that were unmarred by wounds. When her mouth encountered one flat, male nipple, she lavished some of the same attention on it that he had given her breasts.
"Sansa…" he said and reached for her shoulder as if trying to pull her up to him, but she didn't want to. She wasn't done.
Her ministrations moved lower on his body to the sound of his ragged breathing, interrupted from time to time by a breathless moan.
Knowing how he felt about being defenceless, about being at someone else's mercy made this moment so very precious to her, showed her that he trusted her just as much as she trusted him.
When she wrapped her hand around his cock, he uttered a rather colourful expletive that made her smile against his skin.
How could a woman not enjoy having the man she adored so completely in her thrall?
And beside the sheer drunkenness on power, she still burned with a feverish desire that had wetness pooling between her legs, especially now when she held the proof of his arousal hard and heavy in her hand, smelled the musk of him and heard him asking her to put him out of his misery.
Asking her.
She stroked him once, twice but it wasn't enough like this. Maybe for him, but not for her.
No longer was this about him wanting her, it was about her wanting him. And she wanted him badly. Today she had asked herself what a maiden should do who felt lust for a man. The answer was surprisingly simple. She should do whatever she wanted.
And what she wanted, what she subsequently did as soon as it occurred to her, was to wrap her lips around the head of his cock, to taste him there as well.
"Seven hells, Sansa, you don't…" he started but whatever he had meant to say was lost in an long drawn out groan that almost sounded like a sob at the end.
Taking this as a sign she was doing something right, she grew bolder, took more of him inside and stroked what she couldn't take into her mouth with her hands.
Again he tried to say something, even reached out and took hold of her hair, but she was by then so intent on her task, she couldn't be distracted. Maybe he was trying to spare her what came next, but she knew what came next, what would happen when his balls drew close to his body, when he groaned and when his cock swelled to an even more impressive size. So she was neither shocked nor surprised nor – probably what he feared – disgusted, when hot spurts of his seed filled her mouth.
She was proud. And exhilarated and filled with a feeling of power unlike any she'd ever felt.
He let out something that sounded like a couple of sobs mixed with a laugh and then lay still.
Using his momentary stupor, she took the goblet of wine from the nightstand and washed away the tangy, salty taste in her mouth. Not out of disgust, but because she was unsure if he would want to taste himself in the kisses she intended to give him.
He lay with his eyes closed for a long time, chest heaving with rapid breaths but showing no other sign of being conscious. Only now did it occur to her that now that he was satisfied and apparently rather exhausted, he might not care for more activities. Which would be quite a disappointment.
She stroked his chest, contemplating what she would do if he really fell asleep here, but luckily he opened his eyes eventually and gave her a very male grin.
"Still not done with me?" he asked with a pointed look at her roaming hands.
"I just really adore your body," she answered, slightly raking her nails over his skin in the way she had quickly learned he found most stimulating.
His grin faltered for a split moment, but then he heaved an overly dramatic sigh.
"Story of my life," he said. "Scores of women lusting after my body."
Sansa chuckled. Sometimes it still seemed unreal how he – the man everyone feared and most only called the Hound – had turned out to be a man not only gentle and kind, but someone with a wicked sense of humour and the ability to be silly and downright playful.
She knew full well that she was quite probably the only person who ever got to see this side of him, but then again, he saw a side of her that - fortunately - no one else knew about either.
Taking his bait, she narrowed her eyes and raised her chin.
"They'd better keep their distance," she said, slowly lowering her head towards his face. "I'll bite."
To demonstrate the seriousness of her threat, she brought her face to his shoulder and none too gently bit down on it. He took a hissing breath, as if in pain but that was quickly followed by an appreciative noise deep in his throat when she soothed with her tongue the hurt she had inflicted with her teeth.
"My little bird turns out to be a wolf after all," he said, his voice husky with what she hoped was arousal. He put one hand on her back and lazily stroked her.
"Don't you forget it," she whispered, giving his shoulder a kiss.
He chuckled.
"I have the single most beautiful girl in the whole of Westeros here in bed, touching me and kissing me and even sucking my cock, I think I can hardly do any better."
She stilled at this completely unexpected compliment. She knew he wasn't given to spouting empty pleasantries, he disdained them and had frequently told her so. For him to say something so nice in such a casual manner could only mean that it wasn't an empty at all. He meant it.
Silly as it was, this realization brought tears to her eyes.
Since she hadn't moved for a while, he opened his eyes to see what had happened and found her staring at him.
He first looked puzzled and then slightly angry. Whatever was going on his head, it probably was nothing good and she had to stop it before he came up with something ludicrous – again.
"You've never told me before," she said quietly, "that you think me beautiful."
"Of course I did," he retorted, looking offended.
She shook her head.
"Trust me, I am a woman, I wouldn't forget," she said with a smile to disperse the seriousness of the situation.
He still looked annoyed.
"I said it a million times in my head," he finally snapped defensively.
And there he went and said something that was even sweeter, even more romantic than what he had said before and again it hadn't even been intentional. Never had a compliment so delighted her.
She smiled through a veil of happy tears and threw herself at him, burying her face against his neck so he wouldn't see her damp eyes. He tended to be alarmed when she teared up and probably didn't understand the concept of crying out of happiness.
"Thank you," she whispered.
He wrapped his arms around her and just held her to him.
"If I'd known it was so easy…"
She smiled against his neck and started to plant little kisses there.
"I know you are not a man of many words," she said in between kisses, "but of deeds. And right now…"
Her sentence was cut off by an unladylike squeal when he – with astounding speed – turned them both so that he was suddenly on top of her.
"Deeds, right," he said with a predatory grin. "Let's get to that."
…
He had got to it with single-mindedness and great attention to detail, teasing and drawing things out to the point where she thought arousal would burn her alive. Again he had refrained from taking her fully, but by now she delighted in their special kind of intimacy so much, she decided they would cross that bridge when they came to it. If he was in no hurry and apparently more than satisfied with how she took care of his needs, there was no reason for her to force the issue.
Afterwards they lay comfortably entwined in an embrace, hands slowly stroking but both of them satisfied and slightly tired.
"I hope you won't change your mind," Sansa said eventually. "About me being the most beautiful girl in Westeros."
"Why should I?"
"Margery Tyrell is expected in three days and they say she is very beautiful."
He chuckled so low, she could more feel it in the vibrations it sent through is chest than hear it.
"Are you fishing for another compliment?"
She had to smile at this as well, realizing how the question must have sounded.
"I was ordered to stand on the western balcony when she arrives, to watch Joffrey greet her," she explained where the thought had come from. "He says people expect to see me."
"I know," he said, amusement vanishing from his tone. "I was ordered to accompany you."
She lifted her head and stared at him in surprise.
"You? Why?"
He shrugged and lifted his hand to caress her face. She leaned into the warmth of his hand.
"Maybe to make it look as if you didn't come voluntarily," he said. "And since the Kingsguard has to be with the king, and one of those white idiots would apparently lend you too much importance, it's the deserter's task to stand guard on the traitor's daughter."
"Hmm," Sansa said with a smile, snuggling closer into him and putting her head back on his chest. "It could've been worse."
He made a noncommittal sound and then fell silent for a while.
"Joffrey ordered me to make sure I'm standing on your right side," he said then.
It took her a while to figure out why, but when she realized Joffrey had meant to scare her, forcing her to look at the ruined side of Sandor's face, she couldn't help but laugh quietly.
During the day, she was as terrified of Joffrey as she had any reason to be, her hatred and loathing a living, burning reality inside of her. But during this magical hour in the heart of the night, he seemed but a minor nuisance, something not to be taken too seriously.
"Gods, he such a mean little… rat. Poor Margery."
Sandor's hand drew lazy circles over her back and shoulders, a sensation that threatened to lull her into sleep sooner rather than later. While she had mostly adapted to the irregular sleeping pattern their nightly activities left her with, the addition of physical exertion was taking its toll.
"Don't feel too bad for her, she comes with her whole family and an army at her back," Sandor murmured above her, sounding as sleepy as she felt. "Her brother is Joffrey's most beloved pet at the moment, no harm will come to her."
The hand was still moving, circling, caressing; creating a trail of comfortable warmth on her skin.
"So you and me, alone on that balcony for several hours…" she mused idly. "If Joffrey could see us now, I guess he'd rethink his decision."
That drew another chuckle from him.
"If Joffrey could see us now, we'd never see the next sunrise."
The thought should have alarmed her, but right this moment, nothing could. She was safe, she was warm and the remnants of sexual joy still hummed through her body, so Joffrey could go hang himself.
"I like this," she whispered. "I wish we could stay like this, fall asleep like this. And wake up tomorrow still in each other's arms."
He pressed a kiss on the crown of her head but said nothing, just held her a little closer.
…