A.N: I own nothing. All rights to G.R.R.M.
Referencing further to the end of this chapter – I'm aware that Sansa's kiss with Sandor was all in her head! As it stands, I am following cannon – Sandor never kissed the little bird the night of the Battle of the Blackwater. It's all in her head!
Chapter 11 – Sansa
Spearing a bit of quail egg on the end of her eating knife, Sansa delicately raised it for a nibble as she listed to Illyrio gush on about the health benefits of the sulfur water he was shipping privately from Bravos. Then the conversation took a turn for the droll when Mya had the pluck to inquire if Master Illyrio had ever visited the city.
Sansa could tell the Stone girl was just picking over the fat magister like a vulture – she played this game with countless men. Run them up a wall and turn them cross-eyed with her sly smiles. Illyrio was happy to oblige the lithe young woman, and soon Sansa turned to her other dinner companions for a touch of conversation. Sandor sat like a solid bulwark between her and Illyrio's massive bulk rolled out on his special couch drawn up to the circular table. Ser Randol took up her other side, and Mya after that.
The northern girl had to suppress disgust as the Pentoshi noble stuck a whole meaty pigeon's wing dripping with juice into his mouth only to draw it out clean of flesh in one suckling pop.
"My lord," Sansa said, clearing her throat after her voice came out a broken squeak. She started up, confidence wreathing her words to make them stronger like her mother did. "I'm curious to ask – Lord Tyrion was in your care for a time?"
"Concerning that, I sent him off with a few honored associates of mine. They were off to seek the services of the Golden Company in grand Volantis – doubtless the gentle ladies have heard the valor of that mercenary company even as far as Westeros?" Illyrio spread his hands magnanimously. Both girls dipped their heads in acknowledgement.
Sandor shifted beside her, obviously stewing over the notion of Tyrion drawing air still. Sansa was at a loss. The deformed and cynical dwarf had done her no wrong during their brief time as a wedded sham, but Lannisters were Lannisters. Except this Lannister had killed his father and thus eliminated one large threat against her.
Perhaps he could be a great ally still – Jaime Lannister could inherit no lands or any of the wealth of Casterly Rock due to his oaths taken as a Kingsguard. Cersei would not outlive this war to inherit the wealth.
Sansa was sure of this. That left Tyrion to inherit a sizeable amount, enough to loan her towards rebuilding Winterfell and setting the northern coffers to rights. The Manderlys couldn't be doing that bad off in the economic sense, could they? Perhaps they could loan her the sorely needed gold in good faith. White Harbor always had been a huge source of income in her father's ledgers with the fishing trade, but in a war there was little to go around.
But these were problems for the future. Step one was getting to Daenerys where she could prostrate herself flat on the floor before the dragon queen and beg clemency.
"And, on that note, which route do you all intend to take to reach fair Meereen?"
Sandor snorted at the word 'fair' used to describe Meereen. Sansa had heard the cities of Slaver's Bay were magnificent in their own splendor, but the entire glimmer was for nothing. Slavery made her wame curdle something terrible.
"Ride like wildfire 'cross land towards it, pray nothing delays," Sandor growled out. Her Hound wasn't in the best of moods, but the tunic with the silver piping fit him lovely. His hair shined from a fresh wash, and the clean scent of lye and cloves washed over her every time he made the slightest shift.
It was embarrassing how her body responded. A quickening in the pulse, a tightening in her belly. Even places below slickened and quivered at every scrape of her smallclothes against her sex. Blooming sexuality was a pain, and her shyness around her fierce Hound was far outracing the sweet agony tugging at her nerves.
What was worse, Sandor seemed to know. She caught the flare of his nostrils – how his pupils blew up in the soft lighting of the terrace torches when he caught sight of her slim hands twisting her napkin into strained knots. Could he smell her? The notion brought a fresh bloom of heat to her cheeks.
"Ah, the most straightforward approach. With the winter weather upon us, gales are more common in the seas. Might be best to not risk the Smoking Sea for the water route like our poor Lord Lannister is trying for," tittered Illyrio, mopping sweat off his bulging brow as the bronze-collared servants carted away the plates to replace them with the final course.
A sweet coating of browned sugar over a little round of lemon cake, each with a small pitcher of thickly iced cream. Sansa felt her palms start to sweat at the sight of it.
When was the last time she'd had a proper lemon cake? Before her flight from King's Landing, that was for sure. Sandor simply forked up a piece into his mouth and pushed it away like he'd done every dish put before him. Sansa couldn't tell if it was disdain for the host or a simple way of avoiding a spoiled stomach on such rich fare. She'd be paying for it later, she was sure.
The girl tried to restrain herself, upending the pitcher of cream over the confectionary treat before working her way through the cake. But the lemon filling in the center was too much. She made noise over the deliciousness towards her host, being genuinely honest. It was a slice close to paradise, and for a moment she could close her eyes and pretend she was back in the warmth of Winterfell's kitchens. Old Nan would be by the fire screeching about how ladies did not gobble like hogs. Arya scarfing hers just as quick. Bran hopping around the countertops and giving the cooks trouble.
And suddenly she was back on a fire lit terrace in the middle of a sprawling Pentoshi garden, the delicate smell of hibiscus cloying in her nose. But her plate was clear save for crumbs, the memory long past.
"Well, honored guests, I leave the planning of your route entirely up to you. I shall fund whatever direction you decide to take with sound mounts and plenty of coin, supplies. Whatever your heart should wish. I should like to speak with the Lady Sansa on the morning of your departure – I take it that you are all leaving with the dawn?" The magister glanced around the table, his piggy eyes focusing on her.
At their simultaneous nods, Illyrio chuckled. "So eager! But I do love a brisk, business savvy approach to the issue at hand."
Dinner was broken down, Sandor rising to shift her seat out and offer an arm with a terse "walk" gritted at her. Illyrio was already being wheeled off on his couch towards wherever they rolled him into a bed – Sansa would like to know the size and make of that piece of furniture that wouldn't splinter under his enormous girth night after night.
She took his arm, waving a goodnight at Ser Randol and Mya. Both of them looked not at all surprised by the two of them breaking off. Her sworn shield, as it was.
He sped them off along one path towards a charming grotto, minding the hem of her diaphanous gown. It was a lovely periwinkle, matching the amethyst combs holding back the glossy length of loose hair spilling down her naked back. It was square cut across the bust and scandalously low in the back, all the rage in the realm of Pentoshi women's fashion.
Sansa was too full of rich food and wine to feel all that aflutter around her Hound. It was too lovely a night, she was too far from the grasping claws of the threats in Westeros, and her journey to get home was just starting on the dawn.
Sandor was trying to spoil it all with that black expression. His boots dug into the gravel of the path, wrenching her down into a shaded alcove in the wall alongside him. A fountain nearby was tinkling, moonlight reflecting off the marbled form of a naked bravo poised in midstride with blade raised. It reminded her of Arya's little sword.
"This fat bastard of a greedy whore is going to want something out of you for this favor he's doing," he barked out, lowering his voice in the still of the night. A bird warbled in the bush nearby.
"I know," Sansa said softly, reassuringly to the Hound. Her hand rose unbidden to cup the scarred cheek, smoothing a thumb over the twisted knot of tissue. The man jerked away as if the touch itself was fire to the flesh.
She couldn't help the tears that rose in her vision. So stupid of her. A knot was forming in her throat, and she worked to speak past it. "Am I that unwanted? Do I repulse you?"
He froze, and for a moment Sansa held her breath as his rough hand rose to catch at her poised wrist and wrap it in a warm grip. "No, little bird. I don't want you touching me because I'm afraid I won't have the restraint to stop what comes next," he said gruffly into her ear. Their bodies seemed to be backing themselves further into the corner, ivy fronds curling into hair to tickle and tease out the red strands.
Every detail started to become so keen. Sansa could feel the heat of him through the linen of his dark breeches – feel the corded lines of muscle straining against the fabric when her slipper ran up the length of his calf. Suddenly she was caught between the wall and his body, surging up against him with his hands cinching around her waist for leverage. Turmoil was in the grey of his eyes as he locked them with hers, and then drifted over her face to the lee of her cleavage towards the fluttering hollow of her throat. Finally, her mouth. She curved it for him in a small smile, tears still dewy on the fringe of her lashes.
"We need to stop overthinking," she said a bit breathlessly. "And just…"
"I put you too high on your fucking pedestal to touch you, little bird," he rasped out, the sweet smell of the wine on his breath mingling between them. She took his hesitation out of the equation, leaning to catch his twisted lips against her own in a hot lock of flesh.
Time slipped away, and before she shut her eyes against all the wonderful feelings she caught sight of his flaring in surprise only to narrow into something primal and needy. Hands – both sets – couldn't keep still all of a sudden. Whether it was her slim fingers grasping the straining planes of his back shifting under the soft tunic to his thick ones smoothing over the swell of her hip and the curve of her belly beneath the gown, touch was mutual. Touch was needed – it was like the thin thread of their connection would break if one of them stopped.
But neither was stopping. For her first go at a serious kiss with a full-grown man, she did very little. Simple fluttering movements seemed to spur him on, their mouths melding perfectly before she plucked up the gall to fork the tip of her tongue against the scarred side of his mouth. Then a deep, guttural moan filled the quiet alcove as Sandor let her in, shaking and swearing against her before she quieted him with a plunge of the tongue into his slack mouth.
The sounds that followed had her more content. Those she wanted – the tiny movements of her hips rising against his flat belly before her hands groped over his biceps. She tasked herself with finding an inch of him that wasn't hard with muscle, but failed. Every part of her Hound was physically perfect save for the half of his face ruined by the flame, but even that she found perfect in its own way.
Even the feel of his hips between her legs was like a solid pillar of stone once she had hitched up her thighs and clasped him closer to her, skirts riding up indecently to let the air drift around her bare knees. She felt him freeze up at the intimate press of flesh on flesh, biting down fiercely on his lip at one jolting scrape of his hardened length up against the soaked scraps of her smallclothes.
"Stop. Seven Hells," he groaned out. For a moment, she couldn't tell if he was shooting the directive at her or coaching himself to have the restraint. Sansa really couldn't care. She was too intent on raking out every noise from the restrained man, drawing out every sensation pent up between the both of them.
None of the attraction made sense, but to them both it made all the sense. They were drawn whether they wanted it or not. But for now, she'd relent. It'd be the last chance for privacy for at least a month, though. She eased her head back and let their mouths gently fall away.
"I'm sorry," she added in a hushed undertone. Sandor simply gave her a glinting look.
"For what, little bird? You reap what you sow. I wasn't complaining," he added, gently easing her down to the ground. Her legs wanted to buckle, but she forced herself straight and standing.
"It's just…all so messy. You and I," she said quietly, never breaking her eyes away from him. She couldn't look away – this was all so important. Couldn't he see that?
"It is," he said with no small amount of gravity. Something flickered behind his grey gaze, and his hand rose to cup her cheek in a mimic of her earlier gesture. But nothing further. No kisses, no intimate words. He simply stared at her for a moment longer before drawing away.
"I'll wait at the stairs 'til you decide to turn in for the night. Don't stray out of this section of the garden. You should get some rest – I'll keep watch throughout," he said, mask slipping back on as he returned to his usual self. All rough edges and stodgy protectiveness.
Unreachable.
Sansa collapsed on the little stone bench after his heavy footfalls receded, weeping wretchedly into her upturned palms. This was not like the pretty songs or stories. This was a bitter cup to swallow. A creeping, slow poison she'd been subjected to for the last year. Ever since he'd pried a song and kiss from her in the burning light of the green fire, steel against her throat.
Wanting what she could never have.
All so very, very messy.
