A/N: This chapter happens the same day as chapter 13, and is probably a little more than PG-13 for adult situations and language, but nowhere near R rated (not until chapter 17!).
"Shh, it was just a dream, sweetling, don't worry about Father...come my love, don't be upset now, please Rickon..." Sansa ran her hands through her brother's messy curls, trying to comfort him, but he only cried harder.
Rickon had taken to following her around the keep lately, as Mother and Robb always seemed to be busy with one thing or another. Still, when he ran into her bedchamber, wailing and crying, Sansa was more than a little surprised. He had never come to her for comfort after a nightmare before, and Sansa had barely finished shaking off the painful aftermath of her own dream.
That was hours ago, and he was still curled up awkwardly in her lap. Although he was only seven, Rickon was quite tall for his age already, and refused to acknowledge that he was too big to be held like this. He sniffled into Sansa's neck and clutched at her hair and sleeping shift, and she was at a loss on how to soothe him. Nothing she said calmed him, nor convinced him to let go of her, not even long enough for her to dress herself. Poor Jenna tried to take him away, and nearly got bitten on the finger for her trouble.
He wailed that Father was never coming home, and that he couldn't sleep because there were dead men in his dreams. Sansa didn't know what to say to that, because she had seen horrors in her dreams as well, nearly every night for weeks now. She could recall with disturbing clarity what the scorched battlefield looked like, with corpses being picked at by carrion birds, and towers burning in the distance.
While in the dream, she never noticed her father was missing, but upon waking, she remembered the sight of her mother walking all alone, and it seemed an ominous sign. Lord Stark never walked with the rest of her family along the bank of the river. He was never present when the wolves attacked. It was always Sandor who saved her from the shadows and the flames, not her father. His absence must mean something, and Rickon must have seen something in his dreams to make him think Father would never come home...but Sansa was too afraid to ask.
Last night, the dream had been more bloody than usual, and Sansa felt particularly bereft. Because of Sandor's foolish vanity, she was once again denied the familiar ending that she found so comforting. Apparently, that which comforted her offended her bond mate. He had some problem with the way Sansa saw him in their shared dreams, and saw fit to avoid her for weeks as a result. If his rejection hadn't been so painful, she would have simply laughed at him for it – he was being so ridiculous!
As she had every day since their quarrel weeks ago, Sansa had awoken that morning in pain, dulled only by long familiarity. It was a physical pain, a hollowness in her chest that made it hard to breathe. It was Sandor's disappointment and her own frustration twined together, and like every morning, Sansa wondered why he insisted on doing this to her, to both of them. On any other day, she would try to push the hollowness away with distractions. But this morning's distraction in the form of her weepy baby brother was not much of one; Rickon's nightmares only made her think of her own unpleasant dreams, and what they might mean.
Last night, she did not attack the lion alone, and fought alongside her entire pack for the first time. Recognizing the other direwolves in the dream was easy, and not only when she saw them through Lady's eyes. They were not anonymous beasts, she knew them like she knew her own name: they were the familiars of her siblings, even Ghost with his pure white fur and glowing red eyes. She knew Grey Wind in her dreams perhaps better than she knew her brother Robb in waking life, and the same was true for Summer, Shaggydog, and especially Nymeria. Arya and Nymeria were one in her dreams, and Sansa and Lady could communicate with them without any effort at all. It was like the bond she had with Sandor, but then again altogether different: it was as if she and Arya could speak to one another, but never had to use words.
With Rickon crying in her lap about lions and darkness and flayed men, Sansa couldn't help but wonder if her siblings had similar dreams. Did they see through the eyes of their direwolves? Did they dream of scorched battlefields and enemies hidden by shadow? Did they dream of their Father? Sansa hugged her brother tightly and shuddered at the thought. If the answer was yes, she wasn't sure she wanted to know what that meant.
Sansa could feel him coming. Although he had childishly been avoiding her for weeks, for some reason she was not surprised that he sought her out on this particular day. They had been torn from their shared dream as usual, when Sandor forced them both awake. But the aftermath felt different this morning, and she could feel some kind of change in him. Sansa couldn't say exactly what sort, but she knew she would soon find out. He was just a few moments away.
The door to her bedchamber stood open, and she and her baby brother sat bundled in the furs on her bed. Rickon began to sob brokenly again, and Lady and Shaggydog paced the length of room, as they had been for hours. The other direwolves howled in the distance, and Sansa tried not to think why all six of them seemed so anxious that morning.
As Sandor got closer, Sansa felt her frustration try to twist into something uglier, but she was determined to stay calm. She focused on the feel of her brother's soft auburn curls, and how the neckline of her sleeping shift was damp with his tears. She wouldn't row with Sandor in front of Rickon; her brother needed peace right now, and she would see that he received it.
She took a deep breath, and looked up at her open doorway the moment before Sandor filled it. Lady paused and spared him a look, too, and then resumed her pacing. Shaggydog snarled and scratched at the floor.
Sandor came inside her bedchamber, but didn't close the door. He stood at the foot of her bed, and locked eyes with her without saying a word. She was happy to see him, of course, but seeing him also tested the tight rein she had on her emotions. She did not want to have the same argument they had in the wolfswood all over again, but the anger and sadness she had suppressed for weeks was welling up inside her.
It occurred to her how strange their disagreement was...he was so angry because he thought her childish, yet he was the one acting a child. Sandor was supposedly several years older than she, but Sansa had only ever seen her younger siblings behave this way. With the exception of draining the cellars of wine, Sansa was sure she'd seen both Arya and Rickon throw the same sort of tantrum.
Rickon pouted that he was only allowed wooden swords in the practice yard (not the dulled steel that Robb and Jon practiced with), and Arya pouted that she wasn't allowed to learn swordplay at all. They were both insufferable about it, even though Rickon was simply too young and it simply wasn't proper for a lady to sword fight, even though Arya was admittedly hardly a lady in any other manner.
Sandor was being similarly stubborn. He didn't like that he appeared as a knight in her dream. He didn't seem to realize that just because he disagreed with her, didn't mean she was wrong. The fact that he avoided her for weeks – to punish her, perhaps? – truly angered her. He knew how much it hurt her, and he did it anyway.
Rickon still wouldn't settle down, and snuffled and squirmed in Sansa's lap. She petted him and kissed his forehead, while she and Sandor simply stared at each other. It was quite a bit different from the first time they met, and they stared into each other's eyes without speaking. Instead of not knowing what to say, now there were rather too many words on the tip of Sansa's tongue, some of which she was sure to regret if she let them loose.
Just as her control was beginning to fray, Bran appeared in the doorway with his own pet at his heels. Suddenly the room became very crowded, with three massive direwolves all agitated and stressed. Rickon still clung to Sansa, but he had suddenly quieted, and looked at his brother with wide, wet blue eyes. Without warning, all three direwolves became unnaturally still, and simply stared at each other.
Bran's calm voice broke the uncomfortable silence. "Rickon, come. Leave Sansa and Sandor alone. We'll go down to the kitchens and get some honeyed milk, and let Summer and Shaggydog outside with the others."
Bran extended his hand, and Rickon scrambled off Sansa's lap immediately, as if he hadn't just been clutching at her desperately for the last several hours. The other two direwolves followed them out of Sansa's bedchamber, but Lady remained, quiet and still. When the others left, she came up to Sandor and licked his hand, as was her habit. She seemed to calm down in the absence of her brothers.
Neither of them had yet spoken a word, and Sansa couldn't say how long they remained silent. Now that she didn't have her little brother to distract her, her thoughts darkened, and her mood along with it. Sansa loosened the hold on her anger. Instead of trying to be strong and hold back, she let it all to the forefront of her mind and let it overwhelm her. She wanted Sandor to feel all of it.
The hurt, fear and anxiety swirled together in an unpleasant stew. Why would her betrothed want to punish her? What did her violent and bloody dreams mean? What ill will could the boy king have against her father? So many emotions warred for dominance, but one easily won out: Sansa was angry with Sandor, and she willed him to feel it. Suddenly words came out of her mouth without any premeditation on her part, but she found as she heard herself, she didn't want to take them back.
"You lied to me, my lord."
Sansa was surprised at how calm she sounded, because she certainly didn't feel calm, not anymore. Sandor clenched his teeth, and curled his hands into fists, but he didn't look away.
"I'm sorry I stayed away from you, little bird, but I've never lied to you, I know what I saw - "
"You lied and said you never leave me. You swore to me you never would, and you lied."
Sansa knew it was the worst thing she could say to him, and she didn't care. She wanted to punish him. Isn't that what he had done by staying away? Hadn't he been punishing them both? And all for nothing!
"I didn't leave you," he growled. "You live in a fantasy world, little bird. That man that saves you every night, that's not me. This bond you think we have has let you come up with that pretty little lie; I know you think you care for me, but it's that white knight you love, not me."
Sansa stared at him incredulously, and felt pure rage wash over her. She knew part of what she felt was Sandor's frustration feeding on her own, but she was powerless to stop the downward spiral. She could not believe that he was attempting to deny their soul bond!
"The bond 'I think we have'?" She lowered her voice in a mocking imitation of his own. "I've imagined it, have I? Well if this imaginary bond is the only reason I care for you, then I suppose your regard for me is also false. You must not care for me at all, my lord, I must have imagined it!"
Sansa roughly pushed the bed furs away from her, and got up to pace the length of the room. Lady followed her with her golden eyes, but remained still and strangely calm, given how upset Sansa had suddenly become.
"And what of the dreams we share, my lord? How is it we have the same dream every night when I have merely imagined our bond? I am only a 'silly little bird' so mayhaps you can also explain this to me: why would my fantasy world include bloody battlefields, and death, and fire? Why would I dream of missing my father, why would I want that?"
Sandor had his eyes fixed on the far wall, but looked at her sharply when she spat out the word fire. Sansa knew that detail of their shared dream was from him; she didn't know how, she just knew. Now he watched her pace as well, with his arms crossed over his chest and a stormy look in his eyes. It was the same look he had when he first came to Winterfell, and was surly and suspicious of everyone. He was breathing heavily and scowling, but made no move to respond. Sansa could feel how her words wounded him, and she allowed herself a bit of vicious satisfaction. Good, she thought to herself furiously, I want him to hurt just as much as I do.
Sandor was behaving just like her little sister, stubborn and foolish, and so Sansa let her voice take on the proper lecturing tone she used when it was time to scold Arya for behaving like some crude wildling.
"You are being vain and childish, Sandor. Not liking the way I see you in our dream is no cause to behave the way you have these last few weeks."
He glowered at her with bitterness in his dark gray eyes, but Sansa didn't back down. His scowl twisted his scars in a way that would likely frighten those who didn't know him. Sansa could tell he was trying to scare her. But she wasn't afraid of Sandor, she never had been.
"Calling me names, now, girl?" he sneered. "Not very courteous, are we, little bird?"
"Mayhaps I am finally learning something from you, my lord," she sneered back, and didn't even feel bad about it. Septa Mordane would despair to hear her speak so discourteously, least of all to her future lord husband, but Sansa couldn't care. They now faced each other, from opposite sides of her bed.
"I am not cruel at least. You knew very well how I felt every day you avoided me, and you did it anyway. Tell me, how did that feel? Or were you too drunk to tell? No, don't tell me, because I already know: you were miserable the whole time! You yearned for me and despaired for hurting me and yet stayed away anyway because of your own stubbornness. I know because I FELT IT. I felt your despair as WELL as my own, and I know you did too! You can't deny it, Sandor, I know it to be true, whether you would admit it or not!"
Sansa was a little shocked at the intensity of her outburst, but just couldn't feel ashamed. Sandor merely stared at her in silence. He was surely just as shocked that she actually yelled at him, but he also had nothing to say; she knew it because she felt his mind go blank. He quickly turned and sat heavily on her bed, with his back to her and his head in his hands.
A long, uncomfortable silence passed. Lady settled herself by the fireplace and ignored them both. Sansa worked to catch her breath, and stared hard at Sandor's broad back. His shoulders were slumped and he looked so defeated. Guilt began to eat at her...partly at her petty triumph at provoking him, and partly nurtured by his own regret and self-contempt. Her anger began to drain away, and faded into a kind of dull sadness.
Sansa despaired for her bonded mate. Why did he hate himself so? Did not most men go to great lengths to appear better than they were? And yet Sandor insisted on the opposite. Her voice was quiet when she finally spoke again.
"Why are you so determined to diminish yourself? Why do you try to make me see you that way? Why would you want that?" Sansa was horrified to feel her throat close up and her eyes begin to sting. The last thing she wanted was to start crying like some silly little girl.
Sandor was still facing away from her, but he stiffened at the sound of tears in her voice. She felt his guilt deepen, and she suddenly couldn't stand to be apart from him another moment. Before she knew what she was doing, she was crawling on her hands and knees across her bed, and fell on him from behind. She wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders, and pressed her cheek into his back.
"You're so offended by my vision of you...but just because you disagree doesn't make it wrong...maybe I've got the right of it, and you're the one who's wrong...you're not the monster you want everyone think you are, Sandor."
He snorted and shook his head, but wrapped both his huge hands around hers. Sansa sucked in a long breath – he hadn't touched her in weeks – and the sensation flooded her with a whole new set of emotions that threatened to drown her. His reply was sarcastic and rude, but he no longer sounded so angry.
"Right, I'm a bloody fucking hero like Barristan the Bold. If only I had known sooner, little bird! Maybe I wouldn't have gutted that man when I was twelve years old. Had I known I was so fucking gallant mayhaps I wouldn't have lost count how many men I've killed since then. Not wastrels and lowlifes, little bird, oh no. Lords, knights, women, children, all just meat for the Hound's sword. How's that for valor?"
Although his voice lacked venom, he was still trying to scare her. Trying to make her think him a monster. Sansa scowled, and whispered a scolding "stop that" into his ruined ear. She slid around him and climbed into his lap, and pulled on his chin to make him look her in the face. His dark gray eyes were sad, but not so angry anymore. He wrapped his big, warm arms around her, and just being so close to him helped Sansa calm down even more.
Foolish man, she thought to herself. He claimed he thought the bond was nonsense, but Sansa knew that wasn't true. She could feel it working between them even now. They could relieve each other's anxieties just as easily as they could provoke each other's anger.
She put both hands on his face, and rubbed at his cheeks, enjoying their contrasting texture, and enjoying how the sensation helped to calm him down. She could sense his foul mood lessen, and pictured it in her mind's eye as storm clouds being chased away.
"Truly you think me stupid as all that, Sandor? I know you are a soldier. I know you've seen and done terrible things. Think what you like, but your reputation as a fierce warrior is one of the reasons I love you."
Sandor scowled in disbelief, but he didn't say anything. His mood must be improving if he had nothing nasty to say to that, she thought. Sansa could feel his skepticism, but he was curious, too.
"Do you know what I thought the first time I saw your face? I thought any man with such scars must be absolutely fearless."
Predictably, Sandor scoffed and rolled his eyes, but Sansa wouldn't let him look away. She forced him to look back at her, and rubbed her thumbs along his chin...touching him skin-to-skin felt good to both of them, and Sansa didn't want to stop.
"I was afraid for you. I couldn't imagine what horrors the Lannisters must have forced you to endure, and I was furiously angry with your liege lord. Such disregard for your safety! I do not think kindly on such recklessness with my bonded mate."
Sandor smirked, but Sansa knew his sardonic half-smile hid real amusement. She could feel it, and it warmed her heart.
"I think I'd like to see you take on Lord Tywin, little bird, that would be quite a sight. I doubt he's used to ladies with tongues as sharp as yours." Sandor shook his head and tried to look away again, but Sansa wouldn't let him. His eyes darkened, and flickered with the faintest shadow of fear. He was reliving that moment that scarred his face and his heart so terribly.
"It wasn't Lord Tywin that burned me, little bird. And I was far from fearless that day, believe me."
Sansa ran her hand over his ruined cheek, and then up into his dark hair. She didn't want to talk about Lord Tywin or anyone else who had done horrible things to Sandor, and he was reluctant to speak of it as well. She knew he'd tell her the story when he was ready.
They sat in comfortable silence for few moments, just looking at each other. They savored the simple pleasure of being near each other, after being apart for so long. Sansa gently stroked Sandor's hair, and ran her thumbs along his lower lip, curious about when he would kiss her again. His hands drifted from her waist to her hips, and then further down. She felt his rough hands on the bare skin of her thighs, and shivered, wondering if he had actually read her thoughts just then. For the first time, she realized that she wore nothing but her smallclothes and her sleeping shift, while she sat astride Sandor's lap on her bed.
The thought should have scandalized her, but her bedchamber door was open. They had been arguing for quite some time now, and it wasn't as if they had been quiet about it; the entire castle surely knew he was here with her. And what did it matter? They were betrothed to be married, they were bonded.
She leaned further into him, and whispered into his ear with her arms wrapped around his neck. She wanted to put this argument to rest for good.
"Sandor...please promise me you'll stop this. Should not every lady regard her husband as the best man she knows? I shall think of you however I please, and you shall be glad of it."
She pulled away, just far enough to look him in the eye.
"Your attempt to make yourself a villain is the lie here, my lord. I won't let you do it, I won't believe it. You can't push me away, Sandor, it's too late, I'm already inside you." She clutched at his tunic and pressed her fist into his chest, right over his heart. "We are bonded. I know you can feel it. You can feel how I worry for you, how I long for you, how much I need you near me."
Sandor's hands continued to caress her thighs and her hips, and his rough, calloused hands on her bare skin made Sansa feel flushed and suddenly tense. She pushed herself closer to him, and whispered into his ruined ear again.
"I can feel your need, too Sandor. I know how you dream of me at night. I know how much you want me."
Sandor's hands tightened on her flesh in response, and it made her arch her back and press her breasts against his chest. Sandor groaned and dropped his head onto her shoulder, burying his face in her tangled hair, still messy from sleep. She felt shame and guilt and an overwhelming need from him, and Sansa felt it was high time for their fourth kiss.
She nudged at him by placing tiny kisses on his neck, starting underneath his mutilated ear and slowly making her way along the twisted flesh of his scarred jaw, until finally her mouth met his. When they finally kissed, it was slow and deep, and even better than what Sansa remembered, from either of their dreams. Sandor's big hands clutched at her hips and pulled her flush against him. She felt him, hard and hot against her belly, and reveled in how much he wanted her.
She knew what to do next, because she had seen it in his dreams. She buried one hand in his hair, and let the other slide down his chest between them while they kissed. Her hand reached his belly, and she felt his muscles jump underneath her fingertips, and suddenly her wrist was wrapped in the iron grip of Sandor's hand.
Sansa barely stopped kissing him, but rather whispered right into his mouth. "Am I not doing it right, Sandor? I thought this is what you wanted, this is what I do in your dreams, isn't it?"
Sandor turned his head, and hid his face in her hair, growling out his words through clenched teeth - "Stop that, little bird, it's not right. I never – I didn't want you – fuck."
He took a deep breath and released her wrist, starting again. "I hoped you hadn't seen those dreams, girl, that's not - "
"Sandor, look at me." Sansa raised his head from where it was buried in her neck, and looked him in the eye. "We are soul bonded and betrothed. There are things we must wait to do of course, but you are allowed to touch me. I am to be your wife! I can touch you too, just show me how..."
And in the next instant, he was kissing her again, and Sansa felt herself relax completely and slip into mindless bliss for the first time in weeks. Sandor relaxed too, and Sansa knew the vague guilt he felt for wanting her was overwhelmed by lust, and by something deeper, too.
Just like she saw in his dreams, Sandor's mouth fell away from her lips to suck hard on that spot on her neck that captivated him so. She felt the rasp of his stubble on her skin there, and remembered she had a dream like this, too. But in her dream she was bundled up in furs and standing in the Godswood, not practically naked and sitting in Sandor's lap!
Soon, she felt Sandor's mouth and tongue move further down, and she knew what was coming next. His big, warm hands slid up her back and pulled her even closer to him, and he buried his face between her breasts with a quiet, desperate moan. His deep voice vibrated through her, and then Sandor was sucking on her teats, through the fine linen of her sleeping shift. Sansa lost all sense of herself, and her entire world was reduced to the completely new sensation of Sandor's mouth on her tender flesh.
It was the echo of Lady's growl in her bedchamber brought Sansa out of her stupor. Sandor froze, and hid his face in her hair again, squeezing her waist in that way that meant he was trying to keep his hands from wandering. Lady's golden eyes were fixed on the open doorway, and she scratched lightly at the stone floor, while a low growl rumbled from her throat.
"We have to stop this, little bird, or I'm going to fuck you right here with the door wide open and all of Winterfell to see."
Sansa's cheeks flushed at his crude language, but she couldn't deny how it thrilled her, too. A fresh wave of heat flooded her body and settled between her legs, and it was confusing and terrifying, but exciting as well.
Sandor pushed her away slightly, but only far enough so he could look up into her face. Sansa felt a bit wanton, still sitting astride his lap and barely dressed, but she felt confident and calm as well. She could feel through the bond that Sandor was done doubting her.
"As much as I bloody well don't want to, I have to leave you now, little bird, before I do something truly fucking stupid. Your lord brother has summoned me before him today. I don't know about what, but before I tell him what I want, I have to know what you want."
Sandor gently tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear, and stared into her blue eyes. She felt nothing but determination from him, and the purity of it made Sansa smile.
"What say you, little bird? Shall I have your brother cast me back into the pit of King's Landing? Or would you have me as yours, stubborn and foolish and scarred, and disbelieving in your greenseeing and your strange Northern tree-gods?"
Sansa smiled, and knew that despite his teasing words, he wanted to stay. He wanted to stay in Winterfell as desperately as she needed him to stay.
"You know what I want, Sandor, can't you feel it?" Sansa pressed herself against his chest, and kissed him again.