Author's notes:
I apologize for the long wait for this chapter. Summer was long and eventful (in a good way :)) and I just couldn't find the peace and quiet I need for writing. I am back on schedule now, though. So I hope further updates will be coming faster again now that we are nearing the end of this story.
This chapter contains material from the books, not expicitly marked as such for formatting reasons.
I took the liberty of moving a scene from the book a bit back in time. The scene between Tyrion and Shae occurs in the books right before Joff's wedding, which is way too late for my purposes.
Also: if some of you like Shae, this chapter might not be to your taste.
Despite her bravado back when she was with Sandor, standing in front of Tyrion with her hair in disarray, her underwear torn and her inner thighs sticky and wet didn't feel wicked and daring, but dangerous and uncomfortable.
He looked at her for long silent moments until she was sure he had figured out her deepest secrets.
"You look as if you cried, my lady," he said, the by now familiar sad pity in his eyes.
She nodded, glad her tear-streaked face had caught his attention and not the bird's nest that was her hair or the creased and crumpled skirts of her dress.
"I have, but it's better now," she said. "It helped to... pray."
It would have probably been way better to have that last part delivered without blushing to the roots of her hair. Sandor had been right in this, she was a lousy liar.
"If it helps," he offered, oblivious, "you can go whenever you like. Maybe you can ask Bronn to accompany you..."
"Oh, no, no thank you, my lord, that won't be necessary."
He lifted an eyebrow and she resisted the urge to slap herself.
"I mean, I am going there alone ever since I came here, it is perfectly alright."
He nodded, looking somewhat unconvinced.
"Ah, before I forget," he said when she was about to excuse herself to scurry back to her room. "I hired a personal maid for you from Lady Stokeworth. Her name is Shae. Lollys has no need for her anymore and I thought... well, I hired her."
"Thank you, my lord," Sansa said, baffled.
...
On her way back to her chambers she wondered why Tyrion would concern himself with such a menial task as hiring a maid for her. Unless...
Of course, she mentally chided herself. Just like his sister, he meant to use her maids to gain information about every aspect of her life.
Which meant she had to be very careful not to show herself naked to that Shae person. While she could honestly attribute the bruises and cuts on her arms to Trant and Kettleblack, and even might make a convincing argument for those on her back being their doing as well, there was no explanation for the scrapes and abrasions on her inner thighs, left there by Sandor's studded leather trousers while he had taken her so roughly she had thought she'd expire at the searing pleasure of it.
Yes, it had been pleasure laced with no small amount of pain. The tree at her back, the relentless thrusting of his hips, his fingers digging into her flesh and - even worse than all that - the echo of his words in her head, the memory of the sullen anger in his eyes when she had questioned his love.
If she had been more herself, she would have laughed at him for snapping at her like that, for reverting to the one defence he always came back to and for thinking it would work on her. But then again, if she had been more herself, she would not have asked that question in the first place.
Because deep down, she knew. Had always known. A man like Sandor Clegane did nothing in half-measures. His body, his face, was testament to his ability to soldier on despite hardship and pain. He'd given her a promise and there was no doubting he would literally hold himself to it until his last breath, no matter the circumstances.
It had been a moment of weakness - on both their parts. Wounded and frightened, they had both reverted to their former selves and had thus failed each other by failing to draw on what had grown between them for the last weeks.
On that feeling of warm, soft happiness, of deeply felt trust and deliciously sweet longing.
Or may they had failed to draw on it because in this situation, it wasn't enough - was only one side of both their natures and the nature of their feelings for one another, while the other had only been there in glimpses, hastily denied and apologized for. Something wild and indomitable in both of them that they needed to survive.
Something so much like him she could not help but love it. Visceral and bloody, dangerous and dark, virile and alive.
...
It took her but a minute to ascertain that the woman named Shae, pleasant as she tried to appear, was no servant and never had been.
For one thing, she was stunningly beautiful in a darkly exotic way, with straight, even teeth, luxuriantly curled, short dark hair, unblemished skin and soft hands with polished nails. Women of the lower classes usually had not the time or the means to take care of themselves like that.
Even more conspicuous was the fact, that Shae looked Sansa directly in the eyes, not lowering her gaze, and spoke to her with a downright impudent smile playing around her lips. She did all that was asked, but did so with an insolent look or two.
Sansa pretended not to notice and stoically bore her "maid's" amused smile when she claimed she wanted to undress and bathe in privacy.
When finally the door closed behind Shae, Sansa was almost fuming at the realization that Tyrion apparently thought her stupid enough not to see through this so very obvious ruse.
…
Sansa's first excursion into the bowels of Maegor's Holdfast went surprisingly smoothly. She had told Tyrion, who was deep in conversation with Lord Varys and Ser Bronn, that she was going to pray in the godswood. While Bronn had looked at her suspiciously and Varys had given her an enigmatic smile, Tyrion had just nodded in a distracted manner and mumbled something about her dressing warmly for the occasion.
Keeping to the darker parts of the corridors and staircases, she had reached Sandor's room without incident and let herself quietly into the little room where she found herself confronted with the sight of her beloved being in the midst of very thorough ablutions.
He had apparently just come back from the training yard. His gear had been thrown into one corner in a rather untidy heap and the room smelled of clean male sweat and … him.
She bit her lip at the thought how much she would like to make him sweat again. Her blood getting warmer by the second, she contemplated the play of powerful muscles under the skin of his back and arms, glittering droplets of water running down as if caressing him, lingering around some of the scars and finally disappearing in the waistband of his breeches that were partially unlaced and hung dangerously low on his hips.
He could not have looked more desirable had he tried. How was a woman to remain clear-headed and expected to discuss serious matters of grave importance under such circumstances?
She took a deep breath and tried to remember how much was at stake for the both of them.
Clearly knowing she was behind him, he leisurely finished cleaning up, grabbed a towel from the nearby sideboard and turned to her, drying his face and hair.
If seeing his naked back already had been a trial to her senses, seeing his naked chest – still dripping wet - was an assault.
"Sansa," he said happily and then grinned when he noticed her preoccupation.
"What's the matter, sweet wife," he asked. "Never seen a bare-chested man before?"
His eyes twinkled with mirth and a very male sort of pride.
Well, two could play at that particular game.
She slowly licked her lips and then lightly took her bottom lip between her teeth.
The grin faltered and his chest rose with a deep breath.
"Even if I had seen hundreds," she said, slowly walking towards him, "none of them could compare to you."
It would be so easy - too easy - to just walk right into his arms, to give in to what they both craved. But somewhere in the back of her head she knew they had things to discuss, plans to make, so she just reached out and touched a fingertip gently to his chest, taking the wetness she found and skimming over one flat male nipple. He shuddered under her caress.
"Sansa...," he pleaded in a husky whisper and she didn't quite know if he was asking her to stop or to continue.
She lowered her hand and let it fall to her side, twisting her fingers into the coarse material of her cloak to keep herself from touching him again.
"Did you have any difficulties coming here?" he asked, turning away from her to hunt down a fresh shirt to wear. She almost begged him not to.
"No," she said instead. "Bronn is with Tyrion and Lord Varys, so..."
"What business does the Imp have with the Spider?"
"I do not know," she said but then something occurred to her. "Maybe he helped him hiring that maid who is supposed to spy on me."
Sandor turned to her with one eyebrow raised.
"He hired someone to spy on you?" he sneered. "How very Lannister of him."
A fresh bout of irritation swept over her at Tyrion's plotting and she started to pace angrily.
"I know!" she cried. "And he didn't even put any effort into choosing her! A blind man couldn't mistake her for a servant."
"How so?"
"She's far too beautiful and so well groomed she looks as if she has servants of her own. She doesn't show deference and does not even know how to curtsy correctly."
A longish silence greeted her last statement and when she turned to see why he hadn't replied, she found him looking at her from out of half-lidded, dangerously glinting eyes.
"Deference, huh?" he growled.
Knowing that particular look all too well, she took an involuntary step back, only to come up against the wall of his way too small chamber.
He stalked her like a big predator, slowly coming closer, his eyes never leaving hers.
Need stabbed through her almost viciously and she swallowed the moan that rose in her throat.
So much for talking.
"And she doesn't curtsy correctly," he drawled when he reached her, leaning into her with both his hands propped on either side of her head, his body only inches from hers.
Her whole vision was filled with him and she had to crane her neck to keep looking him in the eye.
She knew he towered over her on purpose, even though it wasn't clear what purpose this was. After the events of the past few days, she had realized that there was still much to learn about the man she called her husband. And she was sure that this particular quest for knowledge would be as dangerous as it would be rewarding.
For a split moment, she was afraid. Afraid of making another mistake, of reacting in a way to anger or hurt him. But fear, she knew from recent experience, would be her worst mistake, the most hurtful insult to him.
"Yes, she doesn't," she replied as firmly as she could under the circumstances. "It's a disgrace."
He closed the space between their bodies and her knees almost buckled at the sensation of his lower body pressed against her, his arousal unmistakable.
"Did she by any chance dare to address you incorrectly as well?"
Sansa was still at a complete loss as to what was going on and with Sandor looking at her as if she was a tasty treat, his body hot and hard against hers, thinking became increasingly difficult.
"She failed to address me as 'my lady'..." she started, only to interrupted herself with a drawn out moan when he lowered his head to nip playfully at the sensitive skin of her neck.
He lifted his head again.
"You were saying?"
His eyes glittered like molten silver, amusement and arousal plainly written in his features.
Finally, she started seeing a connection.
"Failed to address me as 'my lady' on at least two occasions," she finished, trying to sound as imperious as she could manage.
She was rewarded for her perspicacity with a trail of hot kisses from her neck up to her ear. A reward that left her shaking with want.
"You've no idea what it does to me when you're being all haughty and queenly," he rasped against her ear.
Well, she had some idea, because his reaction wasn't exactly subtle, the question why such arrogant behaviour would excite him so much was another matter.
"Why?"
"Because," he whispered, his lips ghosting over hers, "knowing that despite of who you are, you still chose me..." Another feather light touch of his lips, "...brings me to my knees."
Maybe at any other time she would have been annoyed with him for bringing up what they had not talked about ever since the day they'd married. Because it didn't matter how much their social standing was dividing them when what united them was so much more meaningful.
Right now, though, his sweet honesty was balm to her bruised heart and oil to the fire in her veins.
"You are hardly on your knees," she teased breathlessly.
He stilled for a moment and then slowly pushed himself away from the wall, away from her. And then, slowly and surprisingly graceful for a man his size, he sank to his knees.
His eyes never left hers even for a second and she saw the challenge there. He might be the one on his knees, but she couldn't shake the feeling that he was now more in control of her than he had been before.
"Is this deferent enough?" he asked, his hands finding their way under her skirts and wrapping firmly around her calves, gliding upwards. When he reached the back of her knees, fingers circling and stroking, she was beyond being able to give a coherent answer.
With a gentle nudge he signalled her to part her legs to make room for his questing hands.
When his hot palms stroked over her inner thighs, the skin still tender from their encounter the night before, her desire turned to sheer desperation.
"Sandor..." she wailed.
"Yes, my lady?" he inquired in a voice so deep as to be almost inaudible; the only sign that he was as deeply affected by what happened as she was. "How can I be of service?"
He drew an audible, hissing breath when his fingers encountered the wetness on her thighs - not hindered by any additional clothing since Sansa hadn't bothered with smallclothes for this particular expedition. Seeing how the ones she had worn last night had fared, she thought it wasteful to risk another set sharing the same fate.
Pushing upwards, his fingertips soon pressed against the spot where she needed him most, and had she had any clear thoughts left, she might have been embarrassed at how close to completion she already was with such little stimulation.
Her hands aimlessly searched for purchase to keep her from falling over, so she held on tightly to his shoulders.
"Want me to take care of this... my lady?" he asked, one hand still between her legs, fingertip lightly crazing her nub, while with the other he grabbed her leg and lifted it over his shoulder.
"Yes," she panted, with no hope of sounding like he might have wanted her to. "Yes, right now."
And then her already dangerously narrowed focus shrank to only the one place between her legs where he had put his mouth, where he licked and sucked and hummed against her swollen flesh until she stopped caring if she would fall down, stopped caring if she moaned or cried too loudly. Until the spasms of release tore through her and left her shaking like a leaf, boneless and insensible and his name the only word echoing through her brain and coming from her lips.
He caught her when she fell and kissed her hungrily with a mouth that tasted of her. He still called her 'my lady' when he carried her to the bed, freed his cock and pushed inside her with an impatience that might have been brutal if she had not needed him so much, but it was not mockery, not teasing, but true and heartfelt reverence and adoration.
...
"So much for talking," she whispered, smiling to herself, when he nestled his head against her breast afterwards, trying to catch his breath.
They were still both mostly clothed and she was quietly amused and not a little stirred at the thought how much more wickedly daring everything had felt with them not even being able to take the time to get properly undressed.
"Entirely your fault," he mumbled, sounding half-asleep. "The way you looked at me..."
"My fault?" she squeaked. "I wasn't the one parading around half-naked."
"Oh, weren't you?" he chuckled darkly and ran his hand meaningful over her still exposed lower body. "Lady 'I-am-not-wearing-any-smallclothes'. Your scent alone..."
Not too long ago, she would have been disconcerted at the thought that he could smell her like that, but by now she knew that his skin, its texture, its taste and its smell as well, called to her just as strongly.
"Is it normal to be so... so at the mercy of ones... needs?" she asked quietly. "Is it always like this?"
He lifted his head to look at her and then silently ran a fingertip over her lips and another question occurred to her, one which she wasn't sure she even want an answer to. One she wasn't sure she could ask him without him getting angry.
"Has it been like this for you... before?"
His eyes darkened. With anger and with something else.
"No, never," he said tightly.
She lifted her hand to stroke his cheek and his expression softened.
"Do you really want to know about... before?" he asked.
She could see what it had cost him to offer, and no, she didn't want to know. Regardless if he would tell her of women who had meant nothing to him but the paid service they offered, or even if there had been some with whom there had been more... she didn't want to know. It didn't matter.
She shook her head.
He started caressing her again.
"I know about as much about those things as you do, little bird," he said, smiling at his use of the name he had for her. "But I'd like to think we're something very special."
She smiled back. "I like the thought."
He sighed deeply and then instead of lying back down, he sat up on the bed and swung his legs over the side, turning the broad expanse of his back to her.
"It worries me that Tyrion doesn't seem to trust you," he said. "He should have no reason not to."
"Maybe Lannisters are distrustful by nature," Sansa offered.
"They are," he conceded with a derisive snort. "Knowing what they are capable of doing, they might expect the same of others."
He was quiet for a moment.
"What has he to do with Varys?" he then repeated the question he had asked before, but it sounded as if he didn't need an answer to it, knowing she had none to give.
"They were never on good terms, and suddenly he shares wine with him and entrusts him something as delicate as placing someone to spy on his wife?"
"Well, Varys is the best when it comes to spying... or so I've heard."
Sandor nodded thoughtfully.
"Doesn't add up, though," he concluded after a while. "There's something we're not seeing."
"I'll try to find out what it is."
He turned to her, unsmiling.
"Be careful, Sansa," he said and there was a pleading edge to his tone. "Be very... very careful. Keep your eyes and ears open but don't give him any reason to doubt that you are a harmless and clueless."
"I will."
"Promise me."
"I promise to be careful," she said earnestly and then added, referring to a promise he had given her before, "and I won't go down without a fight."
Giving her no time to react, he pushed his hand into her hair and drew her closer to his face, glowering at her.
"As long as I'm still drawing breath," he growled, "you'll not go down at all."
She couldn't help herself. When he was like this, dark and dangerous and ready to spill blood, he was irresistible to her. Slowly, she slid her hand up his thigh until she found her prize, almost ready again.
His eyes flashed at her touch and his serious expression turned into a wolfish grin.
"Unless it's down on me."
And Sansa, ever the obedient wife, joyfully bent to her task.
...
When she went back into her and Tyrion's rooms in the small hours of the night, Tyrion wasn't in the bed they were sharing to keep up appearances.
Tired and glad her prolonged absence had probably gone unnoticed, she didn't spend any further thought on it and gratefully snuggled under to covers to fall promptly and deeply asleep.
...
The next morning, despite tiredness showing in dark rings under his eyes probably due to a night spend Gods knew where, she found Tyrion in high spirits at the breakfast table.
"We're going to move out of Maegor's," he declared with delight as soon as she had bid him a good morning, apparently expecting her to share his joy.
As it was, she could barely conceal her horror.
"We can move into the apartments atop the Kitchen Keep," he went on, not noticing or not chosing to notice her distress. "They were Lord Rosby's before and are said to be spacious and elegant. I am sure you'll love it there."
She nodded numbly.
"Of course my lord," she said tonelessly, "if it pleases my lord."
Tyrion didn't bother to hide his disappointment at her reaction.
"One would think you'd be more relieved at not having to live under one roof with Joffrey anymore," he said sourly. "I am as happy as a pig in shit that I can get away from my sister, that's for sure."
He was right, in a way. It would be good not to live in Maegor's anymore, if not for the fact that it wouldn't make it all but impossible to slip into Sandor's chamber unnoticed.
"I am, my lord," she lied and forced herself to smile.
...
She spent the rest of the day coming up with - and discarding - a number of scenarios how to slip past the guard of the Holdfast, thought of what lie to tell the guards to let her pass, but nothing at all came to mind.
If only Arya was here, she suddenly thought. Her sister had known the Keep much better than she did, due to her chasing around cats or whatever she had done all the time why they were staying at the tower of the Hand.
It hit her then. Something Arya had once told her and she had heard repeated a time or two. The holdfast was impregnable from above, but below was a maze of secret or not so secret cellars, storerooms and passages, connecting all the towers of the Red Keep, including the holdfast.
Under the pretence of being eager to inspect their new apartments, she wasted no time exploring the cellars under the kitchen keep.
Armed with a lantern, parchment, charcoal and a piece of chalk, she methodically mapped every turn the passages took, marked them with little symbols and arrows and tried to draw a map of where she had to go.
It took only a surprisingly short amount of time to find the right path. She didn't even have to go through any secret passages, didn't have to crawl through any tight spaces - a fact she deeply appreciated - or disarm any deadly traps.
What she did find was the room of which Arya had spoken. The one where they stored the skulls of the Targaryen dragons. The sudden sight of the gigantic bones, their dead eyes deep black, suddenly looming up in front of her in the light of her small lantern had given her such a turn, she shrieked and had half a mind to flee and abandon her plan.
But thinking how heartily Sandor would laugh if he'd ever learned of her fleeing in terror of a few dead bones gave her the courage to brave this particular challenge.
As it turned out, the cellars of Maegor's were directly behind the room with the dragon skulls.
…
When Sansa woke in the middle of the night, she found the bed beside her empty, despite the fact that she had noticed Tyrion coming to bed at some point around midnight. As usual, she pretended to be fast asleep and he soon had started to breathe deeply and evenly.
She quickly donned her dress and the cloak Sandor had given her at their wedding - again foregoing smallclothes - grabbed her map and lantern and snuck out of the bedchamber on stockinged feet, shoes in her hand.
Tyrion wasn't in his study, where he spent most of his time and all the other parts of their rooms and the rest of the keep seemed deserted as well. She stopped and listened after every few steps she took, but the whole keep was quiet and asleep.
When she reached the basement, she slipped into her shoes and hurried along her mapped out path only to come to a full stop when she noticed that there was an eerie light shining from the room where the dragon skulls were kept.
Chiding herself for a foolish coward, she quietly crept forward and finally found that the source of the light was a simply latern, much her like her own, placed in the mouth of one of the smaller skulls.
Soft voices came from farther back were the larger ones stood.
'Balerion' she remembered vaguely. 'Or was it Vhagar?' She had never paid much attention to this part of her history lesson, even though the subject had seemed to be endlessly fascinating to Bran and Arya.
"My giant," she heard the exotic tilt in a voice that could only belong to the woman pretending to be her maid. "My giant has come to save me."
She peeked around one of the skulls and there she was, Shae, wearing only her beautiful, unblemished skin. Between her legs, the man who had married her in the sight of the seven was busying himself with pleasuring her.
It took her a while to notice that her mouth was hanging open and she closed it with a snap that the two people in front of her might even have heard, had they not being otherwise occupied.
Then she had to tamp down on the urge to howl with hysterical laughter.
That was what they hadn't been seeing.
Tyrion hadn't set a spy on her because he mistrusted her. He'd found a place for his concubine. A place where he would have access to her whenever he wanted to.
She contemplated telling him tomorrow that he needn't go to all this trouble. She had neither reason nor the wish to prevent him from finding elsewhere what she refused him. The problem was, that conversation would be as awkward as it would be embarrassing, not to mention would go contrary to her aim to appear 'clueless and harmless' as Sandor had put it.
At the thought of Sandor, a second much less hilarious observation struck her.
They were blocking her path. This was the only way to reach Sandor's room and here they were, rutting in the dirt right where she needed to go.
On the other hand, they seemed so preoccupied, maybe they wouldn't even notice.
She hadn't quite brought that thought to an end, when the two lovers quieted down.
"We should go back," Tyrion said. "It must be near dawn, Sansa will be waking."
Sansa made a face, sorely tempted to step into the light just then and there.
"You should give her dreamwine," Shae suggested at that. "Like Lady Tanda does with Lollys. A cup before she goes to sleep and we could fuck in the bed right next to her without her waking." She giggled. Sansa fumed. "Maybe we should, some night. Would m'lord like that?"
Tyrion only slightly reclaimed some of the respect she had for him when he didn't even deign that suggestion with an answer.
Sansa turned to go. She really didn't want to hear more of this.
"Your neck is hard as stone," Shae went on. "What troubles you?"
The question made Sansa stop again. She had promised to keep her eyes and ears open after all.
"My wife," he started and despite herself, Sansa felt a stab of guilt for being at the top of his list. "My sister, my nephew, my father. The Tyrells. Varys. Pycelle. Littlefinger. The Red Viper of Dorne."
He sighed deeply. "The face that stares back out of the water when I wash."
Another stab of guilt hit her, this time much deeper. She knew how Sandor suffered. Still did, even with her. He still made sure to sit, walk and lie down on her left side, so she wouldn't have to look at his scars. Might be it was an ingrained habit by now, but she noticed and she hurt for him every single time.
Tyrion must have had similar experiences, now worse than before. Being judged, laughed at and avoided for something he could not help.
"A brave face," she could hear Shae cooing at Tyrion with cloying sweetness in her voice. "A kind and good face."
The words rang hollow and untrue.
"My giant of Lannister, I love you so."
A wave of sickness welled up in Sansa at hearing the words.
'By the Seven, Tyrion,' she pleaded silently in her head. 'Do not believe her. She is mocking you, can't you hear?'
But she knew from her own experience that if you only want something badly enough, want to believe something badly enough, you do not care to look too closely until it's too late. Until the thing you thought was love had turned out to be poison. Until your father lies dead at your feet.
She turned and retreated when it was obvious they were getting ready to leave, her heart heavy with compassion for the man she would have every right to despise and much heavier with regret for not having accomplished what she had set out to do.
This way, she realized when she heard Tyrion and Shae agreein on meeting here again, was barred for her like all the others.
By the time she was back in her rooms, she had to battle a bout of despair almost as bad as two days ago. But now she knew better than giving in to it.
tbc