Chapter 21: Yearning
They spent the last day and night in bed before Sandor had to leave, behaving as if it was possible to stock up on joy, to make love so often it would be enough to carry them over the coming days when they were apart. They slept, made love, slept again.
Betsy had taken to deposit platters of food outside their bedchamber, so they really only had to leave it once nature made its demands.
When Sansa came back from one such errand, had cleaned up and changed the little sponge inside her, she found Sandor on the verge of falling asleep again, even though they had just woken up. Admittedly, after a nap that couldn't have been longer than an hour, but time was precious and not to be wasted with sleep.
Therefore, she pressed herself against his side, kissed his upper body and let her hands wander to where she knew they would be very appreciated.
A low growl came from Sandor's throat, a sure sign for her to proceed. In her hands his flesh firmed and hardened, much to her joy.
"Don't, Sansa, I'm tired," he complained.
She pouted, an expression wasted on him because he had not even bothered to open his eyes.
"But I'm not," she said.
His chest rumbled with something that might have been a chuckle.
"Well, then suit yourself," he said and folded his hands over his stomach, the very picture of a man about to go to sleep. "You know where you can find everything."
In her hand, his fully erect manhood twitched as if to underscore his meaning. Sansa flopped down on her back, shaking with laughter.
"And you might want to stop laughing," he admonished, eyes still closed, but with that little curl to the corner of his mouth that betrayed his amusement. "It has a very harmful effect on a man's... firmness."
She rolled over once again, grinning widely as she stroked over his cock which quite readily twitched towards her hand again.
"There seems to be nothing wrong with your... firmness, my lord," she said, wrapping her hand around him.
He groaned.
"My body betrays me," he said dramatically. "I am to be taken against my will by an insatiable woman."
She kissed his chest again then trailed soft, teasing kisses – the kind she knew he liked – down his belly and further to where her hand stroked him.
"Want me to stop?" she whispered against his skin in between kisses.
His answer came promptly.
"Don't you dare."
...
He had to leave at dawn.
Knowing Joffrey, it would probably already be nearing midday before they truly got on their way, but naturally everyone else was expected to be there at the first morning light to await His Grace's pleasure.
Sansa was fast asleep when he was dressed and ready to be on his way and he considered just letting her sleep. He'd no idea how to say farewell to her when all he really wanted to do was crawl back into that bed and tell the world outside to go fuck itself.
He just wanted to feast himself on joy and pleasure and the pure delight of having the most wonderful woman in his arms the Gods had ever created. To leave her like that, alone, insufficiently protected and with him too far away to come home quickly should the need arise, was something he only was able to do at all because he knew what would happen if he didn't.
Joffrey was still his sovereign, the Lannisters still his lieges and if he intended to keep his life, his lands and his title, he'd better continue to be the dutiful dog he always had been.
In a perversion of Joffrey's true intent, the boy was also the one guarantee Sandor had of keeping Sansa for himself. He just had to find a clever way or the right moment to suggest to the Joff that it might be a brilliant idea to give Sansa to him as his wife.
Which made it one of his priorities to keep the little cunt alive, much as he wished it would be otherwise.
He ran gentle fingertips over Sansa's face, smoothing back strands of fiery silk and gritting his teeth at the thought how long he'd have to go without this particular sensation. Was it possible to miss her even before he had left?
"I've to go," he said softly.
She opened her eyes, giving him a bleary look before shooting upright.
"No… I… I'm not," she stammered, "I am not ready to let you. You should've woken me sooner."
He gave her a pained smile. Maybe he should've gone with his original plan and just sneak outside without any fuss, as he always did. Over the past weeks, he might have learned a lot of things. How to say a proper farewell to her wasn't among them.
Instead he cupped the back of her head in one hand and drew her to him for a kiss.
"I'll be back as soon as possible," he whispered against her lips.
"Promise," she whispered back.
"I promise."
…
There had been no question in his mind he would be missing her, although he hadn't quite expected to miss her so soon and so badly.
He'd barely been out of the door when everything inside him had clamoured to turn back around and it had only gotten worse since then.
With him irritable and short-tempered – more so than usual – the whole time, everyone gave him an even wider berth than usual and even Joffrey seemed to prefer the company of other guards over his own.
Sandor, meanwhile, took it upon himself to act as commander of the guard, a role no-one seemed too keen on wanting to fill, organizing security measures and scouting parties, ordering men-at-arms around and had an eye on Blount so the fat knight wouldn't slack off on his duty to taste the king's food before it reached his table.
Margery had apparently regained some of her usual liveliness at the prospect of being reunited with her family and while still careful to not incur Joffrey's wrath, kept Sandor on his toes with her constant ideas about visiting some hamlet or other that was on their way, picking berries in the woods or have an impromptu horse race or some contest or other.
All that, however, proved to be child's play by the time they met up with the Tyrells.
The two camps merged in a matter of hours as if this whole situation hadn't been a threat against the king to begin with and the Tyrell army and opposing force. People were forever running around everywhere with no one quite knowing who belonged where or if the people looking busy belonged to any of the two camps at all.
Despite the overall mood seeming pleasant and friendly, Sandor was well aware that the danger to Joffrey had not passed in the slightest and with order as chaotic as it were, it would be no problem at all for a potential assassin to sneak up on the king.
While Olenna Tyrell seemed to be all forgiving and unconcerned when Joffrey chatted with her, Sandor saw the glints of hatred in her eyes when she thought herself unobserved. In addition, Littlefinger spent entirely too much time in private conversation with her, a fact that alone gave reason for alarm.
Baelish, incidentally, acted as if Sandor didn't exist. When before he had asked about Sansa at times, he pretended to have lost all interest in the subject. It would have been a reason for joy, if it hadn't smelled so very profoundly of just a new tactic to get his slimy paws on her.
Joffrey had thrown a minor tantrum when confronted with the news that it was impossible to have the feast that he had envisioned while encamped in tents, that neither the amount of servants nor the amount of provisions would be sufficient.
Kevan Lannister could only just barely talk him out of beheading the quartermaster and it was Olenna Tyrell who saved the day by announcing that she would not be in the mood for a feast anyway, until she had seen with her own two eyes that her grandson – who was out of the black cells but still confined to his quarters – was well.
So, after over a week already on the road, they decided to make their laborious way back to King's Landing.
Sandor's mood turned from bad to worse when the weather started to turn against them. A few hours of rain had turned the roads into muddy mires, hampering the wheel-houses and heavy cattle-drawn carts, slowing their pace to a crawl.
The sun came out again just as another broken wheel made a stop necessary. Margery, true to her rediscovered exuberance, suggested another of those buggering archery contests she was so fond of, probably because she excelled at it.
With nothing much else to do, Sandor kept an eye on Joffrey who mimed the proud husband with some credibility. For the past days, he'd acted as if it was his life's sole mission to fulfil his wife's every wish. The air was so thick with lies and deceit, it made Sandor sick.
Stewing in his own anger and misery, he had not noticed Cersei coming up to him.
"You miss her, don't you?"
It wasn't the first time she sought his company on this expedition, weirdly enough. Back when he had been her shield, she'd always seemed to disdain his presence. He was only useful to her to scare away people she wanted to have around even less. Her younger brother, for one.
He ignored Cersei's question as he had a few times before, not about to reveal the nature of his relationship to Sansa. Especially not to Joffrey's mother.
"Don't answer," she continued. "I could tell you I would not tell anyone, but you won't believe me, right?"
"Right," he'd said.
She looked at her son then, her smile tight and pained.
"They'll kill him, won't they?"
"They'll try," he answered, which made her flinch. "Wouldn't be the first time either."
To his surprise, Cersei didn't contradict him. If he had thought anyone still convinced of the Imp's guilt in Tywin Lannister's death, he would have thought it would be her. Short-sighted as that belief would probably prove to be.
"Will you protect him?" she asked quietly.
"I'll try, it's my duty," he answered flatly, more unnerved than he was ready to admit by this line of questioning. If he hadn't known better, he might have been tempted to think Cersei was looking for an ally she didn't know where else to find. An ally whose motives she tried to gauge, as if she thought herself surrounded by enemies.
"But you won't do it for him, am I right? You'll do it for her."
He turned to her then.
Cersei Lannister was still an exceptionally beautiful woman and for the sliver of a second he felt himself being uncomfortably reminded of youthful fancies and inappropriate dreams.
"What is it to you?" he asked, a bit more harshly than necessary. "What has you so interested in her all of a sudden?"
Her eyes didn't flinch from his stare; it wasn't her style. Never had been.
"I misjudged you," she said, smiling sadly. "You pulled wool over all our eyes with your little show. But I've seen the change she wrought, I've seen how you smile to yourself when you think no one is looking."
Sandor clenched his jaw, dread roiling in his belly. He could neither admit to her observation nor deny it. First he had to see what she meant to do with what she thought she knew.
"Don't worry," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "I kept that secret, if only to spite Baelish and the Tyrells. Just… keep Joffrey safe, will you?"
"I told you I will," he said through gritted teeth.
She turned from him then, gazing at Joffrey again.
"How does she do it?" she said as if to herself.
"Margery?" Sandor asked, not quite getting what he was asked.
Cersei shook her head with a chuckle.
"No, not her," she said, shaking her head again. "I know exactly what she is doing and how. I meant your little dove. How does she inspire love and loyalty without even trying?"
The answer was out of his mouth before he could even deliberate if it was smart to answer that question.
"It's because she's not trying."
…
A week, he'd said. Maybe two, if the weather is holding and they decide to amuse themselves with a hunt.
The latter part of this information had for some reason not really made it into Sansa's consciousness and was only remembered after a week was over and there was still no sign of the king's party coming back to King's Landing.
As if a week had not been bad enough.
Being cooped inside the house had all been nice and comfy when Sandor had kept her company, was surely not half bad when she could spend her time with Betsy, chatting and sewing and helping her with some of the lighter work in the kitchen, but after two or three days, she started to feel caged and anxious.
While Sandor had not specifically told her to stay inside, she thought it too risky to stroll around outside, even dressed in common clothes and with Eric at her back. Should they be discovered by Littlefinger's men, there would be no Sandor to come to the rescue.
So she stayed at home, trying to keep as busy as possible. Eric brought her a few books at her request, but she found she lacked the peace of mind to be reading. Sewing, on the other hand, while occupying her fingers, left her mind free to roam and wonder – and fret.
A thousand scenarios came to mind what could go wrong on the king's expedition and for long moments she wished she was still a member of the court so she would have been taken along on the journey.
This way, at least, she could have been close to him, would know what was going on.
Her moonblood came and went during her wait, the cramps and pain it brought with it contributing further to her bleak mood.
Eric sometimes went up to the keep, exchanged gossip with bored guards and chatty kitchen maids, only to learn that no one at the keep knew much more than Sansa did.
At least, she comforted herself at times, if there had been trouble, if there was fighting with the Tyrells, they would know. Joffrey surely would have sent for reinforcements in this case.
So she kept waiting and worrying.
Every morning, she woke to an empty bed that to her regret did not even smell of him anymore, woke with the hope that today would be the day he'd come home, only to crawl back into bed at night scared, sad and disappointed.
Lying sleepless and alone in that big bed was even worse than the day's anxiety. Missing him was like an open wound that hurt and festered and got worse with every day instead of getting better.
She missed his warmth, the rumbling of his voice in her ears, his gentle hands on her skin. Missed his peculiar sort of humour and the way he could calm and comfort her with just a few words. Missed being surrounded by his smell and the weight of his body on top of her. Missed the way his kisses could rob her of coherent thought and the way he felt inside of her.
Without him, she realized, she felt as if missing a limb, or more than one.
Back when her septa had taught her how marriage would make her "one half of a sacred unit", she had always wondered how marriage could turn her into only half a thing, when before she had been whole.
Now she knew that it wasn't necessarily marriage that brought such a change, but something else. Because she truly felt incomplete without him, like only half a thing. As if she had given him something of herself that he had taken with him, something that she felt empty and joyless without.
Every night, she cried herself to sleep, wishing she could be stronger than that, but knowing that whatever she'd given him held her strength, too.
…
On the tenth night, things were different.
There was excitement in the air around them. On the streets, people ran to and fro, most of them in only the one direction.
"The king is coming back!" sounded across the street from a dozen throats.
It was one of the hardest things Sansa ever had to do to sit on her hands and not run outside, not gawk at the procession of the king and the queen, their whole entourage and half of Highgarden parading back into the city.
Not because she wanted to see any of them. The only one she wanted to see was the one who would ride behind the king and queen.
She started pacing, wringing her hands every few moments and rushing to the window right after, only to find the street just as empty as before.
Later in the afternoon, after she had had a short and intense discussion with Betsy – which Betsy had won – regarding the necessity of eating even in troubling times, the door was opened and she was already halfway on her way to throw herself at the one who'd be stepping through the door, when she realized it was only Eric.
Hectic redness was on his face and he was stammering uncharacteristically when he told them that indeed the king had come back and Lord Clegane, naturally, with him.
"Have you seen him?" Sansa inquired breathlessly. "Is he alright? Does he look healthy? Or he is he injured?"
Eric hesitated.
"Oh my God," she said, feeling faint. "He is, isn't he? How bad is it? Was he riding his horse or did they have to carry him? What happened?"
Eric looked over to where Betsy was standing, exchanging what seemed like significant glances.
"If you would let Eric speak, my lady," Betsy suggested mildly.
Sansa huffed an impatient breath and nearly had to bite her tongue not to pepper Eric with even more questions while the boy picked his way through the common language to string a sentence together. He usually wasn't that slow, was he?
"I saw His Lordship," Eric said and Sansa heroically resisted her impulse to shake him to make him speak faster. "He seems healthy enough, at least as far as I could tell."
Half of a breath of relief came from her lungs, but surely Eric's assessment couldn't be trusted, not in the way he had put it.
"I… uhm… spoke to him."
Again, he paused.
Sansa took a quick glance over to Betsy to see if she found Eric's behaviour as infuriating as she did, only to find her trusted maid curiously studying the tips of her shoes.
"He bade me to ask you… uhm… whether you'd prefer him to go to the keep first, to make himself presentable before he comes home."
Her jaw dropped for a moment before she remembered that this was no expression befitting a lady. Then she closed her mouth with a snap, again refraining only by a hair's breadth to shake the man who – on further thought – wasn't at fault for the foolishness that had just come from him.
"Tell His Lordship," she said in her best haughty imitation of her lady mother, "that I expect him to come home the second he is free to do so, no matter if he is covered head to toe in horseshit."
Behind Eric, the door creaked open.
"It's not as bad as all that, little bird."
...
tbc