A/N: Slightly restrained smut ahoy! Changed my rating to M.
With her eyes closed, Sansa could almost imagine herself a child again: dandled in her mother's arms, rocked in the river by her grandfather's house, cradled in the womb. Like a baby at her mother's breast, like a fetus in the womb, she had against her ear the strong and steady heartbeat of her man, and both of them were jostled rhytmnically by the carriage trotting slowly down the road to the Tyrell's home.
She sighed in deep contentment tinged by a grave heartbreak.
All that came immediately after Rhaegar's death was a dull blur. Jon, the mob, Varys's mysterious disappearance, all was indistinct and distant. She vaguely remembered Sandor steering her out with a blanket around her shoulders, the Hound refusing to quit her side even above in Tyrion's office. She'd methodically answered all Selmy's questions. She thanked Tyrion for his by now drunken and exhausted sympathy.
What she remembered most was Jon's eyes. He'd always held a hint of melancholy there – how that look haunted her all these years away from him, troubled at the thought she could have partly caused it – but there was a childlike, numbed shock in their depths now.
She felt some of that same shock, too, as she was sure Arya must as well. Ned Stark, their father and idol, had lied to them – honorably, yes, but still he lied. Jon was not their brother.
He was Lyanna's child. The woman who had been a distant ache in the Stark children's consciousness, then a manifestation of horror for Sansa underground, was the mother of their Jon Snow.
At the same time, Sansa felt strangely optimistic when it came to Jon. He was a Stark; he had far more wolf in him than dragon. That much was obvious, not only from his Northern looks. He would endure and learn to embrace both families within him.
Besides, he was already smiling again, just a mite – and always to Ygritte, who followed at his heels to the office. It was clear the girl was smitten, and Jon – well, he wasn't always easy to read, but the fact he was smiling at her at a time like this – well, there it was.
Sansa's contentment grew as she burrowed herself deeper in Sandor's arms.
She smiled against his shoulder. After the interrogation, Jon had placed a firm but gentle hand on her shoulder. So much like Father would. "Sansa, I'm glad beyond reason you're safe, but we're all still quite put out by your behavior. You know how much" – he paled a little and licked his lips. " – your father and mother love you." Sansa's heart broke all over again for him. He was going to say our father, but...gods, Father's his uncle! Jon's uncle!
Her brother – not my cousin, forever my brother – continued stalwart. "You've worried them so. We are returning first thing tomorrow. I'll book you and Arya a room at my hotel" –
"Nonsense," a sly, confident voice interrupted. Madame Olenna gracefully slunk into view. She'd moments before been far more impassioned, out in the hallway. She'd boxed Margaery's ears and scolded her harshly for heading down to the lair with the mob, an embarrassing yet comical spectacle for the sophisticated contralto. Immediately after, Olenna had taken her uncharacteristically stunned granddaughter in her arms and hugged her tightly.
Now, however, she was the same aloofly amused Dame of Thorns as always as she placed a light hand on Jon's back. "Nonsense. Why disarrange the girls after such a trial? Let Sansa at least stay one night more in my house." With the same silky evenness, she then tilted Sansa's chin back, studying her with laughing eyes. "Why, you're so peaked, my dear girl. You need to go to bed immediately. Little Arya is running about somewhere with her friends, so I'll send her along later, or maybe she at least can stay with Mr. Snow in the hotel. Mr. Clegane can escort you back to my home and see you safe. We'll be by in a couple hours, when everything dies down over here."
She spoke so casually Jon almost didn't react, before he realized – "Madame, I certainly don't think it proper"—
"Oh, hush, boy," Olenna easily brushed him off. "Come here. Bring Ygritte. I have a few questions about the North for you both. All this has made me realize I haven't traveled as much of Westeros as I should have, and at my age, I better do it now if I'm going to. Come along!"
And so with the divine intervention of a tart-tongued ballet mistress, Sansa now sat nestled in her lover's arms, the carriage's wheels lulling her into a half-sleep.
They'd spoken but little.
Her slender hand was tucked in his.
He breathed her in.
"We're almost there, little bird," his voice rumbled in her ear.
She smiled again at the way his chest vibrated as he spoke.
He was alive, so wonderfully, splendidly alive.
She'd never known such visceral terror and rage in her life than when she saw him trapped in Rhaegar's lasso.
Rhaegar.
Rhaegar Targaryen was as cold and dead as the concrete prison he'd lived in for almost twenty-two years. Sansa would speak to Jon about burying him in the coffin he'd slept in.
Her teacher, her Angel.
Her folly. Her demon. Her poor unhappy Rhaegar.
The carriage stopped.
Never letting go of her hand, Sandor led her to the front door.
Sansa used her key to let them in, Olenna always giving the servants the night off during performances.
Sandor walked her as far as the staircase.
Now it was Sansa who would not let go of him. She pulled him gently as she climbed the first couple steps toward her bedroom.
He halted, eyes hard and vaguely frightened. "No," he rasped softly. "I can't. Not after what you've been through tonight, girl. We can't do that yet."
That ecstatic remoteness returned to her unworldly blue eyes. Her voice was so young and ancient at the same time. "I know. Not that, not yet. But I need you to hold me."
He was drowning in bright deep blue that led him step by step to her room.
As she lied on the bed he felt that whatever she willed, he would do. That connection they'd shared the instant he roughly put his hand on her shoulder had turned into a bond so strong it was almost tangible; he could practically feel the invisible cord tying him to her.
She was his. His. Someone tried taking her away, tried hurting her, but she was back now, she was his, completely his.
And oh gods, he was hers. He – he was nothing but hers.
He followed her to the bed.
He supported himself on his forearms on either side of her.
She breathed heavily, almost panting. He was enormous, his face filling the world. She ran a light, searching hand over his burns. She wanted to memorize them. Every crevice, every shining patch of red skin was dearer to her than any piece of art she could think of, as painful as it was to think of how –
"Sandor," she whispered. "Your brother. He's dead."
That eternal twist in his cheek. "Aye," he nodded. "Aye."
His eyes were so far away.
She made him look at her. "How – how do you feel about that?"
He laughed sardonically. "About like somebody's reached inside me and rearranged my guts. What a fucking fool I've been all these years, wondering when I'd get the chance to end his life myself."
Sansa hid her relief. She'd never lose him now. He'd never one day get a lead and leave her to enact fratricide, or else die at his brother's hands. He was hers and hers alone.
This happy realization made her heart burn with something primal and she kissed him ferociously.
Every deep surprised and lusting sound he made further inflamed her.
He broke the kiss as she started pulling his only recently dried shirt from his shoulders. "Girl," he said firmly.
"Not that. Not yet," she repeated. "But I need to see you, need to feel you."
He swallowed, in equal parts lust and self-consciousness. "Just how do you know you'll like what you'll see?"
She tilted her head in that sleepy, dreamy way of hers that always made him hurt with tenderness. "I will," she whispered, accompanied by a small grin. "Besides, there's only one way to find out."
Unable to stop her when confronted by such a look as that, he let her remove the rest of his shirt.
He could scarcely breathe as her vast eyes took him in. The instant her hand landed on his broad chest he couldn't help his moan.
That combined with the damp heat from his chest, cushioned by the dark coarse hair covering it, stirred the already sharp and tingling lust deep in her womanhood.
His rounded muscled shoulders, his tanned skin, the slight cuts here and there, the dark hair, the small nipples almost disappearing in that hair – she was enraged with need.
He felt like a wolf was lunging at him as her soft mouth pressed violently against his chest. Her lips trailed lower and soon he moaned again as her tongue found one of his nipples.
His cock strained mercilessly against his trousers. He panted.
"I can't – I can't control myself, girl. We need to stop. Stop now. Before" –
He trailed off, and Sansa felt his naked arms trembling around her.
She raised her head and stared at him seriously. "I need to feel like we belong to each other again."
His eyes were pictures of yearning and despair. "I can't take you so soon, little bird. After everything that's happened – I guess we're both in shock, or whatever those newfangled psychiatrists or psychologists would call it. We can't" –
"I know, I know," she said soothingly, rubbing his shoulders in slow circles. "But…I want to touch you. Maybe…." She looked down at the large bulge barely concealed within his trousers. She recalled a few chapters she read blushingly from one of Margaery's collections of romance novels. She'd been scandalized and shut it quickly after reading it, but her desire stirred at the thought of –
Her hand made its way down his stomach to his crotch and she cupped him through his pants.
She could have sworn he actually whimpered.
"Please, let me, Sandor," she whispered against his neck, kissing his scruff.
He trembled again. In a strained voice, he asked, "Have you got a handkerchief?"
Dimly she was aware of what he was asking. She nodded. She reached into her nightstand and removed a lacy lilac-colored kerchief.
Knowing that the frilly scrap of silk had touched her, perhaps daubed her skin with that vanilla-lemon scent, aroused him more than anything else. He somehow found his voice and said, "Use that to catch…to catch my seed."
She shivered deep in her bones at his frank language.
He smirked. "Can't mess up your nice clean sheets, girl." Lust vibrated in his rasping voice.
With agonizing slowness, she unbuttoned him and pulled down his trousers. She wasn't satisfied with just freeing his member; she needed to see his long legs strong as tree trunks, see him completely bared, for her, for her.
His erection was dark brown with the blood of his arousal. It stuck out from a nest of black curling hair.
All at once her ladylike upbringing rared its head and heated her cheeks. She was paralyzed with shyness. So big, so alien. She almost felt like the bobbing erection was something completely separate from the man she loved, so foreign to her sheltered sensibilities was it.
Then she saw his cock tremble, and knew that was because Sandor himself trembled. Any fear or reticence vanished.
Holding her breath, she clasped his erection in one hand, while supporting it with the handkerchief in her other hand.
Her desire skyrocketed when Sandor hissed and his stomach curved upward. He was glorious, majestic. And he was all hers.
She stole a glance at his face. His eyes were shut tightly. He looked like he was concentrating on something. His mouth was partly open.
She kissed him quickly. "I read something a little while ago. I'll…I'll try to imitate what I read."
He laughed noiselessly. His quaint, earnest little bird, doing as she read. She – she was so –
Rational thought fled him as she began tugging on his cock, caressing its entire length in hypnotic, fluid movements.
The cool feel of her bare hand on his skin. The whisper of fabric from the handkerchief.
He saw snapping stars beneath his lids.
"Harder…harder…" he gritted through his clenched teeth.
A sheen of sweat coated them both.
She grew completely wet the harder his cock became under her ministrations.
At that moment Sandor growled. He'd apparently become aware at last of her still fully clothed state, and was put out that he should be the only one nude.
He hastily pulled down her flimsy dungeon shift, then quickly unlaced the corset underneath.
Sansa was going mad. She needed him – she needed him inside –
She howled like the wolf she was as he sucked one of her pink nipples into his mouth.
Sandor was simultaneously in all the heavens and hells, thrashing under her touch. She kept tugging him, at the same time writhing beneath him as he sucked and licked at her nipples on those creamy white teats.
"Oh, gods, girl," he said in that strained voice, burying his head in the valley of her breasts. "Harder!" She was far too gentle, his innocent little bird. He wanted harder. Harder. Harder.
He stopped breathing as she acquiesced.
He'd never – never felt such –
There was a sharp pang deep in his throbbing erection. She pulled with both hands now, the handkerchief wrapped around his tip.
Harder harder sharper harder so sharp and hard and hot, searing -
He came with a roar.
He soaked the handkerchief through and through.
He moaned out every lost drop.
Gods, this feeling. What was this? Never with any whore had he felt...this.
The sensation rocked his body, made him hover over the room and soar over the entire city, and oh, gods.
At last he collapsed on top of her. He covered her.
Her skin, he needed her skin. He pressed her into him, trying to bury his way inside her of so that he could breathe her oxygen, her blood, her flesh.
His cheeks were damp with tears and he pressed them against hers.
He was past shame. He was a broken man. She'd broken him, and he reveled in it.
Together they'd build him back up again.
Her little voice was desperate in his ears. "Please, please. I need you. Need you in me."
He stared at her and almost came again at the frantic yet oddly languid arousal brightening her eyes and cheeks, making her lips seem fuller and redder. A light auburn lock, all red with brown highlights, was plastered damply against her brow.
He couldn't rip away her maidenhood. He wouldn't let himself. She deserved him taking the time to ensure her comfort. They were both too frenzied to reclaim each other after their brush with death to give the act the gentleness it needed.
And so Sandor slid down, down to his knees at the foot of the bed. Very carefully he pulled her down lower, then he parted her legs.
She threw her head back on the pillow, smiling and laughing with a joyous wantonness. Yes yes yes yes –
He'd never heard such a beautiful, glorious sound as she grunt-groaned when his tongue licked her walls and her very core.
He gave her a houndish grin over her naked body. "Aye, little bird. Sing for me."
He buried his face in the warmth of her juices and licked, sucked. Better than any cordial, better than any wine. She was his blooming red flower of a bird-wolf.
She shivered and thrusted into his greedy mouth. Her body writhed with the seductive twists of a cobra. His big thick tongue probed and lashed inside her. She cried and laughed and threw her head side to side against her pillow.
His hand found his cock and he pulled it brutally as she sang in truth for him.
The notes that flew out of her as she tightened and climaxed were honey and wildflowers. Her song shot through his entire body.
He came in his hand, hastily pressing the wet handkerchief there to catch more of his seed. He moaned with his mouth still inside her.
Sated and defeated, he lay his head against her stomach, wrapping his arms around her waist.
One feeling pervaded Sandor that he'd never before experienced as her stomach moved his face up and down, up and down.
Comfort.
As her hand gently caressed his damp hair, he knew she felt it, too.
He had to leave soon.
Yet he made no move to do so from where he now held her tightly to him, spooning her against his body. He curled around her.
The Tyrell women would soon be home. Unless he wanted to scale the gutters outside Sansa's window, he'd have to make himself scarce before they arrived.
Sansa seemed to sense his thoughts, for she squeezed his hand and said, "You have time."
Her hair smelled like lemon, like vanilla, like snow and wheat and he didn't know. "Do I, girl?"
"You'll never leave me again," she said with matter-of-fact sweetness.
Guilt twisted in his chest. "Sansa. Do you forgive me for not…for doubting you?"
"Mm," she said, "I don't know. I'll have to think about it." Her expression was very grave, but he could see the jumping light in her eyes as she turned around to caress his cheek.
"You're joking, but gods know I failed you."
She shrugged. "Maybe. But even when you thought I might be mad – and really, I can't blame you that much – you still wanted to save me. Still wanted to keep me safe." She cupped his cheek, staring at him adoringly. "That counts a lot, you know."
He clutched her wrist, eyes burning. "I will keep you safe. Anyone tries to hurt you again, I'll kill them."
It came upon her all in a rush how vital he was, how strong and fierce. Only this evening she had resigned herself to a cold fate of either death or eternity with a living corpse – a corpse not because of his face, but because of his deadly obsession with the past, with what was gone.
Now –
She buried her gratefulness in Sandor's chest again, rubbing her nose against his clavicle.
"I love you," she mumbled desperately against his skin. "I love you."
His arms tightened around her. His voice was hoarse with emotion as he said, "And I love you, girl. I love you so much I can't think, can't do anything but just fucking…want you."
His lips were hard through her hair.
She looked up at him. "And you believe me now? That I really love you and only you?"
The tears were in his eyes again. Her fingers were quick to catch them. He's the strongest man I know, and yet he cries in my arms. This was humbling, excruciating, and wonderful.
At last he found words. "Aye. For whatever reason whirling around in that daft head of yours, you apparently love me true. You're so perfect, and you love me."
Amused doubt crossed her face. "I'm not perfect, Sandor."
"Yes, you are," he said confidently.
She felt a strange rebellion. She would not be idealized anymore. If she was to be loved, it was to be for herself this time. "No, I'm not. I've been rash and childish, and too trusting by far."
Sandor shrugged. "Aye, and more than that. You've been stubborn as a mule and secretive."
He bit back his laughter at her pouting frown, as she wiggled and huffed. She was a bit miffed. It was all well and good for him to acknowledge she was human, but to do so this readily and then add to her list of flaws!
"Well, thank you very much," she said facetiously. "But see?"
"Aye, I see." He kissed her head. "You're a frightful young bird who will be the death of me." Another kiss. "You're perfect."
Warmth filled her chest. She fought with her own tears. "You're so – you're so – oh, I don't know." She looked at him very seriously. "You won't leave me again?"
Her heart would always hold a dark but fond place for the man who'd been her Angel. Rhaegar would forever remain the biggest tragedy in her life. A part of her would always hear him singing, in the deep of the night.
Yet now she knew that her very soul and happiness depended on this scruffy, large, burnt man's words beside her.
She thrilled as his eyes glowed with determination into her own. "No. Never leave you. Ever. I don't care if your old man comes at me with a shotgun, I'm sticking to your side from here on out, little bird." He swallowed against the lump in his throat. He cursed his voice for breaking as he said, "I'll never lose you again."
Her finger traced his chin. "No. You won't." She grinned impishly. "I guess I do know what you are after all. You're perfect, too."
"Me?" He raised his eyebrows, then nestled his head against her chest. "No. I'm just a poor dog ready to die for you, Sansa Stark."
A/N: If you're in this solely for the SanSan, you might want to consider this the end. There is SanSan in the epilogue I'll post next, but word-of-mouth SanSan. Spoiler alert, they're not actually in it. Still, I recommend sticking around for it, since we get to hear where they end up and tie up some last-minute loose ends. I hope to write and post it soon.
P.S. It's canon that Sandor is a big cry-baby, so there's no way he wouldn't dissolve into a puddle of tears as he climaxes in Sansa's hands.