She couldn't remember exactly how it had happened, but he was there. And he was warm, feverishly so. And he picked her up, to lay her down beneath the canopy of thick oak trees, and he placed her on that bed of moss and flowers and new leaves. His hand slipped down the nape of her neck, the flesh of her wrist, to pluck at the buttons of her sodden nightgown. "Little bird . . ."
He called to her in the darkness of the night, and he was there. His hands and lips assaulted her flesh, left tender bruises and made her stumble, the words catch and scratch in the back of her throat, any thoughts scraping the back of her tumultuous mind cease it's torment. She could barely breathe, and when she did she gasped, for air and for water, for something to cool and heat her throughout that dark, damp night.
And though the rain slapped her across the face, made her arch her back off the mossy bed, it was him who kept her sheilded. The hound, unlacing the white ribbon cord of her bodice, to take her breast with his hand, to tweak her pink nipple that was hardened from the cold.
And she couldn't say no, couldn't make the words leave her plush lips, chapped and red from chewing on them in her anxious endeavour. And she didn't want to say no, not truly, but she wanted it to be over. She didn't want to have that little fleshy thing between her legs, that thing that made her so 'special.'
She wanted him. All of him, like she'd always wanted him. On his knees, face buried between her tears, his hands knitted in her red hair, bringing her down for a stubborn, rough kiss. And she wanted him atop her, his big leg wedged between hers, making her spread them, making her words grow loud and desperate.
His hand slipped down between them both, to touch and to take, to take that thing he'd always stayed so far from. "Sansa, lass-"
"Do it." She ordered, sensing his hesitation. Her eyes went wide, mouth curling into a shaking smile. "Just get it over with."
Pity formed on his face. He leaned back and, as quickly as he had before, re-laced her bodice and flung her tucked-up nightgown over her curving hips. Sansa grabbed his thick wrist, "N-no! What are you doing?!"
She wanted him. She did, honest, she did. Horror overtook her features, creased them and crumpled her delicate brow, for she'd said the wrong thing. "Sandor, please." She begged, looping her hands around his neck. She felt the scarred, savaged flesh and didn't grimace. "Please." She said, just once more, as if it would magically change his mind.
The rain poured thick. It made his black hair stick to his face, plastering his scars with onyx locks, hiding them from her gaze. I'm not afraid to look anymore, Sansa thought resolutely. She wanted to show him she wasn't stupid anymore, that she was a woman, that she was wise.
She reached up to caress his cheek, the ones with the scars and the twisted mass of flesh, stroke gently along his jaw-bone where the worst of the burn-damage had been, but he swiped at her, pushing her fingers from his face. "Don't." He warned, his words a meee snarl. He even sounded like a dog
Sansa swallowed painfully. "Sandor, I didn't mean it . . . Don't act like this-"
Sandor got to his feet. She scrambled to reach him. He might've laughed though it sounded like a bark. "Like what, little bird?" He turned on her, vicious like before, when she'd spurned him. "Like a dog?" He spat, and it narrowly missed her bare feet.
Her sodden green slippers lay on the grass. She'd brought nothing else spare some jewels and a few gold coins, enough to buy some food and rent a room in the inn, nothing luxurious. She made as if to pick them up. Sansa was too ashamed to meet his gaze. So he didn't want her. The thought made a slight prickle of anger and indignation start in her chest.
She wiped away a tear that had yet to fall and sniffed, knuckling her pink nose with the back of her wrist. In the rain, even a hound could tell she was struggling not to cry. He went to her, like he always did, no matter how many times he promised to keep his distance. "Sansa, lass-"
She darted down to grab her wet slippers. He caught her wrist, cradling her gently in his grasp. She nearly slipped in the damp grass. Her legs felt weak, her knees too cold to move. That sweet summer rain dawned upon them. He cupped her chin between his thumb and forefinger. "I want you, girl. I always have."
She rose her gaze to look at him, defiant. "Then why don't you take me? Men have tried before and-"
He silenced her. His scarred lip creased when he tried not to smile. "I'm not like other men, little bird." And he gestured to the open expanse of forest and mud and the trickling torrent of wild rain. "But one day I will take you, I promise you that." And he leaned down to rest his forehead against hers. "It simply won't be here, little bird."