That damned dream again.
Sansa awoke all at once, her skin sweaty, her cheeks flushed. It was dark in her bedchamber with only a few candles still burning on the mantle, the flames in the brazier having nearly faded. She slowly pushed herself up to sitting, digesting what she had just felt in her sleep.
She dreamt it was dark in her bedchamber, but it was not hers in Winterfell. It was another bedchamber, a familiar one. The Red Keep. I'm in King's Landing, Sansa realized. She entered the bedchamber breathless just as a green light poured into the windowpanes, its radiance revealing her surroundings long enough for her to walk towards the window. Sansa stood there and looked out, observing the jade hue engulfing the bay until a hand grabbed her wrist firmly. She gasped and opened her mouth to scream, but a second hand covered the lower half of her face before she could. The hand on her wrist turned her around to face the unknown figure.
"Hush, little bird," a deep voice said quickly.
It was a voice, a face that belonged to only one person: Sandor Clegane, the Hound. She tried to pull herself away, but that proved to be a futile effort.
"Stay quiet or it will be both of our heads rotting on the wall tomorrow," he whispered in her ear. The large hand covering her mouth fell, but the other kept its grip on her wrist.
He's so close. I can smell the blood on him. I can smell the wine...he's drunk.
"Please, ser, my wrist," she wept.
"Ser? When will you learn, little bird?"
"I didn't mean to…please…you are hurting me. Please, let go." Hot tears began to fall down her porcelain cheeks.
"Do you think I would ever hurt you?" he rasped. "You think I'm no better than that cunt Joffrey, is that it?"
Sansa became speechless. Her vivid blue eyes bored into his fierce grey eyes, each of them reflecting the green light bleeding into the room. As she stared at him in silence, Sandor's rage grew, as did the firm grip on her wrist.
"So, that's how you feel, little bird? Then so fucking be it." Sandor grabbed her other wrist and forcefully pushed her onto the bed. Sansa shut her eyes at the impact, terrified of what she would see if she opened them. Before she could speak, she felt him lean down onto the bed, the weight of his hands pressing into her hair beside her face.
This is it, Sansa thought defeatedly. He will have me tonight, and there is nothing I can do about it.
His right hand moved from beside her head and down to breasts, squeezing them with a gentleness she did not expect. Sansa felt his warm breath against her skin, growing more irregular the longer his hands caressed over her curves. There was a sensation that developed in her core, one which was not uncomfortable, that she could not quite put into words. When his blood-stained hand trailed down from her breasts to her chaste sex, she gasped.
"No, please, Sandor! Please, don't!" Sansa whimpered.
His hand stopped suddenly to hover over her sex, the warmth of him beating against the thin fabric that concealed her. Sandor returned his hand to rest beside her head and when Sansa slowly opened her eyes, she noticed that he was gazing at her longingly. She also noticed something else, something on his face. It was not just blood, but a wetness. Tears.
"What did you say?" he whispered.
"I said please stop," she said, her mouth trembling.
"Not that, little bird," Sandor sighed.
She laid there on the bed underneath him, his mouth resting mere inches away from hers, and Sansa realized what it had been that she had said, what he desired to hear again. Sandor. I said his name. Have I ever called him by his name?
"Sandor," she finally breathed.
Quicker than she could believe, he dropped his face towards hers and pressed his cruel lips against her mouth. But, the lips did not feel cruel to her. His mouth pressed softly, eagerly into her rosebud lips, and Sansa felt a tear fall onto her cheek, but this time it was not hers.
As quick as it began, the embrace ended and Sandor rose from the bed. The last thing she heard was the sound of cloth ripping, and then the door, opening and closing.
Several moments passed where Sansa could do nothing other than lay on her back and stare up at the canopy. Once she sat up, she never felt more alone. It was not until her eyes shifted to look onto the floor did she see his bloody white cloak, torn and discarded against the stone.
It was at that moment she awoke. Too many times had Sansa dreamed of that night during the Battle of Blackwater Bay, and each time she did, the words, the touches, the sensations...all of them were different. Sansa no longer remembered what truly had happened that night. After all, she was just a girl, and she was so scared, so confused. However, as the dreams continued to visit her, she responded differently to them the older she got. The memory of his sudden kiss, unwanted at the time, now sparked feelings inside of her that she now knew were feelings of lust, feelings of desire. He did kiss me, did he not? Or, had I only unknowingly wanted him to?
When she would have this dream as a girl, Sansa would toss and turn, unable to sleep due to the anxiety it gave her. She found herself constantly wondered what her life would have been like had she left King's Landing with him. But now, as a woman, Sansa grew aroused by her dreams, and the only way she would be able to sleep comfortably afterwards is if she touched her sex, rubbing between her folds until the pleasure consumed her. It was not a ladylike thing to do, but Sansa was through being the perfect little lady. All being a courteous, proper lady had taught her is that it makes it that much easier to become a pawn, and in her case, Littlefinger's pawn.
Sansa had known for quite some time now that Lord Baelish had been manipulating her, using her name and her claim, to better himself. However, she lacked the proof she needed to bring him down. And, if she was being honest with herself, they used each other. He lied to her, she lied to him, and the both of them gained and lost as the fickle game went on. Sansa knew she could not rid herself of him yet, not until she gained enough knowledge to bring him down with honor. Else, she feared she would become known as the cruel Lady of Winterfell, a leader no better than Cersei, who kills those she cannot trust and does so without proof.
A trickle fell down between her folds as she sat on her bed and her hand reached underneath her shift to discover that she was sopping wet.
He is here. Go to him. Stop being a scared, stupid, little girl.
The thought was ludicrous, but tempting. Earlier that day, Sandor had returned to Winterfell in the company of the Brotherhood without Banners and, more surprisingly, her little sister, Arya. When the guards had notified Sansa of their arrival, she had never felt so many emotions in one moment before, not since that night during the Battle of Blackwater Bay.
Arya, home again at last. Sansa had truly thought her little sister had been dead, however, once she returned, Sansa felt like a complete fool for ever doubting Arya's ability to defend herself. Her little sister was one of a kind. She was a warrior and a fighter. A Faceless Man, Sansa thought apprehensively.
Once the other riders had come into the gates, Sansa's heart had froze. She had stared at the large, burly man for so long, examining every inch of him from afar. Her mouth gaped open slightly as she observed his massive build and her hands has wrung one another in front of her, her mind visiting places she only visited in the privacy of her bedchamber.
It is him. After all this time...Sandor.
Once he had seen her, she turned away quickly, foolishly making it obvious that she had been staring at him. Sansa began to blush and cleared her throat, giving the appropriate orders to the castle staff to arrange rooms for their guests who had come to assist the North in fighting the dead. Following the commands, Sansa had walked up to her sister and hugged her endearingly. The pack survives.
It had not even been a full day since their arrival, and yet, every hour that passed without seeing Sandor Clegane felt like an eternity. But what would I say if I did see him? What if he doesn't care to speak to me? He was drunk when he kissed me years ago. Would he even remember?
Sansa was still a maiden despite Littlefinger's scheming. Had it not had been for her decision to call the Knights of the Vale to the North, revealing her true identity to the lords upon learning that her bastard half-brother Jon Snow was to retake Winterfell from the Boltons, she could have easily been wedded and bedded by Harry the Heir by now, and if not him, perhaps Littlefinger himself.
Although she remained a maiden, Sansa's innocence was not what it once was. Myranda Royce, the bawdy daughter of Lord Nestor Royce, taught her many things, verbally, visually, and physically while in the Vale, and Sansa could not believe that her mother and septa went about her proper education as if such things did not exist. Of course, she had still been a child in their eyes, but she was betrothed to Joffrey for a time, and it would have been helpful to know what losing her maidenhead would be like. Among other things...
Myranda had taught her everything she knew about men, what men liked, what they did not, and how to manipulate them to get what you want. The bold young woman also taught Sansa things beyond just men, teaching her how to pleasure herself in a hands-on approach. With Myranda's racy teachings and Littlefinger's lessons on how to play the game, Sansa's innocence had crumbled, and a bolder woman had been born.
And bolder she grew, still. Despite her growing sexual desires and impulses, Sansa had never found it in her to lay with a man. That is, not until Sandor Clegane had come back into her life and spurred novel temptations that persuaded her to find her way into his bed.
I should have talked to him, she cursed herself. I should have said something...anything.
The regret became worse as the night went on. However, Sansa knew she couldn't be so hard on herself; she had spent the entire day with Arya, discussing all that they had been through since their father's murder. The traumatic events they shared seemed to never end and half of what was coming out of Arya's mouth sounded fabricated. Faceless men? Sansa had thought. Truly? My little sister an...assassin? Hours had passed before they returned on discussing the current affairs in Westeros. It was no surprise that Arya made it clear she did not trust Littlefinger and wanted him gone. And by gone, my little sister means dead. It took Sansa another hour to reason with Arya that he had his purposes, for now, and should not be harmed. When it was time for Littlefinger to be brought down, Sansa intended on being the one to do it, and no one else.
The wetness that continued to develop between her legs returned her mind back to Sandor, remembering how he looked as he rode in the gates today. So massive, so stong.... She laid back down onto the bed and slid her hand down to her sex, running her fingers between her slick folds to take care of the sexual tension building inside of her. Then, she stopped just as suddenly as he had in her dream, an intriguing thought passing through her mind.
He is here in this very castle. He may not care to see me, but I will never be able to rest if I do not at the very least try to speak with him. There is no better time than now while everyone is asleep. The guardsmen would not dare question my comings and goings, even if it is the middle of the night. I am the Lady of Winterfell. Ladylike behavior be damned.
Without mulling it over any longer, Sansa hopped out of the bed eagerly and dressed herself, letting her auburn hair loose from her braid to spill along her back in vibrant waves. Once she felt herself to be presentable, Sansa unlatched her door and swung it open, her heart racing inside her chest to reunite with Sandor, only to find Littlefinger sitting outside in the corridor, one leg crossed over the other in the chair that was meant for her guard. His lips painted a smile, but his eyes were angry when he spoke.
"My sweetling."