Sansa waited for Sandor's return, but an hour passed without him coming back to the high table. "I'll be right back." That is what he said, wasn't it?
She glanced around the Great Hall. Jaime Lannister and Brienne had their heads together in discussion down at the far end, while Varys and Ser Davos were off by the wine jugs holding their own conversation. Gendry was being congratulated by a throng of well-wishers on his promotion to Lord Gendry Baratheon of Storm's End, although she couldn't see Arya in that group.
She also couldn't see Sandor anywhere in the happy crowd—or Tyrion, for that matter. Oh, Gods, please don't let Tyrion be threatening some sort of ridiculous retribution. It had been bad enough that Jon, Arya, and Brienne did it, although she appreciated the intention.
A rising discomfort from her midsection didn't help things. Between dinner, the glass of wine she'd had with it, the increasing warmth of the Great Hall, and her nerves, she was feeling slightly queasy. She waved for a serving maid to come over and said, "Please tell my husband Lord Stark that I'm going to my rooms, and that he's welcome to join me once he returns."
"Yes, my lady," the girl said, curtseying.
Sansa hoped that Sandor didn't think she was abandoning him, but she needed a few quiet minutes to herself before—well, before the rest of the night began. I liked his kisses. And I liked being in his arms. That was something. Perhaps he'll be quick about it, and if he's anything like Ramsay he'll fall asleep immediately afterward.
She immediately felt guilty at the thought. Sandor was nothing like Ramsay, and she thanked all the old and new gods for that.
Her exit was blocked as Daenerys rose from the table at the same time she did. Jon was off at the far end being toasted by Tormund and the other wildlings, and the little blonde queen had a strange look on her face.
"Are you going to your rooms now?" Daenerys asked, politely enough.
No, I'm going to do somersaults around the courtyard. She plastered on a smile. "Yes, your grace."
"Then I wish you and Lord Stark a pleasant evening. I wasn't aware that he was a Clegane. I wonder, did you know his brother killed my infant niece and nephew during Robert's Rebellion, as well as my sister-in-law?" Those lovely eyes went cold. "Well, I say killed. Slaughtered would be more precise."
The last thing Sansa wanted to do now was verbally spar with the dragon queen. "I'm aware of that, your grace," she replied as evenly as she could. "I'm also aware that your father killed my grandfather and uncle. He hung them in cages and burned them alive, if I remember correctly. But if we continue to carry blood grudges from generation to generation, we'll eventually wipe out every man, woman, and child in Westeros. We may as well not have bothered to fight the Night King in the first place."
Daenerys's chin came forward. "Just know that when I retake my throne, I will be meting out punishment to the Mountain. Make sure that your husband doesn't get in the way."
She turned and glided off, back ramrod straight. Sansa suppressed an eye roll, but it took some effort. Not if Sandor gets there first.
She hurried out of the hall to avoid any more last-minute good wishes, going straight to her rooms. Her maid had been delighted at the idea of turning it into a wedding bower and quickly drafted a brace of serving lads, sending them out to gather fragrant evergreen boughs to decorate the bedposts and fireplace. The woody fragrance hung in the air now, and it soothed her churning stomach.
What should I do now? She supposed she could change into her nightgown, but that seemed too … soon. Then again, he's going to see you naked at some point. He'll see everything Ramsay did to you, the marks he left beneath your clothes so that his father wouldn't know.
A sudden, savage memory of Ramsay ripping open the back of her gown and pushing her down on the bed surged through her mind. She winced, flinching from it, and her stomach sloshed sickly. Pressing the back of her hand to her mouth, she forced her gorge back down. Sandor won't be like that. He promised he wouldn't hurt me.
She knew that intellectually. Her body, however, was more difficult to convince, and she stiffened when the door behind her opened. "Sansa?"
She surreptitiously wiped her mouth before turning to a wary Sandor. He filled the doorway, as if hesitant to enter. She tried to give him a welcoming smile. "I'm sorry I left without you. It was getting rather warm down in the hall, so I thought I'd wait for you up here. Please, come in."
His wariness lessened but didn't disappear as he walked in, closing the door behind him with a soft click. "I'm sorry about that. I got to talking with—someone, and the time slipped away from me." He glanced around the chamber that had been her refuge until tonight. "Nice room."
"Thank you." Her control was returning. "It's yours as well, now. I've made room for your things in the wardrobe and the chest of drawers."
"Oh." He tugged at the black doublet with the direwolf sigil that had been hurriedly let out in the shoulders and chest to fit him. It had been Ned Stark's; she supposed there was some irony in the fact that it was now being used as a wedding garment for the man who had taken him captive in King's Landing. But it was also the biggest doublet in the keep, and it was either that or Sandor's battered armor. Sansa thought her father would have appreciated her practicality, if nothing else. "I don't have much with me."
"I can have some new clothes made for you. In the meantime I'll have the servants bring your things up here tomorrow." There, all the niceties observed. She stepped to the table where her maid had left wine and poured them both goblets, handing him one before taking a quick sip from her own. "Well, here we are."
"Mm." Sandor took a large mouthful from his goblet, appreciating the sour red. This had seemed so much easier a few hours ago. He'd marry Sansa, have a good dinner, then come up here, tumble her into bed, and slake the craving that he'd endured since her days as Joffrey's betrothed.
The squire's explanation had changed all that.
Men were simple. Some friction around their cock—a tight cunt, a hand, a mouth, it didn't matter—a good squirt, and they were happy. Women, on the other hand, were fucking complicated. You had to touch and kiss them in a number of places to get them excited. And apparently they had a nub, of all things. Not that easy to find, according to Payne, but if you did and played with it properly you could get the woman to scream, and not from fright.
He had to admit, he did like the idea of Sansa screaming his name. Clinging to him, face red and sweaty as she reached her own pleasure, knowing he was the one who brought her there. If he could do that, it was worth the effort of finding this nub. And Payne had even suggested an odd but fairly easy way to do it. Although with your luck, if you get her screaming that wolf bitch sister of hers will come running and gut you like a trout.
He took another swig of wine, glancing around her chamber. It was a nice room, not overly frilly as he'd expected, but tidy and smelling of fresh evergreen. He'd always liked that fragrance. Oh, for fuck's sake, stop dithering like an old woman.
He drained his goblet. "I think I'm more frightened than you are," he said once he'd swallowed.
Sansa's brows came down at that. "Why are you frightened?"
Which confirmed that she still feared him. Gods, he hated discussions like this. Words were slippery things, not to be trusted. "Because I don't want you despising me after tonight," he grunted. "I told you I won't hurt you, and I'll stand by that. But I'm not a gentle man. I'm not the kind to write you pretty poems about your hair and skin, or kiss your hand and be satisfied with that. I want you, Sansa. I've wanted you since King's Landing, and not as a lady to send me off to battle with your scarf tucked inside my armor. I want you naked and on your back beneath me, your legs wrapped around me as I sink into that pretty pink quim of yours. And tonight I'll finally have that. I'll have you. But I'm afraid—" He chewed his lower lip, only stopping when he tasted blood. "I'm afraid you'll hate me for it."
He half-expected her to draw herself up into The Lady of Winterfell and inform him coldly that he was a dog, a brute beast who didn't deserve her hand or her body. Instead, she gave him a sad smile. "I'm not expecting you to treat me like stained glass, Sandor. You're a warrior, not a courtier. I know that. If your … enthusiasm … gets the better of you, I won't hate you for it. I just—I don't want there to be pain, that's all."
Not for the first time, he thought of Ramsay Bolton, what he had heard about the sadistic cunt. His hand tightened around the goblet, wishing it was Bolton's throat. "There won't be pain," he said roughly. "I won't take you unprepared."
She nodded, but the fear he could see lurking behind her eyes pricked at him. "I already know what's supposed to happen between a husband and wife. You don't have to prepare me."
"I meant—" Some of the mind-melting things the Imp's squire had explained danced through his thoughts. If he lied to me, I'll feed him his own guts. "Never mind. I'll show you when the time comes."
Not knowing what else to do, he went to the bed and sat gingerly on the edge. Comfortable. If nothing else, we'll sleep well tonight. When he patted the spot next to him, she took it, hesitant but not poised for flight. "Sansa, I—"
"I have scars."
He snorted. "Not like mine, little bird."
Even in the light from the candles and the fire her face was pale. "No, but—if you've built some perfect image of me in your head, you won't be getting that. I thought it only fair to warn you."
Only then did his damnably slow brain catch up with what she was saying, what she was trying to tell him. He clenched his teeth. "Bolton."
"Yes. He did … things to me. I can't talk about some of those," she said quickly. "I hope you can understand. But if I flinch, or pull away, it's not because of you. You have to believe that. I just … I just don't want it to hurt."
For a moment, Sandor wished Thoros of Myr was still with them. If it were possible to resurrect Bolton from whatever piles of dog shit the cunt now rested in, he would have the priest do it just so that he could have the pleasure of killing the mewling bastard himself, slowly and with great attention to detail. "I don't mind scars." It came out gruff, too gruff, but he meant it. "Show me."
She hesitated, then nodded. Handing him her goblet, she turned away from him, undoing the complicated clasps on her bodice from the movements of her arms. When it loosened she pushed it down along with her shift, exposing her shoulders and upper back. The creamy flesh was dotted here and there with little beauty marks, like nutmeg on warm milk. It was also crisscrossed with slender, livid weals, the mark of a thin whip or crop. "There are more, lower down."
Rage at the Bolton cunt mixed with a hot need to touch her. If he were a decent man he would pull up her shift, tell her to get some rest, that they would have time for this once he got back from King's Landing. But he wasn't a decent man, and he couldn't resist her any more. Hesitantly, he touched one thin scar, then leaned down and kissed it to show her it didn't disgust him. When she didn't pull away he trailed his lips along the length of the white line. "You're beautiful," he muttered against her skin.
Her laugh was harsh. "When I'm dressed, yes."
"No, like this." He didn't care if she was tabby-striped with scars, she would always be beautiful to him. He kissed another line, feeling the raised texture, the warmth of her skin against his lips. "You're perfect, Sansa."
She took in a deep, shaky breath. He continued, slowly kissing each and every scar he could see. When he was finished, her shoulders had relaxed.
Podrick's words came to mind. Pay attention to her body, how it reacts. Following the squire's advice, he kissed his way up her skin to the crook where shoulder met neck, until he was nuzzling the spot under her ear. This time her sigh was deeper and she leaned back against him.
What else had that damned pup said? Oh, yes. Feeling somewhat silly, he took her earlobe between his lips and sucked it gently. Her gasp of pleasure surprised him.
He let the bit of flesh slide out of his mouth. "It doesn't hurt?"
"No." It was half-word, half-whisper. "It feels nice."
Nice. He damn well intended to do better than "nice." His cock was stiffening but he forced himself to ignore it. Time enough for that later, when his lady—his wife—was slick and ready for him.
He gathered her hair and moved it so that he could continue kissing around the nape of her neck, then in a line down the knobs of her spine. This time she moaned, so softly he almost didn't hear it. "Sandor?"
"Slowly, little bird. We have all night." He laid one last kiss on her shoulder then let her hair fall. She'd shown him her secrets, brave lady that she was. Now it was time for him to do the same. "I'm going to get ready for bed. Put on whatever you like."
He stood and went to the end of the large bedstead. There was a wardrobe across the room, but this wasn't just about getting undressed. He pulled off his doublet, then took off his boots and thick socks. Hoping he wasn't making a mistake, he untied his neck strings and yanked his shirt over his head.
When he looked at Sansa again, she was still sitting on the bed, watching him. Her eyes had gone wide. "You're … furry."
"I know." He ran a hand down the thick tangle of hair on his chest and belly. "Keeps me warm in winter. It's a hot bitch in summer, though." He undid his belt. "Good thing I married someone who lives up north."
Sansa had meant to get up, go to the wardrobe and change into her nightgown. Silly or not, it would make her feel better when she first got into bed with Sandor. He doesn't mind my scars. He kissed them. I can't believe he did that—
And then he pulled off his shirt and she couldn't move, stunned by what stood at the end of her bed. She knew his hands were massive and his chest was thickly haired from the few times she'd seen it peeping out of the collar of his doublet or armor, but she had no idea what the rest of his body looked like.
Now she knew. Under the fur he looked like one of the statues from Dorne, with wide shoulders and a broad, muscular chest leading down to a flat, ridged belly. His arms were heavily muscled as well from years of swinging a sword, and he bore multiple scars like badges of honor. Staring at her, he unbuckled his belt and let his trousers fall to the floor, stepping out of them.
Her mouth went dry. His legs were just as strong as the rest of him, with a large white scar etched into his right thigh. Above it he wore a pair of bleached linen braies, but the abbreviated smallclothes weren't enough to hide the long, thick bulge angling towards his hip.
He glanced down at it now, then back at her. "I'm going to take these off."
Her mouth worked, but she couldn't force a sound out. All she could do was watch as he undid the strings on the braies, then slid his thumbs inside the waistband and pushed them down. She knew full well how men were constructed, knew about the male organ that lay soft on its bulbous bed until it was time for lovemaking. For some reason Ramsay didn't like her looking at him while he was naked; that was how she'd gained some of her own scars.
Now she understood why. Compared to Sandor, Ramsay had been a field mouse. A small field mouse, at that. Whereas Sandor wasn't a dog—he was a horse. It won't fit, it can't fit, how, he brain madly caroled as she stared at the purplish shaft with its half-covered bulbous head rising from a nest of black fur.
He reached down and gripped himself, squeezing lightly. "Don't worry. Not until you're ready."
She was never going to be ready for that. Her heart hammered as he came towards her. Instead of pushing her back and climbing on top of her, however, he knelt carefully at her feet, resting his hands on her knees. The combination of his supplicant position and the warmth from his palms soaking through her skirt and shift helped drive back her panic. "I mean it, little bird," he said, voice low. "Not until you're ready. But that's why we need to do some other things first."
She nodded jerkily. "Like … preparing me."
"Yes." His scent was stronger now, mixing with the aroma from the evergreens, and something about it soothed her. "I'm going to get into bed. Go put on your nightgown. I don't want you getting cold."
He shifted to the side and she got up. She didn't quite flee to the wardrobe, but she knew she wasn't slow about it, either. Her heart was beating faster again, and this time it wasn't purely out of fear. Yes, she was nervous about his (cock, you've heard the soldiers call it that) manly part, but the rest of his body was a thing of masculine beauty. He had his own scars, of course, but so did her father. It was part and parcel of being a warrior. She couldn't help wondering how he'd received the scar on his thigh, what opponent he'd fought who had laid his flesh open like that. He limps a bit on that side when it's cold. I'll speak to the maester in the morning, see if there's anything I can do to help. Perhaps a warm compress, or something to ease the pain—
"Little bird?"
She glanced over her shoulder. Sandor had slid under the blankets and furs on the bed, settling them around his waist. "Is there a wight in there or something?"
"No, sorry. I'm woolgathering." She grabbed the first nightgown she saw and finished unfastening her bodice. It and her heavy overskirt went on a nearby chair, to be washed by her maid in the morning. Bracing herself, she slid out of her shift and into the nightgown in three quick movements. He'd already seen her back, so the scars on her bottom wouldn't shock him. He would see even more if the evening went as she expected.
The nighttime coolness of the room became more noticeable and she hurried back to the bed, sliding in beside him. He radiated heat like a warming pan and she wanted to snuggle up, basking in the unexpected comfort. "You're warm."
"As I said, it's the fur." He turned on his side."Come here."
Wishing her fear would go away, she curled up next to him, sharing his pillow so that she could look into his eyes. She could still see his scars as well, but somehow they didn't matter as much anymore. "I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"For behaving like a scared little girl."
"You're not a scared little girl." One large hand rose and stroked her cheek. "You're wary, and with good reason. But I'm not Bran. I can't read your mind. If something hurts or scares you tonight, you need to tell me. Can you do that?"
She nodded. Her nerves had started to settle, and that long-dormant feeling he'd woken earlier in the day began to make itself known again. "Kiss me?"
Sandor leaned forward, gently claiming her mouth again. This time he was ready for it, for the softness and sweetness of kissing her. None of the whores had ever wanted to kiss him; they could barely look at him most of the time. It never bothered him too much. He was far more interested in what lay at the other end of their bodies.
But his brave little bird could kiss him without flinching, and even seemed to enjoy it. Gods knew he did. He pulled her into his arms and continued kissing her, happy when her lips opened and her tongue came out to play. He'd never known how good that could feel, how it made his cock stand up without so much as a touch.
Women like to be kissed. The squire's advice rang in his mind. And not just on the mouth, either. The spot beneath their ears, their neck, along the line of the jaw. Cheeks, eyelids, chin. Reluctantly he pulled himself from her mouth and worshiped all of these places, finally winding up in the notch between her collar bones. The way her chest heaved reminded him that there were more things to kiss lower down.
He plucked at her collar strings. "Can I undo these?"
She nodded, hazy. He drew the knot loose, opening the front of her thin gown and exposing one ripe breast like snow topped with the palest pink berry. Mouth watering, he bent towards it.
She shrank into the mattress and he stopped. "What is it?"
He heard her throat click. "Ramsay. He used to like biting me there. Pinching me."
Cocksucking bastard. "I'm not going to do that." It was an effort to keep his tone low and calm. "A kiss, that's all."
Her chin jerked in a nod. He brushed his mouth over the pink berry, then around it. Don't suck like you're trying to get marrow from a bone, Podrick's voice said at the back of his head. Lick and kiss. If she likes that, nibble carefully with your lips over your teeth. If she likes that, then you can suck, but with care.
I'll fucking have him knighted for this. He followed the advice and the little berry ripened under his mouth, swelling until it was firm and thick. A small noise came from Sansa, but it didn't sound like fear or pain. "Is that good?"
Her back rounded up a bit, pushing her breast closer to his mouth. "Yes."
He wanted to laugh, he truly did. Fuck knighthood—if the dragon queen can make the smith a lord, she can make Payne one, as well. He moved to the other breast, repeating the action. A light sweat had come out on her skin and he licked at it, gathering her taste. "I like this, Sansa."
"So do I."
He pushed himself up, studying her face. Pink had spread across both cheekbones, and her eyes were dreamy.
Always ask. A woman appreciates that. He plucked at her nightgown. "Would you take this off for me?"
Their gazes met, and he could see the hesitation there. "All right." She sat up a bit, tugging up the thin fabric. It required her to wriggle in ways that made her breasts wobble juicily. His cock throbbed hard at the sight, and he wanted to growl in anticipation. Not until she's ready. I promised.
She finally pulled off the gown and tossed it to the side before lying back down, a goddess in ivory and coral. His goddess. Between her slender legs was a cloud of flossy hair a few shades darker than the hair on her head. He brushed his fingertips across it "I've always wondered what color this was," he rumbled. "Red as a sunset."
She glanced down. "What color did you think it was?"
"I don't know. Could have been blonde, could have been brown. Could have been orange, for all I knew."
She laughed at that. "It's never been orange, thank you very much."
"Well, how did I know?" He kissed her stomach, the little cup of her navel, the hipbones that jutted out like wings, and all the while he could smell her, the tangy smell of sweet, soft quim. It was faint, but if he did his job right it would get stronger. "Open your legs for me, Sansa."
She tensed. "Trust me," he said quietly. "No pain. I'm going to prepare you."
A shuddering breath, and she did what he asked.
Opening herself like that clawed at Sansa's soul. She wondered if any man could ever understand the sheer vulnerability of the act, exposing the tender core of herself and hoping, praying, that this time it would be different, that she would be touched with care and gentleness.
Sandor had promised to do just that. But he was far enough down the bed that he couldn't take her, even if he wanted to. He's big, but he's not that big. And his fascination with the triangle of hair there was boggling. She wanted to trust him, she truly did, but her muscles refused to listen.
Her tenseness increased when he moved between her thighs, his shoulders spreading her wide. "Never looked at one like this before," he mumbled, using his thumbs to open her inner flesh. He was careful with it, at least, which was good. "Up close, so to speak. No wonder you're complicated."
She had no idea what he meant. "Are you enjoying yourself?" she snapped.
She was instantly sorry for the sharpness in her words. But he looked up at her calmly. "As a matter of fact, I am." He kissed her nether hair, then one thigh, and the other, trailing inward across the soft, tender skin. She expected him to stop when he came close to the place opened by his thumbs, but he didn't—
She jumped in shock when he laid a kiss there, beard bristly against the sensitive flesh. "Sandor, what are you doing?"
"Trying something," he mumbled.
She felt his mouth on her again, his tongue licking this time. When it touched a certain spot, a spike of sensual fire flared up through her. "Oh!"
He raised his head. "Was that good?"
She struggled to find her voice. "Y-yes."
"Well, then." His head went back down and his tongue continued its delicate dance between her thighs, sending up more of that wondrous pleasure. I never knew, never even thought, oh Gods, please don't stop, don't stop—
He didn't. Instead, he ignited a physical joy she had never imagined, making her feel like she was riding a wild ocean wave. When it finally, finally crested she crammed her fist into her mouth to muffle a scream, her back arching in fierce pleasure, anchored by his relentless, loving mouth.
He finally came up, panting and grinning. "You taste good. Salt and sweet at the same time."
Salt and sweet? She did her best to gather the shattered shards of her wits, reaching down a shaking hand to stroke his hair. "Is that what you mean by preparing me?"
"Yes. You should be slick inside now." He cautiously slid a thick finger in her, and it went in like a well-oiled dagger into a sheath. "You can take me and it won't hurt."
What a simple thing. What an amazing thing. She wanted to cry at it, but that would give him the wrong idea. "So, are you … I mean, if I'm ready…"
His mouth twisted. To her surprise he moved back up, but sprawled at her side instead of climbing over her. His arm curved in invitation. "Come here."
Confused, she fitted herself into his embrace. "Aren't we going to…"
"Fuck?" He laughed softly. "Yes, we are, little bird. But I've had an idea. Get on top of me."
Under his guidance she wound up straddling his thighs. When she tried to draw the bedclothes around her, embarrassed at her nakedness, he took her hands, his grip gentle but firm. "I want to look at you. You're beautiful, remember?"
His thick erection lay splayed at an angle across his furry belly, and she glanced at it with no small amount of trepidation. He's so big, and I'm, I'm not. He promised me he wouldn't hurt me, but how—
A finger urged her chin up and she met his gaze. "I want you on top," he said patiently. "That way, you can decide how much of me to take, and how soon. Or not, if you choose. I won't move until you tell me I can. Use me for your pleasure, little bird. Make me your plaything."
She couldn't understand his meaning at first. He was giving her … control. Willingly, with no complaint or condition. To choose whether or not to mount him, whether or not to take him in her body. He was hers to do with as she liked.
No man had ever offered that to her before. She never even dreamed it was possible. But here Sandor was, opening himself to her with this priceless gift.
She stared down at him, at his scarred face, dark eyes glowing with emotion. Need, yes, but there was something tender there as well. You love me a little, don't you? You must, to give yourself like this.
She wanted to give him a gift as well. She couldn't say she loved him, not yet, although she could sense the possibility on the horizon. So she would give him the next best thing.
She would give him herself.