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For Rose.
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"Is it all lies, forever and ever, everyone and everything?" Sansa Stark, ASOIAF.
Nineteen
"We have to get him in," Robin tweeted ludicrously. Yet he showed more presence of mind than Sansa was able to muster.
"Do you think he killed his brother?" Sansa asked, cradling Sandor's head against her chest as a precious possession, unable to think any further.
Did you truly find joy in it?
Are you hurt?
You're here, my love. You're here.
She lightly explored his bare, cold hands, his poor face, his neck, the tiny portion of exposed flesh of his massive forearms under the vambraces.
Feather touch, bird touch.
Wake up wake up wake up.
Sandor appeared unharmed. His armour was in place; not dented nor damaged, just… blackened. Like the one he wore in the past.
Dark mail and plate suited him better than the silvery tones of the Arryns… The three black dogs that died… Sansa stifled a sob. Years ago she hadn't thought much of his story. She was relieved when he left her alone the night he'd told her how his grandfather had lost his leg and earned his sigil, for he had also told her other, ugly things that night. Propositions that disturbed her, mockery she could not understand. But she instantly remembered his family history when he'd asked her to wear yellow.
This once.
Now she wanted to cry for the three black dogs that died, or for him, inexplicably… And he had just returned to her so there should be no reason for crying.
The tale about the origin of his house was as noble as the legends about Brandon the Builder or Brandon the Shipwright, if less far-fetching.
Sad and beautiful.
Sansa regretted the need to change into a plain woollen dress as soon as she returned to the Eyrie. In yellow silk, she could not have stood and waited for Sandor the entire night and most of the day that followed, at the beginning of the freezing tunnel in the Sky. How he had looked at her in his colours… He had made her feel… queenly. Sansa shivered from a painful mixture of contradictory emotions. Sandor made her feel… both weak and strong, afraid and confident... She checked him up again, pressed a bit harder on every portion of skin she could reach. There was no bleeding as far as she could tell.
Are you well?
Her love was peacefully asleep and heavy as a boulder. He no longer spoke since he cried out to announce his presence.
His hair was sweaty and plastered to his scars. And yet his skin was so cold! This realisation frightened Sansa, stirring her into frantic pondering of what to do next.
He must have done his part, and now it was her turn.
She had thought, no, she had felt that this time he wouldn't have returned if he didn't kill Gregor…
It must have taken all his strength to do it.
Bewitch them, Petyr would counsel her. Whoever came after her now. Whoever she should marry next. Cersei would talk about a woman's weapon…
The soldiers had been continuously arriving to the Eyrie in small groups since a party of determined servants cleared out the tunnel under the auspices of a brooding, broad-shouldered Nestor Royce.
Myranda's father would not forgive Robin easily for mentioning in public his failed attempt at murder.
Yes, the battle was over, said the broken men-at-arms. No, it wasn't, others disagreed. They were hungry. And thirsty. They all agreed on that.
And wounded…
Some leered at Sansa with unwelcome heat in their eyes until she pulled the hood of her cloak over her head.
Bronze Yohn was dead. Or alive and challenging a mighty foe. Or taken prisoner by a dragonrider. Or burned alive and eaten by a wild dragon. Only one thing was certain; he had not arrived to the Eyrie.
There were as many stories as men in search of shelter. The battle was lost or won, it ended or it didn't; no one knew precisely. When the night deepened, Sansa noticed that some of the soldiers paid attention to hide the sigils on their attire and weaponry.
A man was now passing next to her and Sandor and Robin; his breastplate plain grey. But on his back there was a shield, hidden under his cloak. When it billowed in the cold mountain wind, Sansa could see clearly from behind…
The boar of Crakehall!
They were among the more important Lannister bannermen. This could be… No, not the lord who should be older, but one of his sons or younger brothers.
"You," Sansa stated in shock. "What are you doing here, my lord?" She tamed her initial bluntness, only to show it again. "You serve the queen!"
The man, who had almost passed by and entered the tunnel, turned around and spared a silent, cold glare for Sansa. She only noticed now how sturdy and squat he was. Nowhere near as tall as Sandor, but Sandor was asleep and needed her to protect him now.
A boar, this noble is a boar. A boar killed King Robert, they said.
"What did you say, woman?" the cold-eyed boar asked, trying to peek under the lowered hood of her cloak, grasping the hilt of the longsword on his hip.
"Nothing, my lord," Sansa replied meekly. Her voice broke at the end of the sentence. She had seen through the knight's ruse. He'd meant to sneak into the Eyrie to do some mischief and he would kill her now to silence her. Her blood would run over Sandor and he would weep for her when he woke… "It is the wind. You must have misheard," she claimed hoarsely.
Go away go away go away.
There was no one close enough to whom she and Robin could cry for help. Thinking back on her earlier decisions, it was incredibly stupid that they waited for Sandor alone. They should have found some protection first.
But being far from Nestor Royce and his men had also seemed very prudent, and no one paid much attention to them until Sansa drew it foolishly to herself.
"There is meat and wine and pretty ladies in the castle for a f… fine k… knight like you," Robin squeaked, looking every bit like a lackwit the lords declarant of the Vale thought him to be. "My mother is not young any more. Please leave her alone."
The man gave them and Sandor another look and spat into the snow. "I don't care about your mother, boy. But I surely won't waste my time on a crone who wants to be the Hound's bitch for the night," he squeezed out and left, his eyes affixed to the salvation offered by the white towers of the Eyrie.
The castle windows were brightly lit; like beacons in the fog.
The Eyrie brimmed with all kinds of men… Many were dangerous and desperate. Robin was nominally the lord, but anything could happen in the night. Lordships could change.
And they had to go in there with Sandor.
Sansa took one arm off Sandor's head and wrapped it around her shaky cousin when Crakehall left. "How did you know you should tell I was old?" she wondered.
"Mother complained about becoming older," Robin said. "And the kidnapped ladies are young and pretty in the songs. No one steals the crones."
Sansa laughed and hugged both men to herself, the big one and the small one.
"Help me will you?" she asked and began pulling Sandor to the side, over a mildly descending mountain slope, grateful that the soil was frozen or they would not be able to move her love at all. Soon they were out of the main path of the arriving broken men, hidden behind a gust of snow.
"This is far enough," Sansa judged. It had to be. "Look after him, will you?" she asked of her cousin very seriously. "Don't talk to anyone! Don't attract any attention!"
"And you?" Robin was suddenly petulant and angry. "Will you leave me… us… here to die?"
"I won't, I swear!" Sansa vowed. "I will return with help. Do you not believe in me by now?"
"I do," Robin went on one knee. "I love you, Sansa. Will you be my wife? I know that Mother wanted that for us."
Sansa stifled the demeaning laugh that threatened to burst from her chest, followed by a treacherous, single tear.
The cruel truth was, Robin was never going to be any maiden's dream. But he had become a friend.
"You are still very young," she replied with kindness. "How you feel for me may change. The knights are a bit older than their ladies in the songs."
"I will wait," Robin said doggedly, standing up, not giving up on his mad notion of love. "Don't take long."
With that he sat next to Sandor and cradled his head in his lap. "I love him as well," he affirmed. "Because he tells me what I am to my face. He never averts his eyes when I have a fit and he doesn't tell how weak I am on the sly, to other people, when he thinks I'm not listening."
"I know," Sansa murmured and ran back up and into the tunnel, swifter than a wolf. She had done more exercise in the past week than in her lifetime. Her brains turned even faster from the forced exertion and her constant fearfulness was pleasantly diminished from it. To whom could she trust to protect her and Robin until a semblance of order was re-established in the Vale?
Not to Nestor Royce, nor to Harry Hardying, nor to Ser Shadrich; the last of the knights Petyr recruited, who always looked at Alayne in a very peculiar manner. Wait… Ser Shadrich had come from King's Landing.
Didn't he?
With that thought she reached the cellars of the Eyrie and bumped into Mya Stone. Seeing Mya, Sansa knew whom she could trust.
"Where is Ser Lothor?" she blurted. The two were lovers, if she was not wrong. "Is he not here? Has he come up?"
"Why should I tell you?" Mya asked, stubborn as her mules.
Sansa regretted having spent so much time listening to Myranda Royce bragging about her conquests in bed and learning how to flirt on Petyr's behest, and not enough in befriending Mya, another bastard, as Alayne was supposed to be.
"Please," Sansa begged, but Mya turned away.
"Wait!" Sansa called after her, contriving feverish arguments in her mind. "Ser Lothor is a freerider. With Lord Baelish dead he has no employ. And if Lord Arryn is killed the new lords of the Vale may not have need of him. He would have to leave."
Mya halted in her steps and Sansa knew she'd won.
Having said that, she fainted. From relief or exhaustion, it mattered little… Sansa's legs turned into glass that shattered in a castle made of ice… Her last thought was for Sandor and Robin, dying in their sleep. It was common knowledge in the North that one should never lay down to rest in snow-
"Wake up!" Mya cried, slapping her awake. "You were saying?"
"We have to carry someone up," Sansa whispered, coming to her senses. "He is down in the Sky with Sweetrobin."
"The burned man," Mya rightfully presumed. "He was asking for you."
"Was he?" Sansa beamed weakly. Did he say that he loved me? "What did he say?"
"Nothing much," Mya shrugged. "He wanted to know if you were safe in the Eyrie."
Sandor had told her in the past that he could keep her safe.
But Petyr had offered the same and it was another lie. Or, rather, there was no safety.
It was only an illusion.
Remembering all treasons done against her, Sansa noticed Ser Shadrich ogling her from the doorway of the towers of the Eyrie.
"Come here for a moment, please," Sansa pulled Mya in that direction. In her company, she already felt safer, whether that was possible or not.
Petyr was dead and if the dragons were truly here, as quite a few soldiers claimed, they might all die soon. Including Ser Shadrich, if his new masters reserved the same consideration for their catspaws as Petyr had nourished for Ser Dontos.
"Did you send a raven to Lord Varys about me?" she asked sternly. "Did you tell the queen?"
Ser Shadrich's self-assured, predatory grin lessened.
"Don't bother to answer," Sansa continued haughtily, surprised by her own reaction. "I know that you did."
Just like the unknown Crakehall down the mountain, Ser Shadrich drew his sword.
The odds changed so fast and Sansa's courage faltered. She was afraid and endangered and acted stupid again. She shouldn't have provoked this.
Mya drew a knife and stood in front of Sansa. "Careful," she said. "She's a lady. I'm a bastard."
"And I am a knight," Ser Lothor grumbled behind them, much taller and probably more capable than Ser Shadrich.
Ser Shadrich sheathed his sword and spat.
Why does everyone have to spit today? Sansa thought, disgusted.
"I was just going to look for a whetstone. A man has to hone his sword," he drooled offensively and backed into the tower.
"Please," Sansa insisted feverishly with Mya and Ser Lothor, "we have to descend to the Sky and carry a man up. Lord Arryn is with him. He is… he is Sandor Clegane and he has saved my and Sweetrobin's life. I… if I survive I swear that I shall keep you in my service. Please help me."
Ser Lothor didn't need further encouragement.
Sansa laboured as in a dream. Finding poles and sturdy linens to make a portable bed. Running down. Wiping Sweetrobin's nose into her gown.
Ser Lothor wanted to drag Sandor up by himself, but Sansa wouldn't have it. She walked next to her love and helped with pulling, felt better from it, felt almost useful instead of useless; almost strong and brave.
Wake up will you?
Wake up wake up wake up.
They found Nestor Royce in front of Robin's bedchamber, standing with two of his best knights.
"Can I not come in, my lord?" Robin asked calmly.
"Or course, my lord," Nestor said obsequiously. "But him? He's a criminal."
"It would seem that he defeated Ser Gregor Clegane, who was perhaps sent by the Queen Regent to murder me. She never liked my mother. By doing this, Sandor Clegane won a place in my guard of honour and a heartfelt thanks of many widows and orphans left by Ser Gregor in the realm," Robert affirmed. His hands began to tremble uncontrollably. "My guards can stay in my chambers at need. I need him to restrain me when I suffer from my ailment."
"That remains to be seen," Nestor disagreed. "Is my cousin here with you?"
Robin opened his mouth to say that he wasn't, most likely, but Sansa had a good sense to lie faster.
"I was told that Lord Royce was victorious. He has just entered the tunnel," she invented with utmost calm. "We-"
Nestor stormed off with his men.
"He'll know that you lied," Robin said.
"Will he?" Sansa wondered. "When he starts asking for his cousin, the soldiers will tell him that they had seen him in at least ten different places…"
"That may be," Ser Lothor said. "But eventually he'll know."
"Do you know anyone you can trust?" Sansa asked. "A group of men to guard us until morning?"
Maybe the sun would come out and everything would be clearer. Maybe Sandor would wake soon.
"I'll find some," Ser Lothor said. "Those that cannot count on warm welcome in the Vale."
So first they laid Sandor in the great lordly bed of the Arryns, in the middle, just like… before… Sansa remembered with trepidation. Ser Lothor and Mya removed his armour. Sansa… dared not. If she took part, she might have betrayed the secret of her love. But when they left, she covered him with blankets and furs and stroked his hair and the side of his head where no hair or beard grew.
He was warmer.
Wake up wake up wake up.
An old servant barged in though no one had called her and conjured a fire in the hearth. Later, a young man with a maidenly look brought a crate of chopped wood to feed it. Robin thanked them profusely.
Then, Ser Lothor returned. Mya was not with him. Sansa and Robin stepped out into the corridor to see the men he found.
To Sansa's displeasure, half of them were former Lannister men including the Crakehall who pondered murdering her.
"This brat-" the chill-eyed boar began-
"Is the lawful Lord of the Eyrie," Ser Lothor interrupted and pointed at the chamber door before which they all stood, luxuriously carved with the pattern of moons and falcons. "If his own bannermen don't kill him tonight or tomorrow, he'll be able to deal out rewards and grant safe passages through his lands."
"Brune speaks truly," another Lannister man said, "I've seen the brat at court. He's a bit bigger now, but it's him. It's a wonder he lives. Pycelle didn't give him more than a year after the old Hand died - Jon Arryn, his father.
Robin began to cry.
"And the Hound-" Crakehall began.
"-is none of your business, my lord," Sansa said icily, surprising herself again.
Her love slept on the featherbed where they had first discovered each other. No one would touch him. A dog was no lesser animal than this boar with his cold tusks.
Slowly, she continued, wishing to speak with poise like her mother. "It may be beneficial for you to accept this agreement. The Vale is untouched by war. Should you prove loyal, we will honour our word."
"Most lords have shit for honour," Crakehall affirmed and was probably not wrong. "The only difference with the Lannisters is that they pay their debts. How do I know you'll do that? I mean to survive and return to the West!"
Sansa lowered the hood of her cloak and spoke from her heart. No more fear, no more fear. She had had enough of anguish… And if she was to die soon, she would not die lying.
"Some people say that my father died for honour," she began. "That he could have saved himself had he been less honourable. Are they lying, my lord? Or are they telling the truth? Is there a truth? Or are there only lies? Am I still my father's daughter? Sometimes I know not. But I know that I can't even conceive going back on a given word of my own free will. It would be against everything I was taught to be. Against everything I still am."
This was Father's voice, in her. Not Mother's.
Poor Sansa, dead Petyr laughed in her head. Will you ever learn, sweetling?
The men fell silent, pondering, calculating.
Sansa closed her eyes and wondered if it would come to swords now, if they would all fight each other and if the strongest would prevail.
No one spoke.
She was weary. She was so very, very tired. She and Robin had waited for Sandor the entire night and most of the day that followed. It was evening again, dark and foggy.
"You would have reason to hate our gracious queen, wouldn't you?" Crakehall finally observed. "My lady," he added as an afterthought.
"I loved your gracious queen in my innocence," Sansa said with melancholy. "She rewarded my devotion with my Father's head."
"If that would be all, my lords," she ended with dignity. "I shall retire to rest. As will my cousin, Lord Arryn," she added. "I trust you not to have us killed or raped in our sleep."
This did it. They all looked ashamed. Sansa had no doubt that most of them could kill or rape someone. But perhaps not in their right minds, not when the thick of the battle was behind them. She could only hope she was right.
Besides, Sandor carried a sword now, and he would wake.
Wake up wake up wake up.
She stepped back into the chamber as if she were a queen who feared no treason.
Robin followed, closing the door.
Sansa pressed a tremulous ear to the lock; to spy how matters developed further.
"I'll take the first shift," Ser Lothor grunted.
"I'll keep you company," Crakehall retorted, flatly. "We combine by two, one man of the Vale and one from the West."
"We watch each other," Ser Lothor agreed.
"You," Crakehall grunted boarishly at someone else. "Get ale rather than wine. And food. Best if we remain vigilant."
Boots scurried down the corridor. Very soon, the only sound left was the throwing of the dice.
It was what soldiers did to pass the time.
Sansa calmed slowly and walked to the bed.
Fire cracked merrily in the hearth.
She couldn't remember the names of the servants who had been so diligent to start it for their lord. Or ever seeing them in the Vale before today.
Robert followed, shaking mildly. His young face twitched.
"We are back at the beginning," he said, and yawned like the boy he was. "I don't know about you, but I will sleep. Or I will probably shake until midday meal tomorrow and look like I shall die."
And he occupied his edge of the bed, away from Sandor who had unknowingly seized the middle.
Robin succumbed to deep slumber as soon as he closed his eyes.
Sansa remained restless.
Sandor was now much warmer to touch. Yet she was reluctant to undress and lay next to him; most unwilling to remove his tunic and much less the breeches.
Her moonblood was at the end. Three full days had passed since the night when it arrived… Since the night when they...
The next evening, she would be completely free of it.
Even now, if she cleaned herself before going to bed...
They could…
She shuddered from the thought.
It was one thing to be brave and give herself to Sandor when her body was wide awake from all caresses and attention she didn't know existed, on a wave of pleasure she had been experiencing… and drowning on love in his eyes. And quite another to ponder it in cold blood.
He would want to… He might call her a liar if she went back on what they had done… If she didn't… If she only… touched him… touched herself on him like they did before. He might think she didn't love him. She could look the part of his wife, but if she refused him… he might not take it well.
It was all a man needed when his blood was up after the battle, did he not say so? Wine… red and sour... Or a woman… And it was the woman he'd mentioned with longing.
And Sansa didn't want him to leave her to go drinking when he woke, though all men drank, even her Father. But most of them not as much that they would stumble drunk into the bed of a twelve year old girl, and then offer to both save her and kill her in the space of a few moments.
The thought of having him inside her scared her anew. At the beginning it had hurt terribly... All occasions when she was groped and manhandled against her will in the past returned to her; unwanted and engraved in her core.
She wanted Sandor to wake and kiss her.
If he kissed her, she might know if she would be able to…
She wanted to.
But she didn't know if she would be able to.
Not consciously, not deliberately, not in cold blood. Maybe, probably, in the thick of the moment like before, only that way. Then she would forget Joffrey dancing with her, Petyr kissing her, Marillion forcing her, Tyrion with his ugly, jutting manhood…
And Sandor's enraged, disfigured face above her own.
She remembered that moment now in great, bright, unfavourable detail. The other battle. The Blackwater, burning green. What she had purposefully forgotten or set aside before. She had thought he would kiss her and she had closed her eyes. When she reopened them, hatred dripped from his gaze... for her… He forced her to sing for her life… He was able to kill her then… He was able to do anything… But he didn't.
He didn't
He didn't.
She could almost breathe again and laughed at herself for misremembering that he had kissed her as she imagined he might have done. It was madness.
It was weak, misplaced love.
It was stupid love.
It was love.
What if he had forgotten how it was now between them? What if he woke and did with her what he habitually did with women after battle? What if he was feverish and did not recognise her? She should sleep elsewhere.
Sansa, Sansa, Sansa. How silly can you be?
This was in the past.
He would remember, he had to. How could he forget?
She would never be able to forget him, not if she was forced to marry a different man every day...
The thought that she should not love Sandor because they were not married briefly crossed her mind, but retained little importance.
She loved him.
She did not give herself to him to gain any benefit, like Cersei might have seduced Stannis' horse if by that she could earn his rider's favour.
Sansa had dishonoured herself in the eyes of the world, but not in her own eyes.
Dice rolled on the outside, accompanied by friendly, manly chatter.
Warm. Warm. Sandor's warmth called to her now.
Not yet.
In a feverish motion, Sansa found the wash basin and the privy and… cleaned herself between her legs, stiffening as she proceeded from unprovoked, unexplainable fear.
She was as ready as she would ever be to face Sandor's wishes from her.
Back in the bedchamber, she stepped out of her gown, but kept her shift and smallclothes firmly in place. In bed, she pulled his tunic up to feel him against herself. She forgot half of her worries by the time she was that far, basking in that wonderful sensation only he, or his memory, had ever caused her.
The sensation he might have caused even if she didn't love him. Which was perhaps… natural. Myranda could feel that for a dozen different men and never fret about it.
But Sansa loved Sandor and she was well aware of it now. It was not just that sensation, natural or not. It was fearing for him and feeling for him. It was melting into tears or wishing to hit him or leave him when he was being hateful. And yearning for those moments when he was not. When he was just… hers... and at ease with her.
Loving him made matters in bed both better and worse, easier and immensely more difficult.
What if he-
His grip on her waist was iron when he stirred, interrupting her anguishing, and yet his look was lost when he opened his eyes.
A pup out of a kennel, she couldn't help thinking.
"I'll have a song from you," he murmured and seemed… tortured.
It was what he would tell her in her dreams, before climbing to her bed, when she was all alone in King's Landing and in the Vale. She hadn't had that dream since he had found her in the Eyrie.
He was squeezing her very hard now, causing pain.
"Sandor!" she called to him. "Please stop."
He didn't seem to hear her.
She wriggled out of his embrace, happy that this was possible and then immediately missed his touch and smell. When he calmed down, she crawled close to him and remained very still. His arms finally closed around her in a pleasingly firm way. He breathed steadily.
Asleep again.
Sansa felt thoroughly crippled.
She could not let the man she loved take her freely. She could find joy in his embrace, take pleasure from him, give some of it back. But any attempt of his to be fully in charge was… horrifying.
Was it rude to kiss him while he slept?
She tasted the skin on the side of his neck and inhaled his scent, relinquishing all thought.
"I'm dreaming," he said and he wasn't, she could tell.
"What happened?" she asked. "Did you…?"
"Yes," Sandor confirmed.
"How does that feel?"
"Right," he replied with an ugly grin of accomplishment, not sparing another word for Gregor.
"Thank the gods," Sansa said, burying her head in the crook of his neck.
"And your dragon prince is here," he added after a long while.
"Is he?" Sansa stiffened. "He hasn't been up here."
Others take him. The very rude thought about Aegon came unbidden. She hadn't even met him.
"Good," Sandor said simply about Aegon's absence. "No more yellow?" he teased her.
"It was cold."
His hands wandered under her shift, finding her breasts, fondling them at will.
"How is this?" he said.
"Warmer," she replied truthfully. Her guts… ached.
Possessed by his presence, she guided his hand to the edge of her smallclothes and showed him he was allowed to pull them down, blushed, remained mute.
I am here, my love.
He glanced behind him warily, chuckled quietly. "The bloody boy," he observed. "Can't he sleep somewhere else?"
"No," Sansa said, glad for her cousin's presence, unseemly as it was. "It is not safe."
They had to be silent and discreet. This necessity could onset the softness she craved, before she could venture into giving in to the demands of her body. Before she could even consider fully his demands. As natural as they might have been.
"Maybe it's for the best," Sandor said wearily. "I may be too tired."
"What?" Sansa did not understand.
"Maybe I can't do much with you," he said carefully.
"What do you mean?" Sansa felt like a sheep, bleating. She could tell that what he just confessed bothered him, though she was not at all certain that she understood his meaning correctly and entirely.
He pulled her in for a kiss in place of an answer.
They lay side by side in a tight embrace, facing each other.
His smallclothes were miraculously gone by then, without her noticing how or when.
She felt his manhood growing against her stomach and wrapped one leg around his middle to… feel him. The angle was strange and she didn't think they could…
"We can't like this, can we?" she whispered.
"Difficult," Sandor expressed his opinion between two kisses.
"Will you hate me if we don't…?"
He was a little inside her, she could tell. Not far enough that it would hurt. His breath hitched. "Gods," he said. "Slow. Slow down… Gods, Sansa. Will you… how much will you hate me if we do?"
"I don't know," she answered truthfully.
She moved by chance and he slid in some more, stretching her, causing sharp pain.
Sansa rolled away from him, to the side.
"Hurts," he concluded.
She nodded, facing the fire in the hearth, ashamed of not being able to. "I can't," she said meekly. "This still scares me."
"Climb on me," he said.
"It's not right," she said.
"There is no right and wrong in this," he argued.
"It is not what you want."
"I don't want your tears. I'll love what I can get," he grumbled and embraced her spontaneously from behind, pressing himself against her back. "I loved it every time," he clarified, pulling her hair up above her head, breathing softly behind her ear.
His huge hand was under her shift, palm pressed low on her stomach, just above her exposed woman's place. His other arm sneaked under her waist and grabbed her hip.
The blankets were above them, hiding their bodies from view. If anyone barged in now, they wouldn't see much, would they? Not even Robin if he woke, and he never did before…
Sandor's hair brushed the back of Sansa's neck by chance, sending shivers down her spine. Her woman's place… ached.
"Kiss me there," she demanded on a whim, showing the piece of offended skin that tingled from encountering his hair.
He did and extended her invitation to kissing and sucking her ear. Sansa arched into him. Her legs parted slightly as she did that with the result that his manhood ended… just there, not unpleasantly.
"Guess what," he whispered, intrigued, "I never tried it like this before…"
The hand he had on her stomach travelled down to her woman's place, found it soft and moist.
"No, that's not all," he shook his head and bit her neck. "I never did anything that comes close to us like this… Not once. Never loved anyone."
By that time Sansa was a mess of softness, inebriated by both his words and his touch. She and Sandor were the only thing that existed in the world.
She tingled from tip to toe and spread her legs further. Her right leg ended up stretched, flung a bit backward and hooked above his. Sandor slid inside her from the back and it was… painful and not so. And maybe, thankfully, he was not as hard as the first time.
Or maybe he was as hard, but could not go in as deep.
Her raised leg lowered back down from surprise and now both her legs were joined and straight. Soft, weak, boneless...
Sandor stayed as he was.
"Fuck," he said lovingly.
She preferred gods.
Language aside, she could tell this was good for him when he began to move and had to stifle his grunts by kissing her shoulders through her shift.
In the path opened by his manhood, her discomfort was bearable, spiced with a wave of incredible warmth, which increased whenever he sank in after scraping her walls.
She could do this.
But she couldn't see his eyes as they lay. This wasn't good because her pleasure would probably not come or it would be less, but at least she would not quaver. She'd be able to let him have her, though she might not be able to let herself go.
She lowered her hand to the place where they were joined, touched his manhood while it was in her, felt her own wetness, pulled it back up. Felt thoroughly ashamed. Felt terribly good from feeling ashamed. Almost found her pleasure abruptly from the unseemliness of what she allowed herself to do. Breathed in and breathed out. Calmed down, uncertain of where that road led to. Scared by her own body.
Sandor resumed kissing her ear and continued moving, murmuring fuck and gods at the same time.
It was pleasing now, what they did, and yet she yearned for something she could not name. Or she would tell him, ask him…
The unusual intrusion went on…
and was over in a while, to Sansa's… profound regret.
Sandor pulled out of her. Warm liquid trickled down the small of her back. He cleaned it in the sheet in a practised way, and stuck the dirty linen under the bed, far from her, triggering annoying questions in her head as to how frequently he had done this in his past, and with how many ladies.
You almost did it with at least three men, she told herself, remembering Tyrion, Marillion and Petyr. Had she been older when she and Sandor met again, only the gods knew what she would have done and with whom.
"This was not so good for you, was it?" Sandor wondered, sounding as insecure as Sweetrobin.
And kissed the corner of one of her eyes.
"It wasn't what I thought," she said, kissed the top of his nose, smiled, blushed, grinned. "But it wasn't bad," she reassured him, searching frantically for more words to explain to him.
In her head full of courtesies, none came.
They were facing each other again and his warm gaze was all she ever wanted.
And what they did was… Good. Or just not good enough. As maddening as the other times she touched herself on him. But not as pleasurable as the last time he'd let her do that. Probably it was the most she could get out of… coupling, with her past. Hopefully it would get better with time.
It didn't matter. It was him and no other and she could give him what he needed. So that he knew that she loved him. She wanted him to be certain of that and never call her a liar again. And she knew that if she wanted her pleasure, he would let her climb on him, use him, do with him as it pleased her… He would not take only what he wanted.
It was a beginning. Maybe it was also an end.
It was more than good.
Her body hummed, awakened. Taken somewhere, left somewhere, shaken, stirred, on edge. Abandoned in the beginning. Or in the middle. Maybe close to an end.
It was wonderful.
"How much can you sleep?" she exclaimed, amazed, when she noticed his eyes closing again. Before she could even wrap her thoughts fully about what they did and give him an honest, more complete approximation of how it was for her.
"When? After this?" he rasped back at her. "Always, a little. Usually? I stay alert." His gaze drifted sideways, checking where his sword was.
As a guard dog, Sansa thought, terrified.
"And when you are with me you can sleep?" she had to ask.
"Yes. I knew it since the bloody battle. The other one, with all the burning... I refused to lead the fourth sortie. I left. Between your sheets… In your bed it would smell fine, I'd thought. I would be able to sleep. I went to your room and I… I never wanted to wake…" he murmured, dozing off.
What he said was… incredibly beautiful.
Gregor was dead and Sandor was in her care.
And Sansa had stopped being the poor liar he remembered. She sometimes hated her new ability, but she had acquired it all the same. She would serve her future suitors lies and Arbor gold.
She would not marry.