Thanks, TopShelfCrazy, for your patience with my mistakes.
Thanks for reading.
Xxxxxxx
Xxxxxxx
"Love is poison. A sweet poison, yes, but it will kill you all the same." Cersei Lannister to Sansa, ASOIAF.
Twenty
The sun was shining through the high windows framed with slender, pointed arches when Sansa opened her eyes. The Eyrie was the castle from the songs; bathed in bright winter sunlight and covered with resplendent snow.
But...
She was alone in bed!
She sat up abruptly, fearing that Sandor had left her again.
Why? Why? Why?
Her fingers searched the crumpled bedding for the coarse white weaving of his old cloak - forgotten under her summer silks in King's Landing, Sansa finally remembered.
This time he left me with nothing but his scent between the sheets
She blinked and looked around, ready to cry…
…and saw Sandor seated on the stone floor in front of the hearth with Sweetrobin.
Huge, harsh palms with craggy, gnarled fingers stretched next to the shaky, thin hands of the lord-child of the Eyrie, warming up over freshly rekindled fire.
Sansa relaxed in bed, allowing herself to inhale its perfume. Joy filled her soul.
Of course he hadn't left her.
He couldn't stay away from her.
He'd told her so, and she trusted him with all her heart, amazed that she still possessed the ability to believe.
"Good morning, Sansa," her cousin said dreamily, noticing her awake. "It's a lovely day."
Robin was happy.
But Sansa's second glance at her lover told her immediately that Sandor was not. Fully dressed and armoured he was himself; threatening and unfriendly.
His scarred face was a mask of indifference and sullen anger. He stared forward mutely, as if he had never smiled, grinned or gazed at Sansa with adoration. As though their time together in the Vale had never existed. As if their love had been just one more lie Sansa was foolish to trust.
She rubbed her eyes harshly, trying to understand his sudden change of heart and failing, just like she could never fully grasp it in the past.
Why? Why? Why?
Why do you still find joy in scaring me now that I'm yours?
It was a new day. They loved each other. Gregor was dead. Cersei's men were broken. Traitor knives had not reached Sweetrobin in the dark. With the arrival of light, order might return to the castle and to the Vale, reining in the passions of the battle, ending the freedom to commit crime unseen in the nightly gloom.
"It's a wonderful morning," Sansa told both men, trying to sound reassuring and confident.
Her sincere attempt at radiance put Sandor further on edge. He stormed from the fire to the window, opened it and leaned over, studying the sky.
They could not see nor hear the waterfall from the lord's chamber. Sansa wondered if it had frozen in the few last, very cold days.
Alyssa's Tears.
They will melt today.
The sunrays were hot when they landed on Sansa's face and hands through the open window. She closed her eyes, basking in the sensation; drawing strength from it. She was Winterfell's daughter and yet she needed warmth to thrive.
She had looked for it in vain in the south.
And despite her lowered expectations from life, she found the hidden source of heat in the coldness of the Vale. Love found her… offered freely and generously by this impossible man who could not stay with her or away from her for long. Presently he continued seething at the window, not directing her a word. Was this better than snarling?
Sansa told herself that he couldn't embrace her or kiss her in her cousin's presence, could he?
It would be different if they were married.
She rejected the preposterous notion. Sandor had never proposed to her. Probably he held marriage in the same low esteem as knighthood, knowing the falseness of it. He spits on knights and their vows, she remembered. Such a terribly ugly thing to say to a lady. Why should he think of marriage vows as any different?
Vows are words and words are wind.
Sansa had learned, to her sorrow, that her parents' marriage was an exception; it was uncommon to find love in alliances between the highborn.
In light of that truth, Sandor's unconditioned plea for Sansa's love seemed much more honourable than what Ser Mychel Redfort had done; promising marriage to Mya Stone after taking her maidenhood, and then marrying Yohn Royce's daughter.
Unlike Ser Mychel, Sandor had eyes only for Sansa, before and after she gave herself to him. No one else merited his interest, only varied degrees of more or less mocking indifference.
"Sandor…" she addressed him very carefully, treading on eggshells.
Before she could ask if he was unwell and if it was something she unknowingly did, strong banging nearly knocked down the door.
Robin waddled to open it instead of crying for servants or waiting for Sandor to do it as he would have done a week ago. He had grown so much, though not in size. His hair, long and silky, fell to his waist, over the doublet with blue moons and golden falcons he had not yet properly donned or tightened around his skinny body.
The square head of Nestor Royce appeared in the doorway, framed by the broad shoulders of Lothor Brune and the unknown Crakehall, not letting him pass.
Sansa buried herself under the blankets, blushing, remaining very still. Lord Nestor's unwanted appearance made her realise she was wearing only her shift. Worse, her gown was not in evidence. Where did I put it?
She must have overslept after… she and Sandor loved each other. Memories flooded her. His palm on her belly, on her hip; his lips on her back, his manhood- their joint movement- the warmth and the slickness- His patience with her.
She should think of trouble at her door, of what to say, what to do. She had to remain unmarried and as little captive as possible. She didn't dare hope she might be free. She didn't dare imagine she could go home.
She couldn't think of any of it.
She wanted to run away with Sandor and be loved, wishing exactly what Cersei Lannister had mocked her for after she had flowered. She would live from his moments of gentleness between his poor moods.
Poison, love is poison, the queen was right, drunk and bitter, whispering to Sansa in Maegor's Holdfast. Sweet, but it will kill you all the same.
And Sansa would gulp it down willingly.
She wished she'd woken earlier to whisper to Sandor how much she adored him in the closeness of a shared bed and spy on his expressions of sweet surrender before he became… the Hound.
She realised she had hoped that with Gregor dead everything would be different.
Easier.
But the world was as awful today as it had been the before.
She peeked out from between the sheets, careful not to reveal herself to their late morning visitors, noticing that her gown was folded under the bed, and thankfully invisible from the door.
A bird circled in the patch of empty blue sky she could also glimpse from her hiding place. A large, white one.
Not a bird, she pondered dumbly...
In her glowing happiness, Sansa had forgotten about the dragon and the prince riding it.
"White and golden wings! Noble maw! What's a falcon in comparison? A sparrow, a fly!" Robin exclaimed with wonder.
The dragons were dangerous but this one was also… beautiful.
"His rider's in your hall, my lord," Nestor Royce cleared his throat. "His beast found us in this ungodly sun after the fog. The dragonrider claims to be Prince Aegon, the only son and heir of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen."
"I'll be right there," Robin said bravely. "Do give me a moment to get ready, my lord," he dismissed Nestor.
"Prince Aegon bids you to immediately release his betrothed, Lady Sansa Stark, as a sign of your good will, or he will burn the Eyrie to to the ground," Nestor roared from the door before Lothor Brune slammed it closed, locking his lordship out.
"Betrothed?" Robin asked, perplexed. "How's that?"
"I never said yes to that offer, sent by Lord Varys, the master of whispers, to Lord Petyr," Sansa explained, sitting up on bed, pushing away the bedding decisively. "I said I was held captive here, unable to make my own decisions, to avoid answering. I made it very clear that I was the queen's prisoner, not yours."
Did she? She thought she did, but she couldn't remember her own letter to Varys with precision.
Sandor snorted. "That subtle distinction will matter little to the bloody dragon. If he can burn us, he will."
"I see," Robin said to both of them, green and white, wringing his hands, staring at Sansa, blushing, then turning away to face the wall. Sandor was already gazing respectably away. "I'm sorry, Sansa. I shouldn't have looked at you before giving you a chance to make yourself presentable."
Robin was not a very little boy like Sansa still saw him. He knew a truth or two about boys and girls by now.
Terribly embarrassed by her own neglect of propriety, she put her gown on very rapidly, shaking the dust off her sleeves. The crone who had made the fire did not sweep under the bed. At least there were no mice in her bodice and the nightly cold had taken care of the sweat.
She wished she could leave with Sandor now.
But what of Sweetrobin, Mya, Ser Lothor, the servants… the queen's men who helped her, changing their allegiance? How could she be happy knowing that they… burned?
"Let us see what Prince Aegon wants in return for his peace," she chirped calmly and smiled at both men, the small and the tall one; the very young and the older one. "He hasn't burned us in our sleep so he means to talk."
Sandor looked stormy. "You know what he wants," he told her dryly.
Do you fear losing me? Is that it?
"We'll see about that," she said stubbornly, sounding like her sister Arya. "If he insists in calling me his betrothed by force," it sounded like a plan when she said it, not a girlish dream or a gesture of sheer desperation, "you and I will jump through the waterfall again. Robin will then lie to Aegon that I threw myself from the highest tower of the Eyrie and took my own life. Because… my heart was broken and not by him."
Robin stared at Sansa with boyish, unbound love. "I understand," he said, nodding wisely.
Sansa was very afraid he misunderstood everything. You don't think it is you who broke my heart, my Sweetrobin, do you?
"You'd do that?" Sandor asked, grey eyes showing signs of vibrant life.
Shining with hope, hope, hope…
Against the ever present foundation of simmering anger.
"Yes," she replied, breathless, enraptured by the reappearance of the man she loved behind the mask. "Right now if I could. Wouldn't you?"
"Then why don't you?" he continued angrily. "Or do you want to see if the prince is handsome before you make up your mind?"
"What if the prince doesn't believe Robin if he doesn't see me first? He has already gotten it wrong about me being his prisoner!" Sansa hoped Sandor would see beyond his wrath and stop expecting the worst from her. He wasn't stupid. She'd stopped averting her eyes long ago and had never called him dog. Not once. If he couldn't do it, he'd always stay in Gregor's shadow; bitter and scarred, even if he killed his brother a hundred times over.
She couldn't say this to him. Some truths were too cruel to be told. Like Robin's disability and probable sudden death.
Sansa wished she could help Sandor not to be hateful when there was no reason to be, but it was clear from the past days that her love might not be enough.
"I just," she stuttered, "I need to tell Prince Aegon in person that I am not in favour of our marriage in hope that he'll not retaliate against the Eyrie. "
"What if he burns you?" a concerned rasp escaped Sandor.
Sansa didn't think that far. Would it be worse than Ser Ilyn's blade? Sandor surely thought so. He's been to hell and back. He fears a new burning more than death.
Robin squeezed Sansa's hand, his palm cold and clammy; long-nailed. Sansa chastised herself for not seeing to it that his nails were cut.
"I am the lord," he peeped. "I won't let the dragon hurt my beloved cousin..."
"At least I won't have to marry any man," Sansa affirmed with passion, seeing only one advantage in her possible demise.
She didn't understand why Sandor welcome her words with a weary, defeated look.
xxxxx
xxxxx
Aegon was admiring the Moon Door when Sansa and Robin entered with at least thirty guards. The knights of the Vale were braver and truer in the morning, or just more capable to hide their fears in a larger company. Those from the west kept their heads down and sigils hidden; all except Sandor who openly showed his face.
Everyone shunned and circumvented him now. Killing Gregor was not enough to win the love of the fellow men-at-arms.
The Moon Door was open. Its white doorframe burned. In the middle of it, in the open sky, a white dragon's head could be seen, with golden horns and clever, aged eyes of molten gold.
"Lady Sansa," the prince said and smiled; tall, silver haired and handsome. "I am pleased to finally meet you. Lord Varys spoke highly of your kindness and many virtues."
"Thank you, Your Grace," Sansa said, lowering herself to her knees.
It was what would-be kings wanted.
Aegon didn't appreciate it. His dragon reared his head, neck twisting in through the door. "Rise, my lady," he commanded, a tad impatiently.
Sansa obeyed.
Robin who knelt next to Sansa did the same, without waiting for the prince's order. "Your Grace," he announced gravely, "There has been a grave misunderstanding. The Lady Sansa is my dearest cousin and guest. Not my prisoner. The entire Vale defended her from the troops sent by Cersei Lannister who wanted to take her captive. There are many witnesses."
"The loyalty of the Vale remains to be seen," Aegon said coldly. "I wish to speak to the Lady Sansa alone to establish where it lies. Lord Varys has particularly cautioned me against… Lord Petyr Baelish. Where is he?"
"Dead," Robin said and smiled, making a grave mistake, looking lordly about it.
"Did you have him killed?" Aegon inquired coldly. "Then you are more dangerous than I thought."
The dragon breathed fire, devouring lazily one of the armrests of the High Seat of the Arryns. Robin's eyes watered slightly at the destruction of the chair of his forefathers. To his credit, he managed not to cry.
Sansa straightened her spine. "I shall speak to you in private, Your Grace, if you swear on your honour to leave after we are done talking. Without burning anything else. If you do not agree to these terms, I won't speak to you at all. I'm not afraid of burning."
Her tummy froze with fear as soon as her words echoed in the windswept hall of the Arryns. She spoke out of turn again and she would be punished for her insolence.
Surprisingly, Aegon gazed at her with newfound interest. "I think I understand Varys better now. Should you agree to speak to me in private, I cannot promise that I will leave, but I promise not to burn this castle nor your cousin nor you unless you oppose me in military terms. Is this acceptable?"
Sansa couldn't believe her partial success.
"You want burn anyone," she underlined.
"No," Aegon clarified.
Sansa nodded, unable to answer. Her courage always reached its end after her outbursts. She fought the weakness in her body that wished to faint and skip the occasion of taming dragons.
She wondered where Sandor stood and if his heart thumped as hers.
How do you feel about all the burning?
She did not dare let her gaze run after him since they entered the Great Hall, which slowly emptied now, leaving Sansa alone with…
Aegon.
Prince Aegon.
He was better looking than the Knight of Flowers and seemed far more gallant and very well educated. Yet Sansa found him as exciting as Sweetrobin. The thought of having to marry him filled her with revulsion.
Her man was different; large and strong. He spoke rudely, but he also sensed her needs and moods, adjusting to them.
And this Aegon probably didn't see Sansa, only Lady Stark. Sansa wondered if being more handsome made him more evil than Joffrey.
"Do you know who Jon Snow is?" Aegon asked brusquely when they were alone. "Varys said you should.
Sansa was shocked. "He's my brother," she said. "My half-brother," she corrected herself. "Maybe there are more natural children of the North with the same name, but the only one I know is my brother. Why are you asking?"
"My aunt, Princess Daenerys, she went searching for him because in a vision she had he was the third head of the dragon. Where is he? Is he ambitious?" Aegon was very nervous.
"I wouldn't call Jon ambitious," Sansa answered truthfully. "Eager for glory, maybe, wishing to do great deeds in some noble battle. And he should be on the Wall. He took the black. The men of the Night's Watch cannot become high lords. Just defend the Wall."
"Thank you," Aegon said, looking handsome, vulnerable and truly grateful for her confused explanations.
Sansa felt guilty for thinking of him as heartless.
"You wouldn't…" Aegon appeared uncertain. "You wouldn't fly north with me to help me find your half-brother and with him my aunt?"
"It depends," Sansa said truthfully.
"On what, my lady?" Aegon asked. "Name your terms."
"My freedom," Sansa retorted readily.
"According to your own words, you're not imprisoned," Aegon observed. "What kind of freedom are you asking for?"
"Varys proposed I should marry you," Sansa said flatly. "My answer is no. I no longer wish to be the queen. I only wish to go home. North. If you agree to this, I'll fly with you to the Wall and help you talk to Jon," She omitted saying that maybe her brother wouldn't talk to her. They were never as close as Arya and Jon. "If I may take with me at least one guard of my choosing or, if your dragon can carry that many, also my cousin and a couple of men and women from his household."
"You will help me even if I don't agree to marry you first?"Aegon asked with disbelief.
"I don't want to marry you," Sansa reacted. "What part of it didn't you understand? And I will help you in all I can if you respect my wish."
"Very well," Aegon said, looking relieved. "Be ready to leave on the morrow. I shall come for you in the evening. You can take your cousin and up to six other men."
"Or women," Sansa added cautiously, testing the limits of her newfound power.
"Or women," the prince agreed. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Lady Sansa. Just like you, I am not eager to marry. We seem to have that in common."
With that, Aegon walked to the Moon Door and climbed on his dragon's neck, not minding the whirlwind of iced rain and soft snow. "Until tomorrow," he greeted Sansa and disappeared.
Wind stormed the empty, grey hall of the Arryns. Sansa hugged a pillar, suddenly afraid that she might be blown away and end like her Aunt Lysa.
"Robin!" she called weakly. "Someone come in and close the door, please. I can't."
She expected Sandor to do it, but he didn't. Lothor and Mya did.
I should take them with me. And the cold-eyed Crakehall who was true to his traitorous word. Few men are.
And Sandor first and foremost of all.
"Where is he?" she asked Sweetrobin. She didn't have to say who.
"He said he had to sleep," Robin said. "He left as soon as you agreed to speak to the prince in private. He told me he'd take the chamber in another tower, the one overlooking Alyssa's Tears, not mine anymore. Before leaving, he ordered Lord Crakehall to guard me again tonight. Or he would kill him the next day, sure as sunrise."
"Will you go visit the North with me?" Sansa asked as if in a dream. "Tomorrow? With this Aegon and his dragon."
"Yes," Robin beamed. "Thank you, Sansa. Vale is my home, but Father always intended to foster me for a year before I came of age. Winterfell will be as good as Dragonstone."
"I don't know if we can go to Winterfell," Sansa said sadly. The Boltons had it, according to Petyr, may he rest in pieces. "But I will pray that we might."
"I am taking him as well," she continued, "I'll go and tell him."
"Will you not join me for supper first?" Robin stopped her. "He asked for food to be brought to him."
"Did he ask for wine?" Sansa asked, hearing her stomach sing. She would have to eat.
Robert shook his head.
"I may eat with him if you don't mind," she didn't wait for her cousin's answer. "Always stay in sight of your boarish Winged Knight, sweet cousin!" she counseled him and scurried to the tower where Sandor chose to dwell.
She found him as angry as she thought he would be.
"So when is the wedding?" he asked darkly. "Or will there be only the bedding? You must have promised the prince something when he left so eagerly. Did you want jewels? A precious cloak?"
The ugliness of his words could not touch her. She was happy. Free. Or almost. More free than she had been in a long, long time.
"I don't have to marry Aegon," she told him victoriously. "Not now, not ever. I was successful in calling it off. Do you know what it means? I'm free! And I'm going home; tomorrow night, on dragonback. I'm taking you and Robin with me."
Her chest heaved and she hadn't been happier since her parents told her she would be Joffrey's queen.
Sandor gave her a defeated look.
"Isn't it wonderful?" she pressed Sandor on. It was what he wanted. That she wouldn't marry the prince. "We don't have to leave and suffer in the wild. We stand a better chance of finding hospitality in the North in winter than in the Mountains of the Moon."
"If you say so," he said darkly, embracing her. "What's a dog to do but follow?"
His sadness touched her.
"Dog?" she asked with extreme softness in her voice, sorrowful in return. "Sandor? Have I ever called you that? I long to be with you in every moment of every day of my life. Can you not see that?"
His armour was piled up on the floor; his hair was brushed over his scars. His sword was at hand, under the table where he sat. The food served for him was untouched. There was no wine, only water.
She remembered his body pressing into hers in the Gates of the Moon before he went to fight Gregor; there was a wall behind her back and his weight was on her; warm and pleasing. The recent memory grew in power, shadowing her old ones of fear, revulsion and rejection of a man's touch when it involved being pinned under him.
It was now or never. She could let her past rule her or she could leave it behind. She stared at Sandor, as he was now, angry and sad, but not threatening.
Slowly, she purposefully relaxed her body, every single muscle in it, and laid on her back on a modest featherbed. Not lordly, but theirs.
It snowed outside so they couldn't see the waterfall.
Yet it was still daytime despite the winter storm. She would see every portion of Sandor. She looked forward to it. Most importantly, she would see his eyes.
"Come here," she called him.
He was perplexed and reluctant to heed her invitation, recalling how she always rejected being on her back. His hesitation strengthened her change of heart. The past didn't matter, couldn't shame her. The unwanted touches, the kisses, the beatings, what were they? They had no meaning. Being forced could not soil her or change her. She could be killed and hurt but not truly spoiled or ruined. The latter was only a belief, taught to highborn girls to make them stay innocent until their marriage and birth only trueborn heirs.
"Like that?" he even asked.
"Yes," she replied, "I think so," she smiled hesitantly, losing some of her resolve.
"Please, no…" Her courage faltered when she wanted to ask him to undress. He stopped, wanted to turn back.
"No, don't go. I didn't mean that. What I meant was..." she failed in clarifying. Angry with herself, she sat up and began to fumble with the laces of her gown.
He helped her undress without hesitation. And when she pushed her hands under his tunic, he made himself naked immediately.
He covered her with himself and the heat was incredible. She kept her eyes wide open, directed at the planes of his upper body, hard and yet soft-skinned under the silky black hairs, so unlike the roughness of his palms and face.
She strove hard not to turn her gaze inwardly and remember the unwanted attentions she had been subject to, from others, and worse, from him; from the man she was destined to love.
Avoiding his lips, she kissed his chest, his shoulders, the crook of her neck, firmly, avidly. The grip of her lips came close to a bite when she tasted him, making him grunt hoarsely with surprise; the sounds he made called her attention even more to him and away from anything else.
They were alone in this room and in an entire tower of the Eyrie from what Sansa had seen when arriving. They could scream if they wanted and no one would hear.
No one would disturb them.
Some time and many caresses later, he was too heavy, laying over her and biting one of her ears. Sansa sighed, dismayed. She had to smack him on his back to gain some air. When she did that on previous occasions, she wanted them to please stop, but now she only needed to make him lean more on his elbows and less on her.
He naturally took her weak blows as a sign he should end it and separated himself too far. The upper part of his body loomed over her, his gaze circling her, searching for signs of what she intended.
The past would catch up with her if he didn't come closer again. She would remember the men she hated and she might reject Sandor; she would be crippled forever.
She would have none of it now, becoming angry at herself. If she could not go beyond this, it would mean that Joffrey and Petyr had won and that Sandor's hateful behaviour had always been the right one. She wouldn't allow that, not in her right mind, though one day some evil, strong man might vanquish her and break her body. She could not change the world.
"No, no, no, no," Sansa protested vehemently at being left alone, searching for words to explain to him and finally finding them in her distress. "Come back here," she said, "just don't choke me."
"Right," he said, relaxing, understanding. "But then, I-"
"What?" she barely managed to ask.
Sandor kissed her wildly. She would not be able to avoid his lips this time even if she wanted it.
She needed his kisses now.
His weight was not on her anymore, but his manhood was, pushy and yet desirable. She hadn't noticed it before, when she was at war with herself.
She searched for it with her woman's place, realising how soft and aching she had become between her legs, wondering when it happened. She hadn't been paying any attention to the sensations in her body, only to tasting his and to her conflicting wishes.
When she found him, he sank deep, taking her by complete surprise, making her gasp from sudden pleasure. Where was the pain? Had there ever been any pain? He pulled out and pushed back in.
So it's easier this way.
She would melt like the waterfall, before spring, she would thaw for him.
She might sing for him.
"It's good for you now," he stated, completely incredulous, halting. "Am I not… heavy anymore?"
"You are," Sansa said dreamily, wanting the heaviness, the sadness, the dark, needing it to breathe. "But not too much."
He pushed back in, past her defences and her need to have control over her body and any potentially life-threatening situation she found herself in; beyond her wish to be able to let go of her inhibitions with him, and the feeling of insufficiency because she couldn't or not completely.
Sansa gave herself to the momentaneous, to the fleeting, to the present, pulling Sandor towards her, feeling his weight on her and loving every ounce of it. No old memory came to mind, it was only them, only now; they had no past and no future.
Her pleasure came slowly to her and it lingered, less intense that the bright moments of joy she had succeeded in capturing for herself in their previous couplings. Before, she had to stop herself every time when she was overwhelmed, stop them from taking this any further because it would have been too much to bear for her if she went on.
Not being able to lay on her back until now was one part of her troubles in bed, the second part was holding back, but she only realised it now.
She didn't stop herself now. She didn't have to. She was alright.
Not experiencing the need to collect herself, not having to fight her fears at all for they were… non-existent... felt like sheer and unexpected victory.
Her pleasure had no peak, rising and falling in waves. But it was much more thorough and fulfilling, bringing solid sweetness to her soul.
"Want me to finish?" Sandor asked, kissing her ear after speaking.
"No," she captured his lips and licked them as an afterthought. "Why?"
Wait. No pain. Are you like me in this?
"Are you holding yourself back?" she asked, rocking her hips forward to catch that wave of warmth, on the rise again.
"No and yes," he shot back, barely able to speak after her move to meet him.
"How?" she couldn't understand how both could be done at the same time.
"If I don't hold back some, I'll spill myself. Now. Or hurt you badly. Or knock you up. Or all of it," he squeezed out one short sentence at the time, with his face hidden in her hair.
Knock me up?
Their baby would be a bastard. No, Sansa corrected herself, a natural son or a daughter.
Would it hurt terribly if he wasn't stopping himself a bit?
"Sandor," she tapped his huge back until he heard her, "don't hold back," she asked of him, "I want to see how it is if you… if you love me freely…" the other word was too ugly, she could never use it… "I wish to know if I can accept it," she clarified, blushing furiously, "or if I'm fooling myself that I can because I love you… but..." it wasn't all yet, "don't end it," she managed to shape her wishes fully, her voice a shameful whisper, "not yet."
The time for kisses was over.
Sandor transferred most of his weight on his arms now. His head and chest were upright, high above her, sweaty and emanating warmth… He was doing it now… the way he fought. Powerfully. Spying for her reaction after every two strokes. Still half in control.
She had to stare at him at first with her eyes very wide, forgetting to meet him halfway, setting aside her needs and the budding novelty of sensations this brought, admiring the sight of him.
He was wonderful.
Brave and gentle and strong.
But, very soon, Sansa had to think of herself as well because what he was doing to her now couldn't be ignored.
It didn't hurt, thankfully, though it would have, she was certain, if he had begun that way.
She didn't think she could have her pleasure like this, but the sensation was incredible. She felt torn apart and put back together with every stroke, enraptured by this, taking part in this, being there for him and for herself.
"Still good?" he asked in utter disbelief from above and she knew that he knew.
It was.
"It's incredible," she voiced it nonetheless, so that he wouldn't be able to think anything less of it or of himself.
Her answer made him lose or rather, relinquish control. His face twisted in a grimace which had nothing to do with pain. His eyes darkened and closed. The pace of their loving increased further. Sansa grasped his arms, hard and hot like iron, and felt her thighs beginning to shake uncontrollably. Would she be able to walk at all? She felt the familiar ache in her woman's place mounting, the wave on the rise again. She lifted her head and looked at him down there, entering her, stared at her woman's place like that, not understanding the urge and even less why seeing this added to her growing contentment. She had to lift her hips and meet him once more, not knowing how she had strength left to do this, but all her muscles tightened and obeyed her more than willingly. Again. And again. The sensitive outer parts of her woman's place rubbed against him. Pleasure spilled over her and with it the terrible, hateful need to stop him, stop them because it was too much to bear… before terrible memories would come and ruin it all...
"Fuck," Sandor cursed abruptly, drawing all her attention back to himself.
She looked into his loving eyes and was hit by her pleasure. Overtaken. Lost. It felt like… like dying might. After, blessed warmth remained.
He collapsed on her, almost choking her. She had to turn her face on the side to catch some breath under one of his arms. His weight was entirely too much now though not unwelcome. After a short while, Sandor rolled to the side, pulled her to his chest and covered her head with kisses.
"You're incredible," he murmured.
He began cleaning himself and dressing with practice and speed she detested because it meant he had done it before. Before Sansa.
She lacked the strength and will to consider taking care of herself.
Surprisingly, when he was done, he began to clean her… in a singularly clumsy fashion.
The first time they loved each other in the Eyrie, Sandor had wiped his seed from her hand and belly with the same ease he used for himself, but this was entirely different.
His seed was dripping out of her and some of it would never come out, she knew.
She could be… with child, she realised. Knocked up, as he'd said.
That first time she was fortunate to see her moonblood in the same night, being close to the end of her cycle, but now she was at the beginning. Anything was possible.
She had broad hips like her mother. She wouldn't die in childbed. Or not likely.
It would be their child.
Sandor showed extreme ineptitude and slowness in deciding that the edge of a silky sheet was good enough to wipe her woman's place thoroughly clean. Then he put her smallclothes back and even tied them.
He was worse than Arya with her stitches... or Sansa when they forced her to have her first riding lessons.
She could have done it herself very rapidly. She didn't. She let him do, experiencing a unique, terrible, tremendous satisfaction.
He located her shift, pulled it over her head, helped her find sleeves.
"Good like that?" he mumbled, his rasp never as deep as it normally was. If she didn't know better, she would say that he was… flushed. "You won't freeze when I fall asleep? It's bloody cold tonight."
She felt for her laces, firmly in place, took his hands, kissed them, nodded. "I'm better than ever," she said and meant much more than her undergarments.
He murmured something unintelligible, embracing her and covering them both. She heard clearly a raspy, "-love you so bloody much, Sansa," in the end.
"I love you with all my heart," she said happily under the sheets to his probably sleeping, hulking form.
Sansa didn't think, no, she was certain that Sandor had never bothered to help any other lady clean there or dress, after.
She decided she didn't care about his past as long as he treated her like he did now, and she knew beyond doubt that parts of it were more terrible than her own.
It was best to leave it behind, just like she wanted to set aside the burden of her own unwanted experiences and be at ease in her body. Start anew. Do better, if she could, now that she was cleverer.
But this unexpected moment of Sandor's innocence… or reverence… or both… was very lovable. She wished he would always tie her laces from now on.
xxxx
xxxx
A few minutes later, when Sansa was almost asleep, she heard quiet sobbing in front of her door.
She tried to wake Sandor, but she couldn't. He slept like a log. So she wrapped her cloak around her shift and walked to the door, listening.
It was Sweetrobin.
He cried inconsolably now, scratching the door like a dog.
She opened it.
Robin backed off to the wall behind him, still crying, not lifting his eyes towards her.
"I should have seen it," he said through his tears. "I was stupid. I've brought you together."
He wasn't petulant. He was desperate. Almost a young man and not a boy anymore. Hurting. Suffering from a broken heart. When did this happen? Why didn't I see it in time? How long have you been here? How much have you heard?
She suppressed her fear for herself, always foremost in her mind since she was left to survive on her own, and gave her cousin her honesty.
"I think we came together on our own, because we wanted to," Sansa stated truthfully. "But yes, you have helped us both and earned our eternal friendship, loyalty and gratitude."
"I thought you both loved me!" Robin yelled with pain.
"And we do-" Sansa tried to say. It wasn't a lie-
"But not the way I wanted you to, either of you!" Robin howled shrilly. "I know I have no right to you, being a disabled boy," he hissed dryly. "I know that the Hound loves you. Who wouldn't? You are so pretty, Sansa… And you tell stories and try to help… Even when you don't know how. But it still hurts terribly… to know that you return his love and not mine."
"I…" he stuttered, "I couldn't fall asleep in my room so I came here. Heard him whisper that he loved you, heard your answer… I'm sorry for disturbing you. I should have gone back in silence as I arrived. Good night, cousin," Sweetrobin peeped weakly and scampered down the corridor and towards the stair, going back to his lonely, lordly room.
Sansa made a step to go after him, to explain to him that the sisterly love she felt for him was no less true, but two huge hands clamped her shoulders, staying her in place.
"Let him go," Sandor rasped into her ear. "Anything you say will only make it worse. You're not his woman. I'm not his father."
"How do you know? We have to do something! He may die shaking if we don't," she protested.
Stunned by her lover's unforgiving, indifferent face, Sansa's anger abated.
Of course he knew how Sweetrobin felt.
Sansa's benevolent, dispassionate, young girl's interest in Sandor in the capital had been his undoing; it made him suffer and it made him rage. Knowing he had no right to be angry didn't help. Not when he began loving her…
"I am yours now," Sansa told him with unhidden emotion. "I love you so much that it sometimes scares me."
"I can't believe it at times," Sandor blurted, his gaze becoming vivid again. "Though I know you're not lying. I knew you didn't look at the prince as you look at me now from the beginning. I saw it. And yet… You saw me. If I don't stop doubting you, I'll drive myself mad and scare you away."
He opened his big mouth to say some more, only to be silenced by her kiss, wolfish and loud.
"You won't," Sansa stated with her father's bluntness. "And Robin will live and he'll grow," she added stubbornly, refusing to believe that there was no cure for her cousin's pain. "He hasn't had sweetsleep in days. He has to be fine."
Sandor was right, she couldn't help her cousin now.
But the impossible of today didn't say anything about tomorrow.