Sansa feels how close he is to her now. His head is beside hers, and he has spoken his reassuring words in her ear. She still clings to his one hand but he has not told her to raise her eyes to him yet.
"Please," she whispers now, "can I look-"
Before she finishes her words, he has drawn his hand on her head down to cup her cheek and turned her face to his.
"I'm sorry, Sansa," he tells her contritely in his deep voice.
She shakes her head again and whispers passionately: "Not your fault. Sorry you needed…" I'm sorry you needed to kill my brother's revived corpse? The idea was too horrible: that it happened, and that he needed to do it to save himself. She did not want to think of it. "Love you," she tells him instead, and she hopes it is enough.
He closes his eyes tightly and then opens them. "I- I wonder if that is not more than I deserve, Sansa; but I am grateful," he tells her with sincere humility.
She reaches shakily to cup his cheek as he is doing to hers. "Hold me," she implores.
Her husband nods and puts his arms around her gently, then pats her head and her back to comfort her. But she shakes her head again and looks up into his eyes and sinks her fingers into the fur around his neck.
"Hold me," she tells him intently now.
The Greatjon stares back at her hesitantly before leaning in and brushing his lips against hers. As soon as he does, she grips his fur collar and kisses him hard with a strong passion and urgency that come upon her so suddenly that she feels that she cannot ever be close enough to him. She slides her bottom forward on the edge of the bed so that she can try to press herself to him. His hand closes on the back of her neck and he returns her kiss with equal passion.
"Ump," she breathes into his mouth, a wordless encouragement: an affirmation.
With that sound, he pulls her into his arms and holds her closer, and then closer still so that she is nearly breathless. He moves to rise suddenly and takes her with him, and she instinctively wraps her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist as he walks until he bumps into her dressing table where he sets her down on her bottom with a crash that sends her mirror onto a rug with a dull thud and her scent bottles and hairbrushes scattering over the surface.
They breathe heavily as they tug and scramble to remove what they need to remove of each other's clothing. Sansa draws on the ties of his furs and his breeches as he reaches under her gown to grasp and pull off her smallclothes. With a grunt of effort, he hooks his arm behind her knee and pulls her leg up nearly to his shoulder, opening her to his engorged member that she has freed from his lacings and angled to enter her. He thrusts into her sharply with a strangled shout, burying himself to the hilt in her warm, wet softness as she gasps and lets her head fall back in surrender to his possession of her. He holds himself inside her: tense and still; and then he mutters close to her ear:
"I promised myself…I would be good to you," he pants with a tight voice.
"It's good," she whispers dreamily, "my love, it's good."
His breath leaves him in a rush of relief now, and he bucks his hips against the table as it squeaks and shakes so that Sansa fleetingly wonders if it may collapse beneath them; but she does not care enough to stop.
"Please don't stop," she cries softly, even as his arm pulls her leg up higher and he fairly rams himself into her with deep, sharp thrusts that are racking her body and turning her mind to mush.
"Look at me , you wild wolf," he growls; and when she lifts her head she sees his fevered intensity when he locks eyes with her and bring his face closer to hers. Sansa feels all aflame and, without thinking, she suddenly sinks her teeth around his lower lip and sucks fiercely.
He grunts loudly, whether from pain or passion she is not certain nor does she care. Her pleasure is coursing through her and making her heart pound so that she feels she will needs tear her bodice open or it will burst. But he has lifted her from the table with his free arm slung under her behind and is now staggering with her held against him until her back is pressed against the stone wall. He braces his feet wider apart and puts both his great warm strong hands beneath her bottom to lift her up and lower her so that she is riding his manhood in quick, long stokes. She has locked her feet together high up his back, and now she buries her face in his neck beneath his beard, licking and nipping at the warm skin from his ear to his shoulder until she once again fixes her mouth on him to suck as though she would feast at his very marrow.
She has never been with him like this: this fierce and rough and passionate coupling that makes her feel so alive: she wants to feel alive; yes, and so close to him.
We've both fought our battles and cheated death; and though we have lost those we loved, we are both here and alive.
Her pleasure is heightened to such a near-peak that she fears that she may scream at her release but her husband suddenly grabs her hair in a fist and pulls hard so that her head once again falls back and he covers her mouth with his, breathing her in so deeply that she feels a part of him. They both keen and pants desperately and finally he grunts and grimaces and drops his head and sinks his face into her hair as she clutches madly at his back and shoulders when he gives a last hard thrust and empties into her with pulsing throbs that she can feel as her own peak courses through her from her hairline to her toes and she gasps and sighs and all the delicious tension in her subsides and she goes limp in his arms as her feet reach the floor unsteadily.
"Hm?' she asks almost sleepily now.
"Have I hurt you, Sansa?' he murmurs into her neck as he still holds her to him and against the cold stone wall.
She shakes her head quickly now. "No," she breathes, "I-"
"What?" he asks still without looking at her.
"I…I don't know what came over me; I- My lord, I wanted so much to be close to you," she whispers still because her voice is weak though she is not. "I- wasn't…I fear I was not a lady…just now."
He raises his head to look at her, and his eyes are full of such a tender fondness that she is moved nearly to tears.
"You're my lady, Sansa," he tells her and kisses her forehead reverently, "and you are all the lady I need."
"Thank you, my lord," she replies hoarsely and runs her hands up around his neck again. "Thank you." She ducks her head, both pleased and embarrassed by her brazenness now. But he breaks their reverie with talk of duty now.
"Well," he remarks lightly, "I expect we each needs return to our tasks before the castle thinks we have abandoned them?"
"Y-yes, my lord," she smiles timidly and then moves hesitantly towards her basin and then more purposefully when he makes to follow her. She pours water from the pitcher into the basin and soaks a linen and hands it to him before soaking and wringing out one for herself. He wipes himself off hastily, almost wincing at his own roughness before eyeing his own member appraisingly.
"My battered sword may need to be re-forged after that," he jests as he tucks it back into his breeches and Sansa first raises her eyebrows in surprise before blushing and giggling. He smiles and tosses his own linen back into the basin before he takes hers from her hand.
"Lift your skirts now, Sansa, and let me tend you," he tells her gently but firmly.
Sansa bites her lip and drops her eyes as she obeys, slowly raising her skirts and gathering them in her arms. With an appreciative growl, the Greatjon tenderly washes her thighs and between her legs with slow strokes of the moistened linen towel.
"Where did I drop your smallclothes then?" I questions absently.
Sansa nods to where her dressing table is in disarray, and her smallclothes lie on the bearskin rug in a little pool of soft fabric. He walks over and bends to retrieve them before walking back.
"Step into them now, that's a good girl," he mutters as he holds them and then glides them up her legs. Sansa reaches then and ties the ribbon ties in a dainty bow and they both lower and smooth her skirts back down. He steps back now to admire her.
"We look the proper lord and lady again now," he nods approvingly.
"We do," she whispers hoarsely still though with a smile, and he furrows his brow in concern.
"Save your voice now, Sansa; until the maester says you're healed. I should not have taxed you so…" he looks at her regretfully now.
"I am pleased that you did, my lord," and she means so very much by her words that she hopes he understands.
He smiles and gives her a merry wink. "So am I, Sansa," and she sees that he understands. "So am I."
….
Sansa joins the women of the castle to help organize chambers for the expected orphans. They gather blankets and linens, and sort through piles of clothing that require mending or fitting on the children once they arrive. Sansa is pleased with their work but concerned that they may not have enough.
Berena looks at her hesitantly, and so Sansa raises her brow questioningly. She still does not speak unless absolutely necessary; and if she must, she whispers softly.
"There be garb the children have outgrown, milady…though some be fancier than wildling children may need," she ventures respectfully.
Sansa knows that the old nurse refers to her children, and to the fact that there are no younger children of hers to fit into their old clothes. Pain grips her heart and she feels her throat tighten as she thinks on all the pretty little dresses she has stitched for Serena, and the tunics with Umber colours she had fashioned for young Eddard that he hates but makes her proud to see him wear. But there are real children who need the clothing, she knows; and hanging onto hope at their expense is not a reasonable choice right now, not when rations are still so limited. She nods resolutely to Berena.
"Use all," she whispers looking the woman straight in the eye.
The woman holds her gaze a moment longer and nods back. "As you say, milady."
That night in the Great Hall, the Greatjon stands to announce the eventual arrival of the wildling children to the people of Last Hearth. Sansa stands beside him with her hands clasped together before her and her head high.
"These children we take in will be orphans, and in need of care and kindness," he intones firmly, "and any that thinks that can't be kind to wildling children will have leave to go…because neither I nor Lady Umber will stand for them to be treated roughly or scornfully: they are Northerners now, and in our charge. Discipline will be left to their wildling guardians or their masters if they take up a trade; and judgement is my province as your lord. Anyone who dares mistreat them, or even one, will be put out the gates to make their own way. That is all I have to say."
When they sit down to eat, Eddard squirms and casts glances at his father until the Greatjon sets down his spoon and leans his elbows on the table as he stares across at his son. "Well, boy, will you tell me what troubles you, or will you shift about in your seat like you have any itchy behind all night?"
Serena laughs with her mouth full. "Itchy behind, Mama! Eddard gotta itchy behind."
"Hush," she whispers softly with a finger to her lips and turns her disapproving gaze to her husband.
He nods conciliatorily to her. "Mind your manners, Serena: your mother has taught you better than that."
"But you said first!" she wails in protest.
"I'm not a lady," he counters, "and I never will be; but you will."
Serena sits back and pouts, and so Sansa reaches to pat her hand reassuringly. "Be good, little bird," she whispers to her now, and she nods to the girl's bowl to indicate that she should finish eating. Sansa straightens her back now and picks her own spoon up and eats daintily; after a moment, her daughter does the same.
"Father, will the wildlings train to fight with us?" Eddard asks tentatively.
The Greatjon nods slowly now. "That bother you, boy? They needs learn to defend themselves same as we do; and their land is wilder than ours and closer to the Wall too. We want men and boys who can fight with us if the Others come again, don't we?"
Eddard seems to think on his father's words before nodding back. "Yes, Father. I guess so."
"Good boy," he tells his son. "Now I expect both of you to be kind to those wildling children: you're the lord's children and so will set the example to the other children here. Welcome them and be kind and share, just like you've been taught to do with the other children in the castle. Do you understand?"
Both children nod obediently now and their father smiles happily at them. "I knew you'd make your mother and me proud," he beams. "Is that not so, Sansa?"
She smiles back to him and whispers her reply: "Yes: proud." Proud is how she feels to be his wife, and mother to his children.
When they retire to their chambers that night, it is the Greatjon's turn to pile bearskin rugs and furs before the hearth. When Sansa looks at him questioningly, he smiles, though somewhat sadly.
"I'd like to sleep near the fire if you don't mind, Sansa…after talk of beyond the Wall, I needs feel warm again."
Sansa nods encouragingly, and after her maid leaves she drapes her robe over the chair of her dressing table and moves to lie with him atop and under the furs. He takes her in his arms as soon as she is beside him and when their eyes meet there is no need for words. Their love is like sweet music this night: slow and gentle yet passionate; and Sansa feels her peak is like a high note of a song that is held and drawn out before a verse ends. She understands better now what having a song from you means; and she wonders again fleetingly what has become of Sandor Clegane, and if he still thinks of her as well.
"Was that more to your liking the, Sansa?" her husband asks hoarsely as he lies back on the furs and clears his throat.
"It was lovely, my lord," she whispers, "I am sorry if I was…if I was rather brazen this midday…but…but I-"
"Sh, sh, I understand, Sansa: death makes us want to feel alive; there's naught to be sorry for. You've known too much loss and heartache for a young lady…tell me now: have you even twenty years yet?" he asks her.
She smiles against his skin where she has laid her head on his chest. "I will within another moon's turn, my lord."
He tilts his head to look down at her where she is nestled in the crook of his arm and smiles.
"Your twentieth name day, is it? And how would my lady like to celebrate?"
Sansa lifts her head to smile at him. She looks down the length of his long and strong body and feigns an indifferent shrug that makes him laugh and hold her tighter. She laughs softly as well.
"If I have chance to spend my name day with you and the children, my lord, I shall be ever so happy," she whispers sincerely. "I love them as I love you: with all my heart. If I may spend all my days with you like this one, then I shall always be content."
He turns his head to look at her now, and then lifts a large hand to trace the curve of her cheek and jaw with his fingertip.
"My own Sansa," he breathes, and she nods slowly.
"Yes, yours," she whispers and kisses his hand and then his lips tenderly.
He pulls her down next to him again and holds her close. "Sleep now, my Sansa."