Pas de deux
The harvest feast had been going on for hours. And for hours he had watched her. First from the high table next to her – a position she'd insisted he take though she knew him to be more comfortable standing to the side and slightly behind Winterfell's throne. And then he'd watched some more, with hidden amusement, as he'd moved from the table and the celebration grew increasingly raucous in direct proportion to the amount of ale and wine being consumed. The little bird hadn't let her goblet go dry, he noted, and the flush on her cheeks was high, her eyes sparkling as she'd caught his gaze repeatedly, and looked at him long.
He'd moved to the back of the Great Hall as the dancing had begun and watched as lords young and old, grizzled and fair, had taken their turn with her. The feasters stomped feet and slapped hands, voices raised in song, filled with food and drink and reckless joy - survivors all. And she spun and dipped and glided across the wide plank floor, and it seemed to him that her feet never touched it.
And then she was beside him, breathless, her face shiny with sweat. She said not a word, simply took him by the arm and reached for the horn in his hand. He peered down at her as she took a gulp and made a face at him.
"Watered wine - and more water than not. On this night of all nights?"
"You drink when you're happy," he explained. "I drank when I was not."
A slow smile spread across her face. She leaned gracefully to the side, still holding to his arm, and set the horn down. "Dance with me, then."
"I don't dance, my lady."
"Not ever?" She pouted and for a moment he saw the girl she had once been.
"Never," he told her, his attention focused on the wet curve of her lower lip, plump and tempting. He glanced around before tugging her deeper into the shadows and into his arms. She giggled low and came up on her toes, draping her arms over his shoulders, her fingers tunneling through his hair and stroking the back of his neck.
"What's this?" she asked, smiling up at him.
"I've been watching you being passed around about as much as I can do for in a single night. If you knew how many arms I've lopped off in my mind's eye …"
"Hush," she murmured and leaned in for a sudden kiss. He hadn't even the time to return it before she pulled away and looked at him with mild rebuke, a single eyebrow cocked. "You've no reason to be jealous. Every man here knows I am yours."
His hand slid up and cupped the back of her head. "I'm not jealous, little bird, I'm hungry." He dipped his head and resumed the kiss she had begun, only this time it was longer and deeper and left him giddy as if he were as far into his cups as she.
"Dance with me, Sandor," she breathed against his mouth as he lifted her off her feet and palmed the small of her back, pressing her hips more fully against his. Their soft groans mingled in the smoky air.
"Are you deaf, girl? I don't dance."
"Oh, but you do. I've seen it … and felt it." She nipped his lower lip and giggled again, girlish and sweet. "There are other ways to dance, my love, besides what you've seen tonight. And in that set of skills you are very, very talented."
He pulled back enough to see her fully and grinned at her, unmindful of how hideous it might make him look to others. For to see himself through her eyes was to know he was more handsome than any man there.
"In that case," he said, releasing her and offering her his hand, "shall we dance?"
Had anyone noticed them leaving – and surely someone did- they would have sworn it was not only Lady's Sansa's feet that did not touch the ground but those, too, of the uncommonly large man beside her.