It was quite a ways through the morning before Sansa had noticed the Hound must be avoiding speaking to her on purpose. She was then shocked to further realise he hadn't said a word to her since he had discouraged her from laying with him the previous night. Was he upset that she had defied his assertion? She wondered if he was as conflicted as she about what was between them.
But why should he be? He was no tender maid, as he himself had declared, and she wasn't an unapproachable behemoth in a demon dog's helm. Why would he have second thoughts about bedding her? Once again she found herself affronted at the thought that she somehow didn't measure up to the Hound's desires for a woman. Maybe he preferred them plump, she considered, or perhaps dark-coloured or as coarse of manners as he himself. Well, Sansa Stark was none of those things, she thought haughtily, and she never would be.
She determined to ignore his silence. Whatever his reasons, the burden would not fall on her to discover them. She'd needed some comfort, and he'd provided it willingly at the time, so she wouldn't waste effort feeling sorry for him now. She had her delicious new memory to savour in place of the bitter one, and the world already felt brighter and more cheerful for it. His dark glowering was just background scenery.
She began asking questions more frequently, partially to make polite conversation and partially to admire his seemingly endless knowledge of the foliage surrounding them. His answers started terse and rude, even condescending that she did not know even simple things about the forest, such as how certain trees sent their seeds to the ground. Her courtesies eventually won over his silent stand-off, and he became open to her once more, or at least as open as he had ever been.
When they lay down for the night, Clegane faced away from her in their blankets, but Sansa put her arms around him rather than press her back into his own. It was similar to how she had held him when he rescued her from the riot, pulling her behind him on his steed, but much more pleasant, as he wasn't wearing armour and there was nothing to think about or feel except his firm body. She sighed with happiness, cut short when he suddenly stirred. As he turned to face her, his scars looked especially deep and morbid in the dim light. It made her shiver with an instinctual aversion, but her arms came back around him when he settled.
His eyes flicked over her face and down to her collarbone, then up to her hair, but his frown remained fixed, forever mangled so that it was hard to tell if he was sad or angry. Sansa gave him a smile she hoped expressed her happiness that she was safe, fed, and out of Lannister hands. Still frowning, he reached out hesitantly to touch her, giving her shoulder just a gentlest stroke, as though she were soft as butter and might collapse under pressure.
Apparently assured of her structural integrity, he brought his whole palm around to stroke her, and then the other, running his hands down the front of her arms and circling her wrists, before travelling back up to her collarbone and exploring her jaw with his fingertips. Absurdly, it seemed an almost private experience, which Sansa felt she shouldn't interrupt. He looked back to her after a few passes, and she gave him another smile of encouragement.
He began stroking her in earnest then, his hands at first following each other down her curves in a syncing pattern, then breaking apart to discover her independently. He shifted her about, his movements soft yet unyielding, and with an inattentive ease that divulged his strength.
As his grasp transformed from merely inquisitive caresses to bold, squeezing gropes, Sansa was unable to prevent a fluctuating keen from escaping her. The sound provoked him to make one of his own, and he clasped her rump tightly to press her against him.
Sansa felt the hot firmness of his manhood press against her hips, and opened her mouth to gasp just as his own descended on her. He didn't skip a beat at finding it open, flicking his tongue between her lips then running it up her palate. Sansa gargled and squirmed at the intense sensation, but again her reaction only fired him on further. One of his hands left her bottom to pull her knee up to his waist, while the other continued kneading her soft flesh.
Sansa was overcome. She had thought him unhappy with their encounter last night, but his ardour was unmistakable and overwhelming. She sank unresisting into the swirling mix of confusion and passion. She had an impulse from years of tutoring to protest against his presumption to take liberties with her, but she knew she would be upset if he stopped, so she said nothing. Sandor's hands travelled her thighs in tandem, sliding and grasping all at once so she felt like a piece of cloth being wrung out to dry. Sansa utterly forgot all her earlier fears that her form displeased him. Such notions were vaporised before the furnace that was his relentless attention.
His kisses continued, first missing her mouth by chance, then by design as he strove to kiss all over her face, along her jaw, down her neck. His burns felt strange where they pressed against her, but she told herself it wasn't so bad. As his head dipped lower to taste her collarbone, his hair came to her mouth. It smelt of sweat, and still faintly of smoke. This dog needs a bath, she thought, and it made her laugh even though it was unkind.
The sound of her giggles broke through the Hound's single-minded fervour, and he looked back up to her. At first she thought it was with stern reproach, but then she realised it was intense desire for approval. Feeling as magnanimous as any lady granting a boon, Sansa ran her own hands down his neck and along his shoulders, giving him a sweet smile as wordless permission. And so he kissed her again. Kissed and kissed, with his tongue as well as his lips, which made her giggle for a second time at the absurdity. His hands made languid circuits of her skin, pressing hard but leaving her sore muscles limp and feeling better for the attention.
With a moan in his throat, he kissed her once more, then abruptly put his mouth and hands both on the crown of her head. He remained like that, silent, as though holding on to her for support. Sansa couldn't be sure what caused his sudden cessation, or if he was perhaps enjoying her another way, but as the moments went past and his rapid breathing began to slow, she realised his interest in her was over. Over already, before it had started!
She squeezed his shoulders lightly to provoke him, but he gave no indication of noticing. Sansa then shifted her hip to press against him, checking to see if he was still big for her. Was he finished already? But no, he was prominent and hot, and yet paid her no heed.
How could she reinvigorate his interest? She became starkly aware that she may have some role; some part to play of which she was ignorant. Most advice to her had emphasised that her duty was to 'please her husband' or 'let him enjoy her'. It had sounded simple at the time, but now she was unsure. Never having been a bride, she had missed being passed the knowledge of these things by her septa or mother. The edge of her thoughts caught on a memory, of the queen telling her she was doing her the favour of having at least one man.
And the queen had certainly showed her things... but it had been how to touch herself, not her husband. Now she considered Cersei's words, she grasped that perhaps her fate wasn't to become chattel of the court as she had feared, but rather it was her execution that had been imminent. The cruel ordeal was to ensure she was not a maid when she went to the block. It struck her as curious that it was Sansa's own efforts to secure an execution that led her to be here instead, with that one man.
The man that was able to goad her body awake with exhilarating touches and warm kisses, but was content to leave her wide-eyed and wanting; He showed her a possibility and then failed to fulfil it.
Should she do as last time and...? No, surely there was another way!
Bearing in mind the alternatives, Sansa began running her hands all over Clegane's form. It was different to embracing her brothers or father; indeed it was more like cuddling with Lady - a solid, lean body, tense with potential. Sansa put it out of her mind. Even if he was half wild, he was the only person she had right now, and her saviour besides. She should try to focus on his good attributes.
His breathing picked up again as her hands travelled him, wishing she could touch skin instead of cloth. It would be terribly bold to unfasten his belt. She let her hands drop to it, clutching and tugging in a form of plea that couldn't be mistaken. His breath was so hot on her crown she felt herself become faint. It was very difficult to think... and her hands were so close to the buckle... she fingered it clumsily, unable to control herself enough to work what was suddenly an intricate mechanism.
His hand snapped down to hers, gripping them whole like trapped animals in his palm. His mouth stayed on her head, open and panting wetly into her scalp. Sansa's own mouth opened in unconscious mimicry.
"G... girl!" He exclaimed. Sansa wished he would call her by name, even if just in these illicit moments. "I only wanted to touch you, little bird," he huffed. Sansa didn't know what to say to that, so she tugged her arms, trying to break his grasp. It was a futile effort.
"I want to touch you also," she managed to slur, squirming under the haze of heat from without and within. The Hound made a sound suspiciously like a sob, but it must have been muffled in her hair. "Allow me," she pleaded, pulling once more. His grip relaxed slightly, and she was able to squeeze her hands out, though his twitched once more as if reluctant to let go.
Sansa resumed her struggle with the belt, finally managing to work the thick leather loose. But now that she had achieved victory over that despicable barrier, her fingers trembled with fear at delving into his breeches. She had touched him once before, true, but he had been clothed, and now by her own doing she had taken away that thin veneer of propriety.
Instead she let her hand fly to other lacings, dipping under her skirts to find the bows of her smallclothes. She loosened them while the fever heat leached from her and icy shame came in its wake. To be doing this... there was no scope for confusion, no path to convince herself he had forced himself on her. The significance of it terrified her, but to stop was an equal terror. While her mind and body warred, the body of its own devices set in motion a victory.
Conceding, she raised her hips to free her smallclothes, awkwardly removing them while trying not to disturb Sandor's repose against her. When that task was done she was faced again with the unbound belt; in her mind's eye the leather strips were two vipers she had to reach between to prove her daring. Still he remained unmoving, forcing her hand.
It was not right that a man denied a lady's ardour without rebuking her outright. She knew he wanted this as well, enough to not force her to stop. His ruse of indifference infuriated her, pushed her to silence the screaming of her conscience that this was not wise. It suddenly occurred to her that the open belt gave her access not only down, but also up.
With renewed intensity she gathered his tunic and slipped her hands underneath. His skin was hot, his stomach firm and covered in hair that was at one moment coarse and the next soft as she stroked over it. He was breathing so heavily now the wax and wane of his chest was as evident as a winded horse. Sansa only knew she had licked her lips when she felt cold air hit the fresh moistness.
She quickly swung her leg up over his before she could decide it was a bad idea. His hands, previously frozen where she had left them, became animated once more, one sweeping up her head and pressing her body to him, the other gripping the thigh that rested on his hip. Her own arms were crushed between them, but the panic of helplessness was strangely enticing. She twitched a little, testing the strength of his grasp, but only a little. She didn't want him to let go.
He hitched her leg higher, opening her up, and Sansa anticipated with both anxiety and relish the warm firmness at her entrance that was sure to soon follow. But instead it was his fingers that found her shameful wetness. Part of his hand stroked over her curls, while others delved deeper until they were at her inner places.
"Oh gods that's soft," he huffed into her hair. Sansa hoped being soft was desirable. With her head pressed into his chest, she wasn't able to see his face, and the fancy took her to pretend it was not the Hound she was lying with, but her lord husband, whoever he would be. This was their wedding night, and she was doing nothing wrong. It was right to enjoy this.
His fingers were clumsy on her, sometimes brushing over the places that made her melt and other times missing them. She wanted to tell him to touch her higher, but her mouth wouldn't let such a degenerate thing pass out of it. She tried to imagine it was the Knight of Flowers who had stolen her away, and was caressing her. The notion made her spine curl with embarrassment and guilt at thinking a true knight would do such a dirty thing. If it had been Ser Loras the queen had forced on her, and he'd stolen her away, he would have lain his sword between them and begged her forgiveness for soiling her. Two of the Hound's fingers entered her and spread apart the sensitive flesh. She found herself making a strange cooing noise in her throat.
No, this man was no knight. He was a beast, and he would take her on the forest floor like one. Immediately as that thought had entered her mind her womb was struck by lightning, her hips and shoulders rolling in indecent enjoyment. She gasped and gasped as her body was filled almost to bursting with joy. She didn't quite reach that beautiful height, and squirmed in frustration, desperate now for him to be inside.
"Put it...," she tried pathetically. Sandor pulled his fingers out with an appalling squishing sound, and then rolled her unresisting onto her back. His bulky form moved over her and shrouded her in darkness, but even though she couldn't well make out his features, her illusion of a bridal bed had been shattered by the reality of who she was with and what he was doing to her.
The Hound, the Hound, the Hound, her mind goaded her, spiteful for having lost against her body. He made to gently spread her legs further, and by themselves they opened wide for him. Wanton, her thoughts mocked. But then she felt it, and no thoughts came to her anymore.
It still hurt a little, a faint sting of disapproval sent from her septa, she was sure. He carefully filled her up, then fell forwards, catching himself on one arm, the other still clenching her thigh in a death grip. Sansa brought her arms up around him, pulling him down so his heart beat against her cheek. The pleasure, the heat, the fear, the guilt, the smell; it was all exquisite.
As he slid in and out ever-so-gently, Sandor began whispering into her hair, but Sansa could decipher nothing through the harsh scrape of his voice. Trying to listen distracted her from the sensations in her womb, so she paid no heed to it, closing her eyes and just letting herself enjoy it all. She wanted more, she wanted it faster. She brought her legs up around so her ankles hooked at the base of his spine, and tried to pull him into her harder, but it was no use. His hips stopped where he wanted them to stop, and no matter how she pushed or pulled with her legs, it had no effect.
And yet Sandor was not unaware of what she was doing. Almost imperceptibly she felt the tempo increase, each movement just a little more substantial than the one before.
"Yes," she sighed, and conceded to merely let her legs follow his hips in time with the rhythm, tugging just a little at the end of each arc to encourage him. She hazily wished he would speak to her properly, instead of rasping into her crown as if muttering incantations.
She heard what sounded like her name. Sansa.
Say it out loud, she entreated silently. She wanted to hear him say her name with need, not call her girl or little bird or lady. She was more than any of those things. She was Sansa. But had she called him by his name, either? She struggled with herself momentarily, the word on the tip of her tongue. But it was too much, too intimate. Especially during this, she decided. She was still a lady, after all, and he was merely a soldier.
Instead she leaned her head back and wriggled forward, trying to reach his face with her own. They had to kiss again. It wouldn't be right otherwise. Sandor did not notice her efforts; his eyes were shut tight, his mouth open and panting. Seeing his expression struck her in a strange way. She couldn't have described the feeling, but Sansa knew she liked it. She reached up and brought his head down to hers with force. Whether he allowed her from shock or desire didn't matter. His mouth was as she remembered it; part dry but soft, part hard and foreign, and all of it unique only to him. His tongue pierced into her hungrily, pushing her own aside, licking it, licking inside.
Now he was thrusting forcefully into her, his hips impacting hers with delicious potency. He started making sounds that were curiously out of place for him, moans and whines mixed together with the occasional lewd grunt.
Sansa watched through slitted eyes as he began to unravel, his movements so quick and forceful she could hear her teeth rattle. This is a man's beauty, she decided. Somehow she didn't think that was what her septa had intended. The notion made her giggle and almost in response, Sandor's body went rigid. But suddenly he pushed away from her forcefully and out of her. Sansa felt the heat of his seed on the back of her thighs and horror overwhelmed her.
"No! Why did you do that?" She wailed. Her fists were suddenly clenched around his tunic and she shook back and forth as she tried to affect him. The Hound regarded her with absolute shock, but then understanding of her complaint hit him, and his face changed to familiar fury.
"Don't you know how children are made?" He growled, clearly angry at having an enjoyable moment spoiled.
"Of course! But, you can't do that! Otherwise it's not... right! I want it to feel like it did before," she mewled, an agony in her chest warning of tears approaching. She was bereft of pleasure both in body and mind, and it pained her in her heart how badly this had all gone. And after the last time had been so good...
"I don't want to father a bastard!" he roared. Sansa rolled onto her side and suppressed a sob. Maybe he was right, but it still felt terribly wrong. This wasn't how it should go. They had to kiss, and then enjoy each other, and then finish while still joined.
Sansa had believed she wanted to know what Sandor desired to do of his own accord, but it seemed when it did not align with what she herself needed, it threw her into miserable discord. The same sort of turmoil she had sought his attentions to avoid. His weighty hand grasped her and rotated her back to face him.
"Don't be a fool," he said only marginally more gently, hissing through closed teeth. Sansa whimpered. Even sitting down his height was intimidating, so she scrambled upright herself to give her courage.
"I just want to be… fulfilled, and when it's... not like before... it doesn't fulfil me," she tried to explain. Clegane's face instantly hardened, and he jerked back from her. "I want to feel like you-" she began, then recognised the end of her thought and abruptly cut it short. His eyes narrowed.
"Feel like I what?" He asked in a low rattle. Sansa shook her head, then again to clear her hair from her face.
"Nothing," she whispered. Sandor's hands grasped her shoulders and pulled her towards him.
"Say it," he demanded into the crown of her hair. Sansa hesitated. She had never been good at thinking of excuses, never, and especially not right now when it seemed her whole head and body were in tumult.
"I...," It was too much. Why had she even thought it? It would not be possible for her to say it. But she knew he would not be placated until he had an answer, and she was too panicked to create a lie. "I want to feel like-" Why was her voice so squeaky? "Like you can't stop yourself. Like you desire me sorely."
There was only awkward silence. Sansa pawed against his arm nervously. "But that would be a lie, since you obviously can stop," she mumbled, barely able to hear herself. There was another moment of uncomfortable tension. Sansa resisted the temptation to press a hand against her face where it burned with either shame or approaching tears.
Her focus on preventing moving made his own actions a sudden shock. His hands gently bent her shoulders forwards, until the crown of her head pressed against his heart. Sansa felt a little awed by the intimacy, as though he were making up for what he was not willing to give her. Abruptly, he bent over as well, and she felt the Hound's teeth claim the nape of her neck, hard enough to hurt. Her body spasmed and then went almost slack, like an abandoned puppet. To her horror, she discovered she was whimpering.
Her womb was still wet and hungry, lacking the sickening feel of seed filling it. She gasped in air, not seeming to get any relief from each lungful. The Hound was breathing deeply above her as well. She could sense the heat of each exhalation on her skin. Never before had she witnessed him so closely resemble the animal of his namesake.
Maybe he is more animal than man, she marvelled. Sansa considered that he could keep her in the forest forever if he wanted, living like wild beasts. Just as fear was beginning to gain precedence over her womb-hunger, his teeth left her neck, but were replaced by his wet tongue. He licked the sore marks he had left on her flesh. Was this a consolation as well?
"Don't offer yourself to me, girl," the Hound whispered threateningly. "I'll take everything you have and leave not even scraps for your family."
Sansa looked to the ground, and shuffled away from him. She had thought right. He could steal her into the deep forest and make her a prisoner again. Maybe that's what he'd be compelled to do if his child grew within her.
Chastened, she wriggled back into her bedroll and curled away to the darkness. Her inner parts still called out for attention, so she slipped her hand between her legs and pressed it there. It was pleasing, but her body was hollow without him there, filling her up.
I suppose once a woman's seal is broken she is an empty vessel and longs to be filled, she pondered. Perhaps when a babe is in you, you are full the whole time and never want for a man. It made sense. Her body must want Sandor because it wanted a baby, now that she was a true woman. The idea was terrifying in a way none of his violent outbursts or hissed threats ever were. She could not carry the Hound's child.
"I understand," she told Clegane without turning over. There was no response, but she hadn't expected one.