Sansa stepped over the flagstone of the doorway and entered the great hall of her new home, Longhall. Her eyes scanned the room, appraising her surroundings. Though not a grand space, the hall felt almost cavernous; it had a lofty wooden roof supported by thick cross beams of oak, darkened by many centuries of smoke. Opposite the entrance where she stood was a hearth, large enough that several grown men could stand within. Sansa noticed the absence of tapestries or of any decorations for that matter. The bareness of the walls likely made the space seem that much larger. The only piece of furniture in the hall was a great arm chair by the mouth of the fireplace; it had a high back padded with dark crimson fabric worn with use and time as well as long armrests made of thick, dark oak.
Longhall was a large tower house surrounded by a fortified wall; it sat between the shores of Long Lake and the Lonely Hills. The keep maintained the highest prospect for many leagues and from it the view extended far up and down the King's Road, as well as over the pine forests beyond Long Lake in the east and the barren Lonely Hills to the west.
The sound of Sansa's steps echoed off of the bare stone walls as she advanced towards the center of the hall. Half a dozen hounds who'd been lounging in front of the hearth's fire ran towards her and Sansa stood her ground to pat them as they sniffed, tails wagging, at her skirts and outstretched hands. Their wet noses were cold against her palms. Heavy footfalls resounded behind her. She turned.
Sansa had known Sandor Clegane since she had been a girl in Kings Landing. Though she was now only four and twenty, the days in King's Landing felt like they'd occured several lifetimes ago, like they'd occurred to someone else. Since those days, Sandor's appearance had not changed much; he was still one of most imposing men she'd ever looked upon. His fierce, implacable demeanour and enormous stature had always terrified her as a girl. The right side of his face was a burned ruin of blackened, contorted flesh, and he brushed shoulder length hair the colour of coal over that side in an attempt to conceal what he could. The only differences to his appearance were a few additional lines beneath his unburned eye and a limp caused by an old injury in his left leg. Other things had changed about him over the years, but these were things that flesh could not reveal. I too have changed. She smiled sadly to think of the young, impressionable girl in King's Landing. And here I stand, wed to the man who used to terrify me. She had learned long ago, from personal experience, that Sandor Clegane was the furthest thing from truly terrifying. There were things far worse than truth and death.
"It is a very fine home, husband," she smiled warmly. "I would add a few things of my own if you do not mind."
Sandor shrugged, his look indifferent, "This is your place now too, woman. Do what you will, though it's far from the grandeur you're used to." He turned to the servants behind him, who stood outside by the carriage, "Bring my lady wife's things up to our rooms," he barked, "and bring a table down from the attics, the lady and I will sup in the hall tonight."
"This will do," Sansa affirmed, then thanked each of the servants as they passed by with her things, before she turned back to look at the hall. A thrill passed through her. This will do very well.
Convincing him to wed her had been easy enough. He'd resisted the idea at first, as she'd known he would. But visiting him in the dead of night, in his room at Winterfell as the castle celebrated victory over the Others and the return of spring, had surprised him, had caught him off his guard. She'd then reminded him of that night in Greywater Watch soon after he'd found her; she'd lain abed at the Stranger's door, stricken by sickness and fever. That had been the night he'd pledged never to leave her side, the night he'd kissed her. It had surprised him to speak of that night; she'd known he'd thought her ignorant of it and thus he had yielded to her desires. The rage within him has been gentled somewhat after all, Sansa remembered thinking as she'd passed him her wine goblet once the matter had been settled.
The wedding had taken place soon after and had been a small affair; Sansa was generally loath of weddings, having never known anything remotely pleasant to result from them. This had been her second wedding besides, though none dared make mention of the first. Her brother Rickon had been the one to walk her towards the heart tree while only a handful of Northern lords and the members of the Stark household looked on within the godswood. Sansa had wanted few to attend the wedding, but had thought it important that the witnesses be of varied import and stations within the North. Stables boys could be just just as useful as lords in all sorts of situations.
As a young girl Sansa had dreamed of her future husband; he'd been tall and gallant and golden-haired. In her dreams, he'd smiled brilliantly as he'd swept his family's cloak, made of fine silks and cloth of gold, about her shoulders. She'd imagined streams of soft light shining through the coloured glass of the hushed sept as the septon proclaimed them man and wife before the Seven. Instead, she'd stood in Winterfell's godswoods, before the Old Gods, while a blustery northern wind had shaken the heart tree's branches above them. And the man who'd stood beside her had been a great hulking figure, dark haired and dour. The cloak he'd draped brusquely onto her shoulders had been of wool and the colours of his house had been rather faded. The wool had weighed heavily upon her shoulders and scratched at her neck.
Though the feast that night had featured the best the cooks and cellars of Winterfell could provide, the evening had not been much different than most other feasts. There had been much mirth and merriment and Sansa had been delighted to speak to all those in attendance, especially those she had not seen in some time. Some had asked her to dance, though it was well known Sansa never took a turn, but when she'd stood to retire early, none had made ribald jests or insisted on a bedding. The bride was the King's own much-beloved sister and well loved by highborn and lowborn alike, though Sansa remained somewhat of a mysterious figure since her re-emergence at Greywater Watch after her abrupt disappearance from King's Landing many years ago. The groom was lauded as a hero of the Wars of Winter, but also well known as a grim and fierce warrior. Futhermore, Rickon Stark and Sandor Clegane were well known as prickly by nature, so none dared offend the lady both men held so dear.
Sansa also knew that most of the guests, as much as most people in Westeros, did not at all understand her choice of groom. Here was a lady who held the North in the palm of her hand and was casting away fortune and glory for a burned face and a lonely keep.
As she'd well known, her brother Rickon wanted whatever it was she wanted and for that she was grateful. For a time the North had rallied behind the last known living Stark and named her Queen of the North, but when Rickon was discovered she had quickly relinquished the crown to him. Rickon had fled with the wildling Osha after the sacking of Winterfell by the Ironmen and, following that, Roose Bolton. He'd re-emerged from the wilds skittish, but apt and intelligent. Sansa had given all the love and guidance she had been able to give him, and he'd grown into a strong and just king. He was wise beyond his sixteen years, as were wildlings boys, and, though he was known as fierce, he was doing the North well. Though Longhall was not all that far from Winterfell, leaving him would be difficult. But Sansa knew that in life, joy was just a fickle flame in a world of strong winds and shadows. Merely looking at him was sometimes painful, as his features roused the ghosts of the family they had both lost. The trust she maintained in Osha's presence at Winterfell made her feel better, as did knowing that the wildling woman was there alongside Rickon's direwolf Shaggy. The North could fall again, but she'd be content so long as her brother was safe.
Before departing, Sansa rose from her seat at the dais and thanked everyone for their attendance, then kissed Rickon on the cheek and then taken Sandor's arm. As the newlyweds climbed the shadowy stone steps together towards their room on the upper floors of Winterfell, Sansa couldn't help but laugh.
"Haven't regretted your decision yet, girl? Or do you laugh to conceal your tears?" Sandor had asked as they reached the landing and walked down the corridor to their room for the night.
Sansa had shook her head, "Oh no. I laugh because I thought of those times you roamed the Red Keep, scaring a certain young girl on the serpentine steps." She'd caught his eye and enjoyed seeing his burn lip twitch. "And now see whose arm I grasp as I climb another set of stairs to my marriage bed."
Sandor laughed at that; it was a great sound that erupted from deep within his chest and echoed off the granite walls.
"That is funny, I'll grant you that," he'd said as he'd opened the door to their room for her. "Though there's still time for you to regret doing this yet."
She'd walked into the room before him and looked at the full moon shining brightly in the night sky through the latticework window. The moon is ice and steel. She'd drawn the curtain across the window and only the dim light of the coals in the hearth remained, casting the room in a blood red glow.
"So this is what you wanted Sansa?" he'd asked as he'd shut the door behind him. No hint of laughter remained and his eyes bore into her.
Sansa had known this was something he was likely to ask. She'd known he was still unsure, as everyone else, why she'd wanted this. She'd given her reasons, but she knew he didn't believe her fully, but still, he'd married her. Sansa had learnt what was appropriate to say in almost every situation, she knew which words to speak – whether it was with great lords or ladies, the cook, or the King - in order to turn a conversation to her favour, but, before she could say anything, Sandor had undone his sword and belt and dropped it onto the floor. He'd then drawn his tunic, a formal tunic of blue wool with a leather dogs head sewn onto the front, over his head and suddenly he'd stood before her wearing only his undertunic. His eyes had been grey flame ablaze with fury.
"This is what you fucking wanted?" he'd growled as he'd pulled the remaining garment off his back and thrown it to his feet. In two long strides he'd closed the gap between them and towered over her, challenging her. His anger had rolled off him in waves.
Mother have mercy. On hot days in King's Landing, Sansa had sometimes seen men practice their fighting in the yard, their bare chests glinting with sweat in the bright light of the southron sun. But Sandor Clegane had never been one of those men and in that moment she'd understood why. The sight of a man's bare chest had sometimes thrilled her, but here she stood before her own husband, breathless and palpably afraid. Sandor Clegane stood before her naked, but somehow, he looked even more threatening unclothed that clad in mail and plate. The man was all muscle; he was broad of chest and shoulders, with huge arms and legs all covered with dark hair. But the scars, she knew her eyes had betrayed her shock. Sansa: the woman who often knew what a person thought before they did themselves, was surprised. She could not remember the last time she had been surprised.
She had expected scars, knowing full well the type of man Sandor Clegane was and knowing the stories of his exploits in battle, but she had not expected wounds such as this. His chest and arms were covered in scars from wounds old and new. She figured the crater in his right shoulder was the result of a crossbow bolt. Two small toes from his right leg were missing:From the frosts of war. Though Sansa knew many had lost more than toes in the war against the Others. She suppressed a shiver.
But of the greatest wounds he bore besides his face, Sansa had been ignorant: his shield arm was badly burned and a large portion of flesh was missing from the meat of his left leg. It was a wonder the injury had not cost him the limb, nor killed him outright. Though healed, the ghost of that horrible wound had been painful to look upon.
"Gods Sandor," Sansa had said in a hushed voice. For once, she had been lost for words. Are these the Warrior's own wounds?The pounding in her chest subsided at the thought and she felt herself retreat from panic. She looked back up to the grey intensity of his eyes, He is ever determined to challenge. She'd maintained her composure throughout the day, but the long hours in the public eye were draining and she'd felt fatigue and sadness wash over her then. He bears the records of years of blood and war as can no maester's scrolls within the Citadel.
Sansa took a breath and marshalled her strength, her lady's strength, "And I thought nothing could shock me anymore," she uttered a mirthless breath. A lady would not notice his scars, the girl she'd once been would have thought, but Sansa had learned better in the years since. Most people had scars, but whether or not they could be seen was another matter. She had finally learned that sometimes there was simply nothing to be said. Sandor remained still and silent, rooted in place, fists clenched.
Sansa had closed the gap between them, had placed her hand on his chest gently, as one would touch a skittish horse. He towered over her. She breathed again, more calmly this time, and looked up at him. When her eyes caught his, the side of his burned mouth twitched. He is unsure.
"I have my own scars you know." Sansa said finally. Her hands reached out to cradle the curve of his jaw. The burned flesh felt smooth and hard in her palm. She moved that hand down over his chest, over his hard belly towards the crater in his thigh. She paused, feeling the twisted flesh and the soft dark hair of his thigh, then slowly trailed her hand to the heat of his manhood. As her lips sought his she'd whispered, "And yes, this is what I fucking wanted."
That night they'd yielded to each other and fumbled in the dark, seeking respite from their loneliness in the heat of each other's arms.
They'd departed for Longhall at first light the next morning. The party travelling with them had been large enough as it had consisted mostly of Umbers who would escort the Clegane party until Longhall before moving on to Last Hearth, their seat. The Umbers usually stopped at Longhall for the night on the road to and from Winterfell, but this time it had been decided they would leave the newlyweds to themselves and so they'd continued on their way. Sansa had decided that for the moment she would bring only her maid Lyra along with her until she decided whether or not the keep needed more staff, so Longhall felt almost abandoned when the Umbers left. There wasn't even a maester at Longhall yet. The girl Sansa would have felt forlorn to watch the Umbers continue up the King's Road, but the woman felt only relief when her own party left the Kings Road and made towards Longhall.
After ensuring that the servants were doing as he'd instructed, Sandor went to grumble at his men-at-arms to see that all was still in order at Longhall. Sansa was left to explore the family rooms by herself. The family rooms were located on the third floor and seemed comfortable enough with their dark wooden beams, low ceilings, and large hearths. Though the rooms were somewhat small, there was a solar and the bed chamber even had an adjoining garderobe.
In the bed chamber Sansa noticed the only piece of finery she had seen since arriving at Longhall; a great oak four-poster bed with an ornamented canopy. The contrast of this solitary piece laid against the bareness of the room made the bed seem rather out of place. The hangings were a deep golden yellow, richly embroidered with silk thread and depicted a lively hunting scene; there were jumping stags, flapping partridges, running hounds, horsed huntsmen, a single woman with her hawk, and wolves lurking amidst trees and leafy greenery. Sansa reached out a hand to feel the work; it must have taken several septas hundreds of hours to complete. It was stunning and very southron in style. Nevertheless, Sansa was sure it was one of the finest beds she had ever seen. She drew back the curtain and reached out a hand to prod the mattress; beneath layers of fine linens and furs was a featherbed. She grinned.
Sansa stepped back from the bed and looked around. The grey granite walls around her felt almost familiar and reminded her somewhat of Winterfell before it had been destroyed by Ramsay Snow, the Lord Roose Bolton's mad bastard.
Lyra approached her, holding a gown. Lyra was a small woman, a crannogwoman, with curly brown hair and bright, watchful eyes. She was at an age with Sansa and had nursed her during her illness at Greywater Watch. When Sansa had recovered and left for Winterfell, Lyra had accompanied her; she was one of the few people Sansa fully trusted.
"Would my lady wish to choose a gown for this evening's supper?" she held up the gown in her arms. The dress was new and had been made in anticipation for Sansa's wedding; it was grey wool trimmed with black fur and embroidered with simple yellow vines at the wrists and at the skirt's hem.
"You know me best Lyra. I'll wear what you hold. But I'll wear the black fur mantle if it please you."
"Of course, my lady," Lyra bowed. "And after you've supped, shall I send the other maids away and pour my lady a bath?"
Sansa smiled gratefully, "I would be lost without you."
Sansa left Lyra and the other maids to finish unpacking and walked into the solar towards the window which offered a view of Long Lake. The setting sun glimmered off the water like a burnished copper shield and the world was alight in warm orange tones of early evening. I wonder where it was that William Stark had his head cut off along these shores after the battle against the wildlings a century ago. She watched as a cloud drew across the sun and a gust of wind swept over the pines and rippled across the lake; she was lost in reverie when Sandor entered the room behind her.
The greeting she had been about to offer died on her lips when she saw the expression on his face. Brusquely, Sandor handed her a tiny packet wrapped in soft blue cloth and tied with black velvet ribbon. Nestled inside the folds of fabric was a brooch; it was a flat ring of gold with a hinged pin in the shape of a sword running across it. The front was worked a design of latticework and leaves. Sansa turned the ring around; on the back small flowers were engraved into the gold along with an inscription she could not read. The gold was worn and looked very old. The metal felt heavy and cold in the palm of her hand.
"Thank you, Sandor," she replied, grateful for the gesture as much as the gift itself. "I'm afraid I'm not familiar with the words written here. What does the inscription say?"
Sandor looked like a man who wanted to be anywhere else but here. His gaze was fixed on the floor between them. He cleared his throat and said, "The words are Rhoynish; they say sanz de partier, never to part." He paused, the awkwardness he felt was plain on his face. Sansa had to refrain herself from smiling; she had never seen him like this, almost sheepish. "It belonged to my mother," he added, "she was from Dorne." His lips parted as though he would say more, but he only turned and strode from the room.
The gold was beginning to feel warm in her hand.
A huge table, worn and ancient-looking, had been brought out from storage and a very Northern supper – simple yet sumptuous - had been spread between the Lord and Lady of Longhall: there was fresh baked bread, leg of lamb with sauce of mint and cloves, beef ribs roasted in a crust of garlic and herbs, roasted onions in gravy, mashed turnips with butter, and peas. For dessert there were apple and spring berry tarts served with sweet cream, stewed plums, and even lemon cakes frosted in sugar. Sansa knew the cost of lemons in the North and was not ungrateful.
The meal was consumed mainly in silence. Sansa was content just to watch Sandor over her wine goblet. Knowing what she knew now, she could see the Dornish traits he carried, the black of his hair certainly and perhaps the profile of his nose? Sansa wondered if the unnamed mother had been comely or even kind, and immediately chided herself silently for being sentimental. She tried to imagine what he'd have looked like had he not been burned. There was power, a robustness, in his features, in his aquiline nose and cheekbones, and a certain flicker in his steel grey eyes that she found pleasing. He might not have been handsome, not like Ser Loras Tyrell had once been, she decided, but there was something about his character, something in the constancy of his gaze that drew her to him. Truth and steel, she thought, fingering the brooch on her mantle.
Once the servants had begun to clear the plates and platters away, Sandor coughed and leaned back into his seat, his grey eyes on her.
"And what does the lady think of this place I wonder? The Lonely Hills didn't get their name for nothing. I expect you'd like some bloody singers to visit and break the silence?"
"No." Sansa answered all too quickly. Gods Sansa. Remain steadfast and all will be well. She took a sip from her goblet and the moment took long enough for her to regain her composure. The hot spiced wine was sweet but strong. She smiled, "I am a woman wed and singers have not been to my taste for some years." She saw the singer Marillion in her memory, missing an eye and some fingers. I hear him sing at night, Robert Arryn had insisted, even after Marillion's death. The girl she had been would have shuddered, but instead Sansa said, "There will be time enough to think of such things after I've made myself comfortable here. Organizing the household will be entertainment enough for some time."
Sandor laughed and the sound echoed off the bare granite walls of the hall. "No skin off my nose. The gods know I've no love for bloody singers." Momentarily, his gaze was searching, but suddenly he raised his arms and gestured to the hall around them. "But you didn't answer. What do you really think of this place? You'll be lonely here. A lady bird tends to loves a flock about her."
"You know I won't be lonely here. Silence has become a favourite friend since King's Landing." She wanted to change the topic. "The bed. It's magnificent."
He smiled, amused, and perhaps a little proud, "Other than a sharp blade, good shoes and a good bed are things worth fussing over in this world. And besides," he stretched his arms, working the muscles in his back, then reached for his wine goblet in front of him, "I've slept on enough palettes and beneath enough hedges for a lifetime." His eyes glimmered with mirth, "And I supposed I didn't want my lady wife's ass getting sore sleeping on a straw mattress. Might be that a good night's rest is the start to keeping a wife happy, even in this place."
"But I've already been happy in this place," she retorted. This caught Sandor by surprise. His eyes narrowed slightly, but Sansa continued before he could say anything, "As a child, I visited Longhall with my family."
He said nothing and she went on, "Did you know, that after the Battle of Long Lake well over a century ago, Longhall was gifted to the Umbers by my family? Though a few years before the war of the Five Kings it belonged to a cadet branch of house Bolton and once Rickon became king he made sure no Boltons remained," the words left a sudden dryness in her mouth. Life is not a song... "Longhall has always been a special place in the North. Once I learnt of its fate after the demise of its previous masters I could not resist making the best of a situation for the both of us."
Uncertainty flashed in his eyes and the burnt side of his lips twitched.
"For us you say? Some years have passed since I came here, since Starks bestowed this place to me." His tone was challenging.
Sansa could not help but smile into her cup as she said, in a tone that was all too sweet, "Oh yes, I know. Hadn't you wondered why you'd received such a grand place, even a hero such as you?"
Only then did he laugh; the sound was steel scraping on stone.
Later that night, after her bath, Sansa sat before the fire in their room as Lyra brushed her hair and stared into hearth, enjoying the flickering flames and the steady heat.
Lyra was just about done braiding the length of her hair for the night when Sandor came in, evidently surprised that she was still awake. Sansa saw at least two hounds poke their faces through the doorway behind him, sniffing at the room.
"Out!" he pointed and the faces retreated. Sandor shut the door behind him.
Sansa thanked Lyra and bid her goodnight, though the latter gave Sandor an appraising glare as she left the room.
The door had hardly shut behind her when Sandor laughed, "The wench isn't afraid of me!"
"Lyra was born with frog spear in hand and is faster than any knight. You'd see the spots of light shining against the wall through your belly, as you would through a moth-eaten cloth, before you'd know she'd stuck you half a hundred times. But you knew she'd come from Greywater Watch."
"I did." He was now sitting on the chair across from her, busy removing his boots and seemingly nonplussed by what she'd just said.
Sansa stood, walked over towards him, and knelt in time to remove the last boot off his leg.
"How is Stranger?" she asked. He frowned and said nothing. "Oh, come now. Even I know the smell of a stable," she chided gently, running her fingers over his leg.
Suddenly, his hands were on her arms and this time he was the one to kiss her. She was growing accustomed to his kiss, to the stiffness on the burned side of his face. The feeling of hesitation in the act was receding. In this he might be more unschooled than even I. Boldly, her tongue sought his. She heard a low growl rise up from Sandor's chest and, unexpectedly, he scooped her up under her bottom with one huge arm, as though she weighed nothing and moved to their bed. He sat on the bed with her on his lap before him. She drew his tunic over his head and ran her arms over the back of his neck and shoulders. Her fingers felt the fissures of more scars, but just then his own fingers worked themselves into the hair at the nape of her neck and she forgot his wounds. In that moment she knew only the feeling of his lips and hands.
His skin felt hard and warm; it felt like the stones of Winterfell's walls, with water from the hot springs coursing through them. He smelled of leather and sweat and horse and pine. He smells like a Northman, she mused. The thought made her heart beat faster and her lips hungrier. She felt the pulse of her heart between her legs.
One of Sandor's hands moved to her hip and she could feel the heat of his massive hand through the layers of her nightgown and dressing robe. In an instant she felt the thickness of the fabrics, the weight of her hair in its braids. Still sitting on him, Sansa began to undo her braid, but suddenly she remembered another night, years ago, when she had been another's bride, ready to undress.
His arms drew her close once again, interrupting her actions. "I want to see my lady wife," he murmured into her neck. His hand moved to her breast, "I want to see your gorgeous teats." He squeezed one breast through the fabric and kissed her beneath her ear. "I want to see your milky skin. I want to see the fire between your legs."
His kisses sent thrills through her body, but she was unable to stop her thoughts flying back to the dark corners in the Eyrie, when she'd been Alayne Stone. She thought of Littlefinger's finger's assessing gaze, the mismatched eyes of the Imp, as well as the eyes of Harry the Heir, Marillion the singer's and those of Ser Shadrich The Mad Mouse; she saw the hungry eyes of a thousand men. She recalled the feeling of a mailed hand striking her, tearing the clothes off of her and the sound of Joffrey's cruel laughter. She felt the ghost of another man's breath on her neck. The smile wilted on her lips, while the feeling of desire died within her chest and was replaced by a feeling of sickness. Panic crashed over her like a great icy wave and she was paralyzed.
"I – I... Ser, I'm afraid I -," her mouth felt dry, her head empty. She pushed Sandor away and stood. All at once she was once again just a silly little bird who couldn't think of anything to say. She closed her eyes and shook her head. She tried to go on, but managed only "that is –" I'm still just a stupid little girl.
"Quit your chirping, woman," Sandor interrupted. His tone was gruff.
Sansa felt it hard to breath. She moved to turn away, but before she could move he grabbed her wrist and dragged her before him. Though she avoided his stare, she could feel his glare burning into her. She knew her skin was turning red and blotchy. The wind caught in her chest and she could only breathe in short, sharp pants.
"Look at me. Look at me," Sandor growled, and when she ignored him he shook her and she felt what was left of her braid come undone. "Gods be good Sansa. The Great Lady of Winterfell on the verge of tears? What the bloody hell has come over you?"
For some long moments she didn't answer, but suddenly she felt herself taken into the crush of his massive arms. He grumbled into her hair, not unkindly, calling her a foolish woman, and brushed a huge calloused hand over her hair. The more he spoke, the more his voice managed to cast the creeping beasts of memory back into the darkened recesses of her mind; it drew her back into the present moment. She felt the pounding in her head diminish somewhat and her body relax into his. In the years since her escape from the Lannisters and then from Littlefinger's designs, she'd come to find Sandor's truthful, if fiercely brusque, manners a beacon in a world of shadows, deception, and obscurity.
Sandor's hands moved to grasp her shoulders and pushed her away gently, though his eyes were serious, all smoke and flickering flame, "You'll tell me what's wrong, Sansa."
The creeping beasts of memory threatened once again from the corners of her mind, but fury sparked somewhere deep within her belly and the monsters - half beast, half man - receded once again. I am a Stark of Winterfell. I am a Clegane. The direwolf does not fear the lion. The hound does not bow to the mockingbird. I am no man's pet.
"You know the life I've led, likely better than anyone," she began, knowing her voice was full of pain, but at least no tears fell. She straightened her back, determined to push the pain away and replace it with her resolve, "You know what monsters stalked me amongst the shadows in King's Landing and in the Eyrie. But they forgot they stalked the direwolf."
"That's true enough. I told you once that the gods made sheep so the wolves could eat mutton," he recollected, "But those buggering fools didn't see themselves for the sheep that they were while they goaded the true wolf. I was one of those monsters amongst the shadows. You know that, don't you? It's a good thing I didn't stay longer than I did, watching you turn into the finest woman in the Seven Kingdoms." He laughed. "Time spent mending wounds on a forsaken windblown island did me good, cooled my blood, maybe, but I'll be damned if you weren't even prettier when we found you, even sick as you were, in Greywater Watch. And all of Westeros learned of the ferocity of my lady's bite." A smile played across his unburned lips and his eyes teased, "Though I would like to know it for myself."
Sansa stiffened. I am no man's pet. He saw her grow cold and he scowled. His eyes were serious again.
"I've seen you Sansa. I've seen the way you carry yourself when you think others are watching. At court you are all charm and manners and every word is in its proper place. You know how to get what you want. But then you watch. You're there but not there. I know what you've lived, but you've built walls instead of wielding your sword. You've built walls so bloody high around you that you're bound to lose yourself within them."
My skin has turned to ivory, to porcelain, to steel. Her heart beat loudly in her chest, but when she spoke she made sure her tone was calm, icy, unyielding, "And what of you, Ser? You think yourself fierce, but you're only the greatest sulk in the Seven Kingdoms. You'll ride into battle as blood boils in your veins, but you refuse to deem yourself worthy of the things you want."
Sansa scanned her eyes over the man before her, the man she'd once feared, the man she'd come to want; the man made of war and pain and truth. His challenge emboldened her, made her feel more powerful than anything, and she learnt then that he believed in her, saw her. She knew he was right. Though the sadness and frustration remained, as it always did, she felt the fury within her belly being stoked to hunger and she smiled despite herself as her lips sought his. She forgot the scarred flesh, the beasts that lurked within her mind, and was lost in the grey intensity of his eyes, in the heat of his flesh. Sometimes there is simply nothing to say. The desire between her thighs thickened.
Her palms smoothed over the pocked, scarred flesh of his broad shoulders, across the soft black hair on his chest, and came to rest on his neck beneath his jaw. His own hands were gripped firmly onto her hips and Sansa could feel the heat of his hands through the layers of her dressing gown. It is not enough, she thought as she moved her hands fumbled to unlace the drawstring.
"Help me," Sansa whispered into Sandor's lips. He growled as his hands reached for the neck of her dress and, in one strong movement, split the layers of fabric down the front. Sansa stood up from his lap and moved to draw the curtain in front of the window, blocking out the moonlight. She removed the dressing gown and was left wearing only her undertunic.
"Come here, damn you," he urged, though the words were pleaded and his voice was hoarse. She could see his desire through the linen of his smallclothes.
Sansa gestured to his smallclothes and said, "Take those off." He did as instructed, but swooped out an arm and drew her towards him, grumbling all the while. All too briefly, she felt the firmness of his manhood brush against her belly through the fabric of her undertunic as he tossed her beneath him onto the featherbed.
She planted a kiss on his lips and undid herself from beneath him to tug the bedcurtains and draw them shut. There was no longer shadow, only darkness.
"You toy with me, woman," he rasped into her ear before drawing her to him and kissing her once more; the hunger behind the gesture was evident. His hands moved furtively over her shoulders, down her arms and over her breasts, down to her hips. He drew her last remaining garment over her head. "I'll burn this bloody thing." But it was soon forgotten and all there was was warmth and darkness.
Some months passed spent in a routine they'd quickly settled into that seemed to suit them well enough. Sandor slept little; the evenings he'd spend in his chair, sitting late into the night, in front of the fire in the great hall surrounded by his hounds. Sometimes he'd brood in the stables, sitting by Stranger. He'd rise early to practice his sword fighting or to go hunting and then he'd look after the keep's defenses and train gain with the men at arms. Meanwhile, Sansa spent her mornings hunting with her beloved hawk Dagger and the rest of the day she'd look after improving the keep, turning it into a functional and comfortable home. She'd abandoned her needlework and songs years ago.
In the years since her return to Winterfell from the Eyrie, she'd taken to walking. Sometimes Lyra would accompany her, but mostly Sansa would walk the hills around Winterfell alone. Walking seemed to clear her mind and afford her peace she could not maintain within Winterfell's bustling walls.
When she'd told Sandor her intentions of walking beyond the walls of Longhall, he'd said only, "Fine. There's not much to see around here, but see that you bring some dogs with you." Though she'd only take one or two, sometimes all of Sandor's hounds, half a dozen great big creatures, accompanied her on her walks. She began to grow accustomed to them and they even began to make her walks feel less lonely. She began to discern their different personalities; which ones were affectionate, which ones were surly, and which ones were silly. Though once they spotted a stag or a hare, there was no questioning their true nature. Sansa hadn't known herself to be lonely on her walks before the dogs.
Sometimes Sansa explored the woods beyond the King's Road or the shores of Long Lake, but mostly she'd wander the windswept hills behind Longhall. There was a subtle beauty she loved in those hills: the way she could see for miles atop a heath or the smell of flowers on the wind. After all those years in King's Landing and in the Eyrie, it felt good to feel wind or sun or snow against her face, to feel the muscles in the meat of her legs burn when she'd work her way up a steep slope. There were no shadows there. In these hills she felt almost free as when she became Dagger, but this felt that much sweeter because she wore her own skin.
Though Longhall had a small godswood, Sansa did not take to visiting its heart tree. It stood nestled amongst a thicket of trees surrounding a sheer wall cut into a hill which served as the keep's fourth wall. But one day while walking the hills beyond curtain wall, she came upon a single weirwood with an ancient face carved into its trunk. It stood alone atop a bluff and had one of the oldest looking faces Sansa had ever seen in a heart tree. Its huge white limbs reached towards the sky, the red leaves like drops of blood. Finding that tree made her feel oddly at ease and it became her favourite place to visit outside the walls of Longhall. She began to feel it safe to think of all the Starks that had been.
At night she'd share her bed with Sandor and never lacked for warmth. Those months were the closest thing to safety and happiness she'd known since the years of another girl's childhood in Winterfell long ago. The first months of her marriage were lived simply and without trouble.
But all of this was before the raven came. Sansa had expected its arrival; she had known she could not hide forever.