Summary:He realised that the superficial joy of the past was nothing more than the satisfaction of being able to cheat death, the enjoyment only a hollow thrill for someone who didn't know any better. I know what is sweeter than killing, now.
Sandor
Sandor's faked rest was disturbed by noises coming from near the tree and he looked up, seeing his lady slowly getting up. On her knees, then her feet, all the time staring at him. Her expression was guarded, closed, and he couldn't guess what she had in mind. Did she want something? Was she angry at him for some unintended transgression he might have committed?
He stirred, rose onto his elbows, looked straight at Sansa and seeing that she didn't turn away, slowly got up. What he was going to do he wasn't sure, but he couldn't bear just lying down when she was approaching him with that odd look on her face. When fully upright he took a tentative step towards Sansa, who hadn't broken their eye contact, and kept on approaching. One step, two steps, three steps – Sansa walked towards him slowly and soon they were facing each other. She bent her neck to look up to him.
Seven hells! Later Sandor couldn't be sure whether it was he who lunged at her first or whether she reached towards him, but whoever it was, they were soon grabbing each other with desperation that bordered on brutality. For all his control, Sandor couldn't have stopped himself from squeezing her arms hard, yanking her against him and lifting her up to press his mouth ravenously against hers. Sansa didn't resist – on the contrary, she wrapped her legs around his waist and nibbled and sucked his lips, letting out keening noises.
"Sandor, Sandor…"
Sandor carried her a few steps and rested her back against the trunk of the tree, the wood taking some of her weight. Sansa's legs were still wrapped around him and her hands were tugging at the ties of his breeches. There was no need to stop to consider what came next; their lust for each other was too overpowering. A few deft movements, Sandor lowering Sansa onto the ground just long enough for her to kick her smallclothes away before being lifted up again, was all they needed before he could thrust into her.
"So you missed my cock, couldn't wait to get more of it?" he hissed between gritted teeth while pounding into her. Sansa had pulled her head back, exposing her white throat, and something about her tightly shut eyes, beautiful mouth twisted in agony – or bliss? – and the deep blush covering her face and chest almost excited him more than the feel of her tightness around his cock.
"It's…not…only…that…" she breathed in tune with their rhythm. It didn't matter. He hadn't really meant to snarl at her, didn't expect a truthful answer either. He only wanted…
Their tempo intensified and the sounds they made drifted into the woods as a loud testimony to the need that had brought them together once more. Sandor's fingers seized Sansa's hips, pressing them hard against the tree while he rode her, grunting and cursing, blind and deaf to any sensitivities he should have considered with the woman who enjoyed languid caresses, soft kisses and tender touches. Fuck that! was all his muddled brain could hazily conjure. If he was too hard on her she had only herself to blame - and this was bound to be the last time anyway. After the way he was treating her, like a common whore, against the tree, legs hitched up.
And then it was over.
As violently their embrace had started, at the end of it Sandor wasn't able to let her down. He only leant against her and the tree, and for a moment time stood still and he breathed in her scent, felt his knees weakening and allowed the sounds of the forest surrounding them to drift into his stupefied mind. The rustling of a fox or a hare in the undergrowth, whistling of a faraway bird, swish of the leaves rubbing against each other in the wind. He might have stayed that way even longer had Sansa not stirred inside the cocoon of his strong arms.
Reluctantly he released her slowly so she could slide down the tree trunk. Instead of letting her grip loosen as he expected, Sansa held on to him tightly.
"It is not only that," she repeated, staring at the point in the middle of his chest, refusing to look up.
"Don't tell yourself lies even you don't believe, girl. Don't make this into something it isn't. What else could it be? You are a hot-blooded woman; as they say, redheads are the fiercest. Nothing wrong with that." Sandor hated himself for blabbering but he hated the alternative as well, accepting that there could be more.
"What about you then, couldn't wait to get more of my…cunt?" Sansa looked at him now, and the combination of the crude words pouring out of her pretty mouth and the intense stare she directed at him startled Sandor. "If that is all you are after, why didn't you have some at Greywater Watch? It is a keep like any other, crannogmen have their paid women just like everyone else. I saw them when I was escorted around. Nobody wanted me to see the women who stayed near the soldier's barracks but I saw them just the same. Did you visit them when we were there? Did you? If you didn't, why not? Why now? Why me?"
Sandor was left speechless. The thought of fucking another woman had not even crossed his mind. Who could settle for a piss-poor ale after tasting the sweetest wine there is? Better to be thirsty than taste bitter dregs. Feebly he tried to deter her accusing questions.
"It is not the same. I could, but you as a woman can't…" He felt the words deserting him as she continued to glare at him.
"Why do you stubbornly refuse to believe that is not all there is to it? A cock and a cunt?"
Sandor blinked once again at her words. In other circumstances it would have thrilled him to hear her using such language, the verbal manifestation of the wantonness he knew she possessed. Yet now…
Before he could formulate anything coherent, Sansa wriggled out of his reach, bent to retrieve her undergarment from the ground and walked to the other side of the camp. She moved so purposefully that Sandor didn't dare to stop her, had he even known what to say.
Sansa settled back into her little resting place and glared at him angrily from there. After walking to the woods to take a piss Sandor returned to his bedroll and closed his eyes. The heat of their encounter still made his blood course hot through his veins, and he attempted to cool it by trying to decipher what Sansa had truly meant with her outburst. Had he been unbelievably stupid for succumbing once again to the temptation she represented? Why hadn't she pushed him away? He had just started to accept that it was all over – and here they were, she spewing stupid sweet little words whose meaning she simply couldn't understand.
Eventually the crannogmen returned with the good news; Stannis had sent a small retinue to take over Moat Cailin and the stronghold had surrendered easily enough. Lord Stannis – or King Stannis, as he wanted to be referred - was firmly in control of the North, it seemed, and was known still to reside in Winterfell.
Sansa didn't look at him for the rest of the evening and Sandor's sleep that night was restless and filled with strange dreams of red hair, flushed cheeks and pink lips pouring out coarse words that shamed him and raised his blood at the same time.
The next several days were uneventful and followed the same pattern their little troupe had established ever since leaving Greywater Watch. Sandor kept mostly to himself but their new companions didn't seem to begrudge him for it. As for Sansa… she was consistently courteous and didn't seem to deliberately avoid him, but nor did she approach him voluntarily as she had in the early stages of their journey. He, on the other hand, stole glimpses in her direction whenever he could do so without attracting undue attention.
It bothered him that he couldn't take care of her the way he had gotten used to. How could these droll crannogmen know that she liked her meat lightly roasted and carved onto pieces, not charred and on the bone? Or that she wanted to wake up with the morning sun on her face so that she could open her big blue eyes and take in the dawning new day for a moment before rousing for the day's activities? Or that when she was smiling and nodding at something but there was that almost imperceptible frown between her eyebrows it meant that she was simply too polite to say that she didn't agree with the speaker and it was time to change tactics? Sandor knew all these and a hundred other little things about her and these men didn't and he wanted nothing more than to push them aside and attend to her himself – but it was not to be. It was not his role.
The other difference was that approaching their destination seemed to put everyone on edge, especially Sansa. Her nervousness was absorbed by Sandor and he too started to fidget for no reason – so much that he had to purposefully get a hold of his self-control and shrug it away. Bloody hells!
Finally, on a day that saw a slight snowfall drifting from an overcast sky, they reached the outer woods near Castle Cerwyn, which was only half a day's ride from Winterfell. This time it was Sansa who suggested that the crannogmen visit the castle and find out once again what the latest news was. They obeyed her and rode away into the grey mist.
Sandor followed them with his gaze and wondered what would happen next. Since the incident near Moat Cailin he had given much thought to what Sansa had said, and as much as he was loathe to admit it, he had started to read more and more into her words. Why do you stubbornly refuse to believe that is not all there is to it? If not, what else? And if it was – if it had been something else – had he lost it already? Had he screwed it all up?
As it was colder than it had been before on their trip, Sandor prepared their camp with care, finding a protected spot near a group of overhanging boulders. He set up a fire, feeding dry twigs and gradually thicker firewood collected from the forest floor into it from a safe distance until it gave up pleasant heat. Sansa settled next to it and observed him under her brow but neither of them spoke.
Next he collected armfuls of soft branches of pine trees to put a protective layer on the ground where they were going to sleep, especially where Sansa's little tent was to be erected. The tangy smell of pine wafted in the air and reminded him of his hunting trips in the woods when he had been a child – before the fire, before Gregor. Sandor closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
He made quick work of raising Sansa's lair so its opening was facing the fire, and when it was ready he gestured to her.
"Go on, get inside. No point in you freezing your ass off here. The furs and the fire will you warm you soon enough."
Sansa stood up and brushed her hands against her skirts. Obediently she took a few steps towards the tent and then stopped, turning to him. Her countenance was not coquettish but calm, like deep water.
"Won't you… join me?"
Sandor's heart skipped a beat. Did she mean what he thought she meant? As if reading his mind she continued.
"The men are gone and we have some time to ourselves. There is no point in pretending that we don't want to, is there? I can keep you as warm as you can keep me."
Her gaze was steady and instead of the urgency that had grabbed them the previous time, this time there was only soft determination, an admittance and acceptance that what was happening was bigger than both of them and there was no point in resisting it.
So he didn't.
They didn't touch each other for a long time, only resting under the furs, chest against chest, arms entwined. Sandor listened to Sansa's steady breathing and felt how her breasts rose and fell as she breathed in and out. He found surprisingly satisfying peace in that sign of life and in the trust she bestowed on him – once again.
When they eventually did touch, peeling their clothes away layer by layer, it was gentle and unhurried and aided by whispered confessions and at the end of it Sandor felt that something inside him had irrevocably broken; his resistance, his scorn, his doubts.
Sandor was sharpening his dagger, long even strokes on both sides with his tool, swish, swish, swish, patiently over and over again, every now and then testing its sharpness by running the blade lightly across his scalp to test how it caught his hair. He sat in the Great Hall of Winterfell and from time to time he glanced across the room, observing the comings and goings of the Northmen.
Their entry to the ancestral keep of House Stark had been even smoother than he had anticipated. The news from Castle Cerwyn had confirmed what they had heard earlier, with the important addition that Stannis had defeated the Boltons in their own lands, killed the bastard Ramsay and captured Lord Roose. Many great Northern houses had joined him in this mission, however they had made sure to convey that their allegiance to House Baratheon was temporary and only to punish the traitors who had killed their young king.
Sansa had been well received by all. King Stannis treated her with his usual restrained courtesy, but as Sandor had known, he had felt honour-bound to recognise and support Sansa as the last known living heir of House Stark. The Northerners… it didn't cease to amaze Sandor how grown men could be reduced to tears when they spoke about their departed lords Ned and Robb Stark and welcomed their blood among them once more. Sansa – she cried too but that was only to be expected, she being a woman, not matter how sensible and fearless. Sandor watched her over those first several days when she received the bannermen of her house and felt queerly proud to see how dignified and strong she was. As if he had had anything to do with it!
Likewise, as Sandor had known, his head had been demanded as retribution for his crimes as a Lannister man, for his alleged atrocities in the Saltpans and for generally being a known killer and a Clegane. Sansa had none of it though, refusing any such interventions. Sandor never knew what had been said in the meeting concerning his fate, as he had not been invited, but he saw Sansa emerging from the meeting hall pale and tight-lipped but with a determined look on her face. After that evening he had been left alone and the Stark men had grudgingly accepted his presence, some with more ease than the others.
Greatjon Umber, who had been the most vocal of those speaking against him, had later sought him out and muttered his thanks to him for keeping Sansa Stark out of harm's way and bringing her back. His expressions of gratitude seemed to be genuine; as sincere as seemingly hard for that old warrior. Sandor's first reaction had been to laugh in his face and tell him exactly how bloody miserably he had failed in looking after Sansa in King's Landing, but in the end he restrained himself. Whatever Sansa had said, it had worked, and he didn't want to jeopardise her credibility and good reputation with his boorish behaviour.
His own future was still uncertain, he not having made his mind up about what to do next. Or rather, if he was truly honest he was simply waiting pathetically for what Sansa had in mind for him. Any notions of leaving had escaped his mind that day in the tent, when he had finally admitted that in truth he didn't want to leave. Not now, not to leave her. Until she made her wishes clear, Sandor was happy to partake in the activities of the keep in a role somewhat undefined, except that he was known to be faithful to Lady Sansa and Lady Sansa alone.
She was his duty and she was his delight, and he simply couldn't turn away.
Sandor couldn't complain, in truth. He had been given his own room in the lower part of the Great Keep, which had surprised many. Where he resided were the quarters of the Master of Arms and other trusted commanders of the keep, but his room was the smallest of them all and right at the end of the long corridor. It was sparse and simple but it suited him just fine. Above that floor were the rooms of the family, in which only King Stannis, his queen and daughter and now Lady Sansa resided. To know that she was so close to him and yet so far was both a blessing and a curse but he took that in his stride like everything else.
Since that time in the tent they hadn't had a chance to see each other in private, but he endured that well, still nourished by the events of that day. Something fundamental had changed in their relationship then. If their coupling in the woods near Moat Caitlin had been violent, aggressive and passionate, near Castle Cerwyn it had been quite the opposite; it had been reverent, tender and poignant. Sandor had touched her soft skin in awe that he was still allowed to do that, that she hadn't banished him from her presence for being such a stubborn pig-headed brute. Sansa had smiled at him and pulled him closer and nuzzled her face against him and he had felt her twinkling laugh reverberating against his chest. That she should be joyous was a wonder to him but he had stopped asking questions he knew he would never get answers for a long time ago.
Since arriving in Winterfell all he could do was watch her as she moved about, sometimes feeling like a dog once again, this time a pathetic hound waiting for scraps from his mistress's table and a pat every now and then. A few times Sansa had rested her hand on his arm when he had helped her around the keep, and once when they had been out of sight of others she had cupped his cheek in her palm. "We'll be together again soon, I promise," she had whispered and smiled and then she was gone.
Just to know that she wanted to see him again and wanted to be in his company was strangely comforting. Sandor had initially had difficulties understanding why Sansa would have cared to give him her body, but after finally accepting that, finding out that she wanted to share even more had been even harder. What he wanted was not any easier to decipher. No, he shook his head. Mayhap it was for the best to have this time apart.
Just then a shadow fell on him, blocking light from the windows. He raised his head and saw Sansa standing in front of him, clad in her courtly dress. Nothing too extravagant, not like the ladies in the Red Keep had worn, but this was made of fine wool and had decorations that looked elaborate and regal as much as Sandor knew about those things. Her hair had been piled up high on the top, the sides falling down freely in the Northern fashion. She looked stunning.
"May I request your assistance in a task, Clegane?" Her voice was clear and she looked him straight in the eye. Some men near them bowed their heads and muttered their greetings in low voices, but Sansa only looked at him. Sandor shifted. It was not unusual for her to ask him to undertake various errands, but this was the first time she had deliberately sought him out during his free moments. It didn't matter though, it was not as if he was going to deny her. He nodded firmly and stood up, pushing his dagger into his belt and his pouch of tools aside.
"My lady."
Without further words, Sansa turned on her heel and started to walk. Sandor followed, feeling the eyes of every man and woman in the hall on him. Never mind. Part of him felt twisted pride in being the one that their lady trusted.
They walked towards the corridor where Sandor's room was and he followed, his mind puzzling over what Sansa could want. The hallways were empty at this time of the day, everyone attending to their duties elsewhere, and they saw no-one before they turned the last corner and saw the end of the passageway ahead of them.
Sansa walked straight towards it and stopped only when she reached an old door on the wall. Sandor had noticed that before, but from the looks of it the door was not in use; gnarled wood, rusty hinges and a layer of dust and spider-webs built by insects who were drawn to the naturally warm parts of the keep like this one.
Sansa turned to him and angled the small pouch on her hip, withdrawing a rusty key and handing it to Sandor.
"Here. It took me a long time to find it but eventually I did. This door leads to the upper floor, right next to the family rooms."
Sandor took the key while absorbing her words. He turned it in his hands and noticed its old-fashioned cut, indicating that it had been made a long, long time ago.
"Rodrik Cassel used it sometimes when he needed to see my father late in the night or early in the morning on some important business. I remember running into him sometimes when I was sneaking into my parents' room when I had had a bad dream," Sansa explained matter-of-factly.
Sandor slid the key into the key hole, turned it and cranked the door. Slowly it opened, creaking on its hinges. He peeked inside and saw narrow stairs leading up just like Sansa had said. Dust from many years had accumulated on the steps, colouring them with grey. He turned back to her and saw how her cheeks had blushed. Seven hells!
"You are telling me this because…" He was pretty sure of her message but he had to be absolutely certain.
"Come to my rooms tonight after the keep has fallen asleep. My door is the first on the right, you can't miss it." She was blushing, and it thrilled Sandor to see her still being capable of that, after everything they had done together.
"What about Stannis and the others? Surely you don't want me to run into them on my nightly escapade?"
"Their rooms are further down the corridor, and they retire early. Stannis doesn't visit his wife during the night and Shireen sleeps with her mother anyway."
Sandor stepped closer to Sansa and as she was already standing with her back against the wall she was soon pinned between him and the wall. He leaned down and lifted her jaw with his thumb and forefinger. His lips hovered right above hers, their breaths mingling.
"Are you sure, little bird?"
Her lips moved almost against his as she whispered, "I am sure. I would have asked you earlier but I had to find the key first. You understand that I have to be careful…"
The rest of her sentence was swallowed by Sandor's hungry mouth. Soon, much too soon he pulled away, aware of the risk of being caught.
"Tonight, little bird."
"Tonight."
So it was that yet another chapter in their liaison started that night, characterised by late night trysts when Sandor sneaked into her chambers, only to leave again before the first dawn. He understood now the significance of his accommodation and how Sansa had been planning that all along. His respect for her, growing steadily ever since he had first met her in the camp of the Burned Men, grew stronger still – as did other feelings he was more hesitant to name.
"Why do you want an old dog like me in your bed?" he asked one night as they rested in bed, exhausted by their lovemaking. Fucking, he would have called it once, butSansa had corrected him a few times when he had uttered that word. Not that she minded it in the heat of the passion – Sandor still got aroused by the crude language she sometimes used, but when things settled down she chirped about 'making love'. Sandor would have laughed at that, had he dared. Love?!
"Why would I not want a man who has treated me with honesty, truthfulness and kindness – in your own way?" Sansa replied, playing with the hair on his chest, twirling it with her fingers and tugging at it.
"I am ugly as hell, I am crude, short-tempered and don't have a knightly bone in my body, and you know that," he grumbled.
"You are not ugly. In my eyes you are beautiful."
Sandor lifted his head and raised an eyebrow at her. To Sansa's credit she had the good sense to blush before she corrected herself. "I mean, you are rough and your scars are quite prominent, and maybe you are not traditionally fair to the eye. But I don't see only the outside, I see the inside. Besides, your body is magnificent." She swept her hand down his chest to his lean stomach and to his hips, brushing dangerously close to his groin. Sandor felt his cock stirring but as he knew he had to leave soon, he resisted and pushed her hand aside.
"What do you expect will come of this? You know you are playing with fire, girl, and it can end badly. If your people knew about us, your reputation would be spoiled. If you need a man – and I dare say you need one badly, you wanton bird - it would at least be better if you took one of the young men of the North into your bed rather than a wind-blown Westerner. I'd bet my last coin that the lot of them fuck themselves in their hairy palms with your image in their minds and you'd have no difficulties luring one of them." He gained some twisted satisfaction from teasing Sansa with the notion of other men, the pain it caused in his belly being relieved only by Sansa's protestations that she could never consider anyone else. Why was he doing it? To punish himself or to gain assurance that it would not happen?
As usual, Sansa turned tight-lipped and frowned at him.
"Why are you coming here at every opportunity then, if I may ask in turn? I can't bestow any special favours on you not warranted by your behaviour outside this room, and you know that. People would notice and suspect something if I did. What do you gain from this?"
"I don't have to pay for a fuck, that's one thing," he chortled, unable to resist the jape. Frustrated, Sansa pushed him away and sighed deeply. Yet instead of retorting with sharp words as he expected she looked at him solemnly and her eyes pierced right through him and Sandor was unable to keep up his mocking pretence. He had to look away while he tried to think of what he could say, how he could explain it to her when he hadn't been brave enough to face it himself.
"I… you know it, girl. I like you. I like you a lot, you are better than any woman I have had, in more ways than one. I am not a complete moron and I know this must end sooner or later and believe me that I am fucking grateful for every moment you give me." He sighed too, feeling helpless and disturbingly weak.
"You like me?" her eyes were sharp and didn't miss his discomfort.
"Aye, I do. I care about you. I like making love to you – already told you once. The best, and all that."
She let him off the hook that time, but later Sandor played their discussion in his head over and over again.
Though it was not like he had much time to ponder over such things. In time he was accepted into the inner circles of Winterfell's troops and as one of the liaisons between them and Stannis Baratheon's forces. Times were tough and capable men were scarce, and as he made a special effort to curb his behaviour to show people that Sansa's judgment could be trusted, Sandor gradually settled more and more into the life of the North. Besides, he was needed here. He was a soldier through and through and men with his experience were rare.
There were still many straggling Bolton men-at-arms in the woods causing mayhem in the small holdfasts and villages, and Sansa had insisted that her people had to be protected from their attacks. Sandor had volunteered to chase the most notorious of these gangs and had ridden out together with a troupe of combined Stark and Baratheon forces. Almost a full moon it had taken to find the enemy camp and meet them on a level battle field.
Sandor would have lied had he denied the joy he got from fighting once again, feeling his muscles flex and strain and the exploding energy of an attack. His focus honing on the only thing that mattered in moments like that; to hack down the opponent who was out to kill him and feel alive, sense his blood rushing through his veins giving him the most glorious high he had ever felt. He roared and cursed and knew himself to be a terrifying sight in the eyes of their opponents, and that made him laugh even harder, a crazy, harsh laugh. Killing is the sweetest thing there is.
Only after the fight was over and he retired to his campsite, weary to the bone and nursing many cuts and scratches, did Sandor look into his soul and realise that the only thing that had made him ecstatic before had turned to ashes in his mouth. He traced the lines of dried crumbs of blood still persisting under his fingernails and attempted to clean them in vain with the tip of his dagger. The red-brown stains on his hands gave way reluctantly as he scrubbed them over and over again in a vat of cold water and foolishly his thoughts turned to a strange notion: Can't touch the little bird with these hands. The fresh scratches on his knuckles started to bleed again and as he watched the bright red blood making peculiar shapes in red-tinged water, a distaste he had never experienced before about his trade hit him. He realised that the superficial joy of the past was nothing more than the satisfaction of being able to cheat death, the enjoyment only a hollow thrill for someone who didn't know any better. I know what is sweeter than killing, now.
His quandary made him clench his fists and stare into the night long after the fires had died out in the camp.
His arrival back in Winterfell was a bittersweet agony; to see Sansa greeting the returning troops with a smile on her face and the flick of her hair she was probably not even conscious of but which Sandor had witnessed so many times he could see it just by closing his eyes and imagining it in his head. When their eyes met she nodded at him briefly, recognising him as one of many brave men in her service before turning away again. Sandor's throat was dry and he felt like he was suffocating, but there was nothing he could do but follow the others to the hall for the festivities organised in the honour of their success.
The misery continued when he was forced to sit at a faraway table and see the leaders of the joint forces seated next to Sansa, entertaining her with their undoubtedly exaggerated tales of bravery, leaning in to her, basking in her smile and soft words, breathing the same air as she. Sandor's countenance was dark and men seated at his table shuffled quietly away from him – the Hound in a bad mood was nothing to trifle with.
Only later that night when he gathered his pluck and rapped softly on her door, for it to be thrown open and have Sansa's soft arms curl around his neck, did he let out a sigh of relief and felt he had truly returned. Home. He almost confessed as much to Sansa who held him tight and stroked his cheek and the pure unadulterated joy the likes of which he had rarely if ever encountered carried him as if he was walking on air.
The sweetest thing.