Summary: They had only started to map each other's bodies with gaze and touch, and they took their time to explore those new unchartered territories. That tour of discovery was a novel adventure and somewhere along the route Sansa knew with utmost certainty that she never wanted that journey to end.
Sandor
Seeing his son had raised utterly new and unheard sensations in Sandor. That this strong boy so full of life was his seed, born of Sansa - a mysterious mixture of the two… he simply couldn't comprehend it.
He was grateful for the meeting, knowing full well that he didn't deserve it. He hadn't been there when Sansa had fought for her child like the wolf-mother she was. No, he had left her alone at the worst possible time - and as if that hadn't been enough, he had also failed her when she had called for him. By all rights she should hate him, deny him his son and send him away.
When Sansa had asked to see him again he had felt a jolt of joy, but soon realised she likely only wanted to let him know of her wishes in private. Sandor knew he couldn't show his face in Winterfell, lest people drew conclusions from how much young Eddor resembled him. Sansa had kept the identity of his son's father secret so far, he had understood. There was no need to shame her with his presence and the revelation that an exile sellsword and the dog of the enemies of her house had shamed her with a bastard.
Sansa was in his room again, oddly quiet. Sandor was content to wait and hear what she had decided; prolonging the inevitable was the best he could hope for. He studied Sansa as she sipped her wine and was struck again by admiration for the strong woman she had become. Her beauty was radiant and enticing, but that was not why she had held his heart all those years. And still did, he admitted to himself, sadly and with regrets so heavy he didn't know how he could carry them after leaving her.
Sandor concluded that Sansa didn't know how to tell him the bad news, so gentle a heart as she had. To help her, he reminded her of her own words.
Her touch took him off guard.
"Sansa." He didn't know what else to say. When she closed her eyes, Sandor felt the tension build inside him and became aware of how his body became coiled in preparation for a battle. The same pounding of heart, shallowness of breath, tautness of his every muscle.
Suddenly Sansa stood up. Sandor looked at her, disappointed at her decision to leave so soon. However, instead of going to the door she moved around the table and came to stand next to him.
"Sandor." That was all she said, but it sounded like a caress; the way she breathed his name, emphasising both syllables. It was his turn to squeeze his eyes shut; he hoped that by doing so he didn't have to see her leave.
Suddenly he felt her touch on his face. Her fingers brushed the burned side, sliding from his brow to his chin. Sandor leaned into that touch, refusing to think what it might mean, only thankful for having it.
"Sandor, look at me." He blinked and stared at her. The whirlpool of her blue eyes pulled him in and he was captured in their depths without a way out.
"Would you like to stay…by my side?" Her voice had a vulnerability he had not heard in it before.
Had she asked him what he thought – what he hoped – she was asking? Mattered not, he had to answer her truthfully.
"Little bird, is the winter coming? I want nothing better than to stay, you must know that." Sandor was still leaning into her palm and in a moment of daring he turned his head slightly and kissed her wrist. Sansa didn't pull away and that encouraged him. He raised his own hand and captured Sansa's in a gentle but firm grip, pulled it against his face and pressed more kisses on it. Each kiss saw him gradually moving further up until he reached the crook of her elbow and stopped there, still pressing his lips against her skin.
Sansa sighed, and from the way her whole body relaxed, he understood she had given him her permission. As if to confirm it she leaned over him and whispered in his good ear, "Then stay. With me."
Gingerly, fearful of breaking the spell, he reached for her and pulled her near, turning in his chair. She stepped between his legs and allowed him to wrap his arms around her and draw her even closer, so he could press his face between her breasts. Even then she didn't withdraw but yielded to his grip. For a moment Sandor only breathed in her scent, the same scent he remembered from his dreams, mixed with a trace of some flowery, herbal aroma.
Sansa's hands stroked his shoulders and twirled his hair and he had never known touch so light and yet so heavy. Sandor moved his head slightly and felt the firmness of her breasts against his cheeks. Looking up at her, the question he didn't dare to voice was answered when she tilted her face and offered him her lips. They kissed, softly at first, lips hardly touching, their breaths mingling. When neither of them pulled away the kiss deepened and soon they held on to each other with increasing desperation and fierceness, as if trying to make up for lost time. The taste of her lips was better than anything Sandor had savoured and he felt himself drown in her embrace.
After an interminable time he stood up, lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed.
Sansa
Sansa yawned and stretched like a cat, roused from her dreams by something. What had it been? She turned her head and saw Sandor sleeping peacefully next to her, his hand resting on Sansa's waist. That was it; he had pulled her closer, although seemingly still in deep slumber.
The morning light had banished shadows from the room, but it was still early. Her gaze swept around the simple chamber detecting cob-webbed corners, stained window-sills, dust on all surfaces. Despite its shabbiness it was like the finest parlour to her after the night she had just spent there and she couldn't prevent a silent chuckle. Next she fixed her eyes at the form lying beside her; his peaceful face, his muscular arms and broad chest. It was thickly covered with dark hair, with only a few silver bristles among them.
Sansa saw numerous scars covering Sandor's body, the signs of past hurts. She winced - how was it that he had survived such a deadly profession for so long? It must have been by his skill and strength alone. She swore that one day she would hear the stories of his wounds, each one of them, just like she would make him tell about everything that had happened to him since they had been apart.
Their lovemaking had been an odd combination of passion and reverence. Sandor had devoured her like a man famished, and she had returned his every kiss and touch with an intensity that had scared her. When his hard manhood had eventually glided along her wet folds, it had been an alien intruder, a reminder that she was still a woman, not only a mother, a sister, a daughter – a woman ready to love and to be loved. The sensation had shot weird and wonderful sparks of pleasure through Sansa's whole body, and anything she remembered from their fumbling first encounter paled into insignificance when he had finally entered her. She had never been filled so completely and her whole being had focussed only on that powerful awareness, forgetting everything else.
There had also been moments when they had joined in more than flesh. Sandor had stopped once, deep inside her, and studied her with an intensity that had both fascinated and frightened her. Not because of him, but because of what she felt. The way she gave herself to him completely and how he reciprocated worshipping her with his body. They had gazed at each other for what seemed like an eternity, recognising their shared sadness and regret, but also tenderness and joy of finally being together again. She hoped he could read those things in her eyes as clearly as she could in his.
He probably had, as after a while he had exhaled a satisfied sigh and resumed his motions, thrusting into her slowly and deeply, over and over again, while never stopping to caress her. His touches had been as unpractised as she had been unprepared for them, but had nonetheless brought her to the brink of that elusive sensation she had experienced only that one time they had lain together. Sansa had not been able to hold out long and had cried out while waves of pleasure coursed through her body, tears streaming down her face; tears of grief and joy.
Sandor had followed her soon after, groaning his own release against her hair. Afterwards they had collapsed in a gasping heap of arms and legs tangled together so she couldn't have said which were hers and which were his. Once they had recovered their breath they had nestled against each other in the narrow bed, embracing each other tightly, trying to be as close as possible.
They hadn't needed words, sighs and soft murmurs being enough at the time. Sandor had trailed his fingers across Sansa's body, touching her skin softly and hesitantly, almost as if he expected her to break if he pressed her flesh too hard. When he had reached her stomach he had reverently traced along the faint marks at her lower belly, which marked her as a woman who had carried a babe in her womb.
"What if you get with child again after what we just did?" he had murmured in a low voice and looked at her hesitantly.
"If that should be so, I would be happy, and so would Eddor. He has always wanted a sibling," Sansa had purred, resting her hand on top of his.
"You can't be serious, girl! Your husband not being here people would gossip, don't think they won't. Your reputation would be soiled once again."
"Don't you call me girl, or I shall call you ser," Sansa had snapped, but smiling. "So what? My reputation is beyond repair, and as I have been accepted so far, why would that make any difference? Besides, people will know about us soon enough anyway."
To Sandor's raised eyebrow she had murmured, "Do you think that I will let you go now? No, you will stay with me. You told me you will do whatever I ask of you, and I ask you that."
They hadn't continued their discussion, both being claimed by sleep soon after, exhausted by the sleepless nights over the last few days, and the passion they had just shared.
Sansa turned and trailed the tips of her fingers across his chest. She savoured the sensation of his bristly hairs against her sensitive fingertips and the way she could twirl them around her fingers. Emboldened, she swept her hand further down, where the wavy texture changed to coarser near his groin. Suddenly she thought she felt something and pushed their covers aside to get a better view. True enough, she saw his manhood starting to harden and followed it with giddy curiosity.
"You didn't get enough last night, little bird?" Sandor muttered in a sleepy voice, but there was softness in his tone and he moved his hand from her belly to her breast, making Sansa shiver in anticipation.
"Never!" she whispered and pressed herself against him.
Their second time was slow and unhurried. They had only started to map each other's bodies with gaze and touch, and they took their time to explore those new unchartered territories. That tour of discovery was a novel adventure and somewhere along the route Sansa knew with utmost certainty that she never wanted that journey to end.
Sandor
Sandor thought he had died and gone to the afterlife some eastern religions talked about, where brave warriors were served by maidens with slender limbs and ample bosoms. Except that in his afterlife he was lying next to an auburn-haired woman with a soft body and belly with scars telling of her battles; battles which men could never even imagine.
He still couldn't believe what had happened, as he skimmed his lips across her breasts and felt her responding to his touch in a way that took his breath away. The young girl from his dreams had transformed into this voluptuous woman, and she was real. Sandor closed his eyes and tasted her, licked her, savoured her and wished never to let her go.
Eventually they had to get up. Sansa worried that her unannounced absence would worry her kin, most of all Eddor, so Sandor went downstairs and ordered some food and writing implements. When they were brought to his room, Sansa wrote a note to her mother assuring her she was fine and would be returning later that day. After Sandor had paid for a servant boy to deliver the note to Winterfell, they resumed their morning meal.
Sandor looked at her across the table, the graceful way she broke her bread and sipped her drink. Although he had already placed his fate into her soft hands, he was curious to find out what she had in mind. He couldn't believe last night could have been a mistake on her part, something which was never intended to be more than that. No, when they had been joined together, he had seen it, he had felt it – they couldn't be parted now. As much as he had difficulty in believing it, her behaviour and words had convinced him that she truly wanted him by her side.
"What now, little bird?"
Sansa swallowed the piece of bread she had been chewing. "I will go to Winterfell and get things ready for you to join me there. I would ask you to come with me this very day, but first I need to tell Eddor. He has been without a father all these years, and I have to give him some time to think it over."
Sandor leaned back, wondering how she was going to organise that. He couldn't really hide himself, and her kin and castlefolk were soon bound to detect his presence no matter how discreet they tried to be.
"Don't you think people will notice? If they see me, it doesn't take a maester to figure out where Eddor got his looks."
"Oh, that doesn't matter. I don't care if they do – actually, I will tell them myself. I will announce to everyone that you are his father and you have finally returned to me."
Her boldness impressed him. "What about your kin? I am sure Lady Catelyn and Lord Robb are not any keener than before to see me back. Would you try to get me into the Lord's service? Or would I serve you?"
Sansa lowered the cup in her hand and looked at him squarely. "You will be in nobody's service anymore. You will be by my side, as my lord husband in all but name. I expect that eventually you may want to do something and I am sure Robb would appreciate your experience in training his men or leading his guards. As long as none of that will take you away from me."
Sandor opened his mouth – what she was talking about was quite extraordinary. Before his words came out she pushed ahead.
"My kin will accept you this time. They know it was not a young girl's misplaced gratitude that drove me before. When I returned from Highgarden I told my mother the reason why my marriage failed – because of you. I know she understood it then."
Although her answer was more than Sandor had hoped, he realised something even more important.
"What about your lordly husband? He will surely not stand by and do nothing if you shame him publicly."
Sansa sighed. "I think he will. He knows everything, including the truth about Eddor. And when I left Highgarden I owed it to him to tell him why I did it. He knows my reasons just as my mother does." She looked at Sandor and lifted the corner of her mouth. "I believe somebody once told me how bad a liar I was, and how truly honourable characters, such as dogs, never lie. I only tried to follow that advice."
"So you may, but he is still your husband. Men don't take these things lightly."
"Yes he is, but he is also a good man. And we wouldn't be flaunting it in front of him in Highgarden, or at court. Even if he disapproves…I wouldn't care. I can fight when I have something worth fighting for, as you know by now. It is unlikely that he will start a war because of it, anyway. Even if he did, I bet I'd have a more experienced war leader in my camp than he does." Sandor knew Sansa was teasing him, but only just.
He was stunned. Sansa had fought and won for her son, and now she was prepared to fight again - for him.
The wolf-mother. The wolf-mate.