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Warning: Strong sexuality, language.
Part Six
When they lie in bed that night, Sandor sleeping while she keeps repeating her new life's story over and over in her head, she doesn't let herself think of the morning. Of when he'll call her by another name, and watching her disappear in the crowd of people heading for their flights. She thinks of what he's doing for her and what he's going to do, and that how despite what he says, he really is like someone straight out of a movie. Sansa will never, ever forget that.
The little bird shifts uncomfortably as they wait in a back room of a dimly lit building. She stays near him, one of her hands clasping one of his tightly. Her fingernails are digging in enough that it's almost uncomfortable.
(It's all the muffled moans, and Alayaya's barely there dress that left little to the imagination as she led them back here. It's not her nerves making her claw at him, he almost believes, but something green.)
"Are you sure it's safe?" she whispers. Her blue eyes gaze up at him, her teeth gnawing at her bottom lip.
"Safe as can be," he mutters.
Her expression shifts; confused, carefully studying him. Like she's not certain if he's sarcastic, uncertain, or simply unhappy but truthful. She doesn't ask him any more questions though; no, she presses her face to his arm instead. Her empty hand moves to join the other, clutching his tightly for comfort.
When a few girls come down the stairs and pass by, her fingers squeeze tighter. This time it's not for comfort.
(Fuck, he could stay with her and enjoy this surprising side of his little bird. No one has ever been possessive of him, and he isn't even going to give himself the chance to get used to it.)
"Ah, Clegane. It is so good to see you, old friend."
The sickly, false sweetness of the words, the tone of voice, cause the exact, reflexive reaction as always. Sandor's eyes narrow, and his muscles tense, but he inclines his head towards the Spider all the same.
"You?" Sansa whispers in a gasp. Her fingernails are digging in so deep, Sandor thinks they might draw blood.
The Spider's eyes focus on the little bird, and his false, friendly smile becomes a false, sympathetic frown. "My dear child, it is such a relief to see you alive and safe, and far from Lannister hands." He approaches and reaches for her - but Sandor growls while his little bird recoils. The Spider lets out a longsuffering sigh, and gives a pout. After that, all mockery of sincerity and charm drops. "I must admit, when I heard through the grapevine that you had stolen young Joffrey's lovely fiancee, I was surprised. I never took you for sentimental, Clegane."
Sandor is silent for a moment; silent and tense. He doesn't know how to respond - because it was sentiment that prompted him, wasn't it? It was affection, fondness, compassion, pity - a pathetic soft spot for a frightened and caged little girl that made him act. Never with honest intentions (there was a time when he thought to steal her for himself, take her away and never let her out of his sight or grasp) but honest intentions or not, it was still sentiment.
And he fucking hates the Spider for knowing this.
(But it's the Spider, and that's what he's good at.)
"You know why I'm here."
"Well, it's certainly not to reminisce about the good, old days when you hunted people down and snuffed them out for the Lannisters." The Spider's eyes study Sansa intently which makes her lean against Sandor even more. "Lovely job you did with her hair, Clegane. Would you like to be a hair stylist in your new life?" The Spider flashes a cordial smile.
There's definitely blood starting to leak from between her fingernails and his skin as he answers. "Not here for that. Just for her."
Sansa's nails scrape when her fingers curl in response to his words. She stands stiff at his side. There is a pause where Sandor thinks that she will either protest again or perhaps move away in a silent show of objection - but his little bird remains pressed against him and silent.
The Spider does not miss any of it, his eyes glancing back and forth between the two of them. That obnoxious, little knowing smile forms. "Are you certain of that, Clegane? After all, our young friend here is very valuable."
He tells himself not to take the bait (but he's tense, and he's tired, and he just wants to hide Sansa away from the world where only he can see her and touch her).
"Listen, you pudgy, little cockroach," he growls while his fingers clutch the Spider's neck and his thumb presses against the man's throat. "You're going to give her a new name, new background, the best, fucking thorough identity you can. Get her safe travel arrangements to Alaska, and then forget you ever saw her."
Sandor is vaguely aware of Sansa whispering his name and trying to pull him away. He's vaguely aware of the women and children slipping into that backroom with weapons ready. But all he cares about is the look in the spider's eyes when he adds, "And in return, I'll help you put the Targaryens back on top of the food chain."
"Why didn't you just say so, my friend?" the Spider whispers in a strained voice.
With a huff, Sandor lets go and takes a step back. He lets Sansa hug him and puts a hand on her back.
The Spider gestures for the others to leave them alone once more - and then he smiles brightly, clasping his hands together. "This is indeed a marvelous offer, Clegane. Though I will still expect the regular payment for the new identity itself. Your favor buys silence, not product."
"Same price?"
"As always."
Sandor pulls the exact amount from his pocket and tosses it onto the small table in the room.
"Excellent, excellent," the Spider titters, clapping his hands together. He gathers the money up and counts it - "Just to check," he says as if Sandor really takes it as an insult - before spreading an arm towards Sansa. "Come with my, my dear child. We will need to get your photograph, and take care of some details."
Sansa bites at her lower lip. For a moment she only stares at the outstretched arm. And then she turns away and lifts her head up until her blue eyes are on him.
(He could pull out more cash, enough to cover his own new identity, and they could leave together. Go to Alaska, live in solitude and isolation. He could keep her for his own, try his damndest to make her happy. Spend the rest of his days touching her and watching her and tasting and listening and feeling and wanting and having her. But the rest of his days would be the rest of her days, and sooner or later someone - Payne or Gregor or Joffrey or fucking Tywin himself - would show up and snuff them out. Snuff her out. Make him watch.)
Sandor nods. "Let's go, little bird."
Sansa swallows and follows after the Spider; she holds on to Sandor's hand with her own as he follows behind.
It's late, late enough that some of the Vegas buzz has simmered down, when they're finally leaving the Spider's lair - Sansa's new life in hand. In five hours she'll be boarding a plane that will take her to Seattle, and from there she'll switch flights and finish the trip to Alaska.
She'll be Alayne Stone, eighteen - almost nineteen - and moving there to forget a bad home life. A creepy fuck for a father, dead mother, no siblings. Something different, something that Sansa has a hard time making herself memorize; but it's convincing and most people won't ask questions past the first few details.
Most people don't like to hear about the ugly side of life, the one they pretend doesn't exist (the one Sansa Stark should have never found out about).
"I can never tell anyone about my real dad, or my mother. Or any of my siblings, can I?" she asks when they're in the ORV.
Sandor sighs. It's a stupid, obvious question - but she sounds so heartbroken he can't snap at her. "No, little bird. But I don't think they'll hold it against you in the afterlife. If there even is one."
Sansa's head turns his way, and he can hear her making the little intake of breath that she makes every time she's about to try to argue with him or question him somehow. Then she exhales and settles back. "There is," she merely whispers. But her voice is firm. "There has to be."
He's too tired and too resigned to the truth that he'll never see her again after the airport to bother tearing down her faith. Besides, he's done enough damage; she'll be Alayne in the morning, it's the least he can do, letting her keep something that's so thoroughly Sansa.
The drive back to the trailer is quiet after that.
She's looking over the papers, over the written down history they'll burn in the morning. She helped fill in the blanks; 'To make it easier for her' as the Spider explained. Her teeth worry at her lower lip. Her eyes are surprisingly dry.
It's better this way, he tells himself. Better she goes alone. Better she gets away from the Lannisters - and from him.
But he did swear to find her if he survived.
It isn't until they're back in the trailer that she speaks up again. "When the Targaryens are in control again...that's when you'll come?"
Sandor eyes her, taking in the hope and the worry and the stubborn refusal to let this go. He heads toward the back area where the bed is and lays out a couple of blankets. "If I'm still alive, girl, that's when I'll come for you."
"Good."
"Did you even listen to me, girl?" he snaps. He doesn't want to snap, not tonight. Not when he only has so many hours left with her, and he's hard for her, and he's going to have to let her go, let her disappear from sight. But he can't stop himself. He wants to shake her and wake her up from this new fantasy she's built for herself. "Not everything is a fucking movie! I'm likely to be dead in five years, maybe less. You'll be somewhere safe, living a new life, drowning in it until you realize that you aren't Sansa anymore, you're Alayne Stone - and Alayne Stone doesn't give two fucking shits for some mob family's old dog."
Sansa flinches once or twice during his outburst, but is otherwise calm. She does not break down - no, she cried her tears earlier, he realizes, cried them all out so that she wouldn't break down now, when they know the hour, the minute that their time will be at an end.
"I will always, always be Sansa Stark," she whispers resolutely. "I will always remember my father, my mother, my siblings, my uncle, my cousin. I will remember you, Sandor Clegane, because you aren't just some mob family's old dog to me. Just because I change my new and pretend to be someone else and will play the part to stay alive doesn't mean I will stop being who I really am. And who I really am loves you."
Sandor snorts. He opens his mouth - and she is there, right on front of him with her hand over his mouth.
"Don't. Don't tell me I don't love you, that I'll love someone else, just...don't." She starts off firm, but her last word is pleading. "I don't want to argue anymore, Sandor. Please."
He relents. Because what else is there to say? He'll never change her mind, he knows that now. No matter how much sense he tries to talk into the girl, she's not going to listen. It drives him mad at the same time that he cups her face, one thumb brushing over her lips, and wonders how she's managed to not break.
"If I'm alive when the Targaryens are back in power, I'll find you," he tells her, loving that shy, sweet smile that forms on her lips. He traces it with his thumb and then he steals it with his mouth, hands moving to her hips and lifting her up.
She wraps her legs around him. Her hands are already sliding under his shirt, feeling over him.
Sandor growls and tightens his grip on her hips, making her grind against him. "You feel that, girl? What you do to me?"
Sansa lets out a little gasp; eyes closed and lips parted. And then she blushes, eyes averting as she answers, "You should feel what you do to me." For some reason the almost awkward, hopeful tone of her voice as she attempts a come on does him in more than if she'd managed to get the words out with confidence.
"Every intention to, little bird," he promises before pinning her on the bed.
She gasps, his little bird, and arches her body against his. "Are you going to...I mean, we will..."
Sandor studies her as she tries to find the right words. He knows the question; he unbuttons and unzips her jeans so his hand can easily slide under, under her panties, and feel 'what he does to her.' He groans and kisses her, silencing her attempts to ask him what she really wants to ask him as he pushes one finger into her slick cunt.
"How does that feel, little bird?"
Sansa's eyelids are fluttering while her mouth hangs open and her hips arch. "G-good. It doesn't hurt as bad."
"It'll still hurt a bit, at first," he warns.
She nods and kisses him and wriggles her hips. When he starts pumping his finger and adds another, she whimpers loudly against his mouth. "I know...but I want to. It's our last night for who knows how long."
More than likely their last night, period. Sandor refrains from commenting.
Sansa's fingers tug at his clothes, and he pulls back just enough to get the jacket and his shirt off. She blushes but isn't too shy to keep her hands from smoothing over his chest and stomach, her palms warm and her fingertips tracing the myriad of scars.
"I thought you liked pretty men, little bird," he mocks half-heartedly while kissing over her neck and slowly pumping two fingers in her cunt.
"I like brave men," she moans. Her fingers curl, those claws of her scraping and scratching in response to his thumb brushing over her clit. "Sandor..."
He shudders and uses his free hand to get her shirt off. He kisses her hard while she takes her hands off of him and fumbles with her bra, movements blind and shaky as he continues to stroke her clit. "Not all brave men are good men, little bird."
She gasps when he adds a third finger, his thumb still teasing the sensitive, little nub. Her legs rub against his. She finally gets her bra off. "You're good to me."
Sandor kneads a breast with his free hand and teases the nipple until it's hard, listening to her whimper and watching her body writhe. He thinks she has the right of it, perfectly; he's good to her. Maybe she isn't as willfully blind as he sometimes thinks she still is.
Her hands clutch his shoulders while her body starts to move a little more frantically; hips actively grinding. "Sandor..." She bites her lip, probably trying to keep in all those naughty words he wants her to say, but he helps her out by pressing his mouth to hers and slipping his tongue between her lips.
There is a moment - a brief moment - where she goes rigid, arched up against him with hands clutching and legs pressed tightly to his sides. And then the moment is over, and she's crying into him. Her body trembles underneath his. Her hips jerk. Her cunt squeezes at his fingers while he slides them in and out and continues to stroke her with his thumb. Sansa wrenches her mouth from his to throw her head back as she lets out another keening moan and incoherently begs him not to stop and please stop, too much and don't stop, not enough and oh, fuck.
Sandor watches his little bird, the hand at her breast moving to grip the blankets under them, clenching the fabric tightly. He can't think of anything more fucking beautiful than Sansa Stark when she comes.
(If he dies before the end of this, he'll die with these moments on his mind. Not Gregor holding him to the fire, not the thought of Gregor touching his little bird, not the sight of her stripped down for Joff and the others and the damn dwarf stepping in when it should have been him all along. These moments where she falls apart, just for him.)
He pulls his hand out from under her panties and jeans and presses one wet finger to her lips.
She slowly makes her eyes focus. She watches him, uncertain, but takes his finger in her mouth. She sucks slowly, the way he told her to the night before Trant and Blount, the way she sucked on his finger and then his dick. Last time she hadn't had to taste herself though, and she's nervous at first - scandalized, no doubt. But his little bird does it anyway, tongue licking at the digit.
"Fuck, girl," he groans and removes the finger from her mouth. He buries his face against her neck, biting at her pulse.
Sansa giggles softly and murmurs, "Isn't that the idea?"
Sandor grins and gives her ear a nip. "That it is, little bird." He backs off of the bed - chuckling when Sansa lets out a wordless noise of protest - and finally gets out of the rest of his clothes with a muttered, "Fuck," in relief.
His pretty bird giggles again while squirming out of her clothes in a languid and most undignified manner, and Sandor can't help but admire.
"You truly look the little lady right now."
Sansa pouts up at him sulkily and throws her jeans at his head. "I'm having a hard time moving, and it's your fault."
He kneels on the bed and grabs her hands. Gives a yank and then holds her by her shoulders so she's once again pressed to his body. "You didn't seem to mind," he growls before nipping at her jaw. He savors the way she trembles, the sharp intake of breath when he bites her earlobe; the way her belly sucks in when his hips involuntarily grind and his dick twitches against her abdomen.
One dainty hand moves between their bodies and slowly strokes him. Her blue gaze focuses on him. "Do you want me to?"
Sandor shakes his head. "Not yet, little bird," he says as he moves away and lays on his back. He likes the confused expression on her face before he grabs a thigh and yanks it across him. "Straddle me, Sansa."
She blushes and grins and does as he says. She's slick against him, and at first he simply guides her hips to rock, rubbing her cunt against his dick. Sansa whimpers; her hands laying in his chest to steady her as she falls forward slightly.
It feels so fucking good, and he's not even inside of her yet. He's amazed at his restraint and the slow pace, because he's been dying for this since coming off his bloodlust after offing Trant and Blount and the motel clerk (he's been dying for it since the night he took her first, and it's a fucking lie to say otherwise). But tonight's it; if not for the rest of his life, at least for several years.
Sandor is going to enjoy it. And make sure she does, too.
"Are you ready?"
Sansa pauses, thoughtful, and then twists herself around enough to grab something from the flimsy nightstand's drawer. She turns back around with a condom in her hand, and her face flushed bright red. "I, um...well I got it when I got the dye. I just, because that could be bad if, you know..."
Buggering hell, he should have thought of that himself. Feeling like a teenage fool, he nods and takes it from her.
"Don't worry, little bird. You're right," he reassures her when he sees the nervous expression on her face, the way she's worrying her lip. He puts the condom on - inwardly cursing because fuck, it's the last time and he wants to feel her but she's right, that would be bad (and could still be bad) - and pulls her down for a kiss.
She relaxes against him and kisses back. "I love you," she whispers with her eyes still closed, and Sandor isn't quite sure if she realizes she said the words out loud this time. Her face is too serene, too dreamy, not bracing for an argument or watching him with hope for a return.
Sandor swallows down the guilt and other unwanted emotions her words stir in him and presses the tip of his cock to her cunt. "You ready, Sansa?"
"Yes." She opens her eyes and gives a nods and lets him guide her hips down. Her body flinches, and her fingers curl, but she breathes in deep and slow.
He wants to tell her that she's beautiful right now - she's beautiful all the time - but he'd just fuck up the words and sound like a fool. So he cups her face with both hands and brings her down for another kiss. "We'll take it slow, pretty bird."
She beams at his words and lifts her hips back up until just his tip is left inside her. "It was slow last time." She lowers down, a little faster this time. "It isn't so bad this time, really." She begins to move, awkward, trying to find a rhythm.
He tries to help, he does - but fuck, she's still so tight, and she's beautiful sitting astride him, riding him with her bottom lip between her teeth and her eyes shut tightly and her hands on his chest for balance while her breasts bounce with her movements. He cups them in his hands and kneads gently, thumbs circling her nipples while his hips start moving in time with hers.
"Don't need to rush it, pretty bird," he groans. "It's supposed to feel good for both of us."
Sansa relaxes again and leans over to kiss him. The angle of their bodies changes, and she whimpers, with her fingers curling against his chest. Her movements falter briefly, her face pressed to his neck and nuzzling against his scruff. "Sandor..."
"That's it, pretty bird," he groans, eyes rolling back at how fucking good she feels. He keeps teasing her nipples while his hips slam up against hers, trying to stay slow, trying not to go to hard, but fuck, it's difficult not to get lost in this. He knows she's still adjusting though, so after a moment he moves his hands back to her hips. "Trust me," he mutters and lifts her up.
His little bird lets out a startled noise, but she doesn't fight when he sets her on the bed.
"Face the headboard, on your hands and knees," he growls out, harsher than he should.
She doesn't seem to mind, whimpering and obeying him quickly.
Sandor positions himself behind her, holding her hip with one hand and guiding him dick back inside her with the other. He feels her shudder violently and let out a high-pitched, keening noise. "There you go," he whispers, leaning over and kissing her shoulder. He watches as one hand clutches the blankets and the other braces against the headboard. He thrusts into her again, and she makes the same sound before crying out his name.
"Please," she begs. Her voice is tight and strangled. "It feels...it feels really good. Please."
He finds a rhythm that's not too fast yet but not maddeningly slow either. He lazily strokes her clit and watches as she shudders beneath him. "That's it, pretty bird. Sing for me," he growls.
Sansa keens again. Her head hangs down and the hand on the headboard is pushing her back into him. "...more, Sandor. Please."
"Fuck." Sandor leans over again. He bites at her shoulder and kisses the crook of her neck and thrusts faster, his eyes closing tightly. The hand on her hip moves to the heardboard as well, laying over hers. He strokes her clitoris faster, because he isn't sure he can last much longer. Needed this too much, and the sounds she's making are so fucking beautiful.
The hand clutching the blanket moves to clutching his arm wrapping around her, fingers clasping at his wrist as her strokes her. She keeps making noises like she's trying to speak but can't, crying out as they move faster. When she finally manages to gasp out, "Fuck!" with abandon, he's undone.
His balls tighten for a moment, and then he feels it. Sharp and intense, he presses his face to her back and grunts, incoherent save for a couple of 'fucks' and 'Sansa.' His hips more jerk than thrust, and he grips her hand against the wall tightly while her cunt contracts around him delightfully. He is vaguely aware when they topple over, a sweating, panting tangled mess, but it doesn't fully hit him until after the orgasm is over, and she's crying for him to stop touching her, it's too sensitive.
"Sorry, pretty bird," he groans and nibbles on her earlobe, removing his hand from between her legs while she shudders in his arms. He cradles her to him, her back against his chest, and kisses her forehead.
After several minutes, Sansa murmurs, "We have more. Condoms, I mean. If you wanted to...again."
Sandor laughs, hugging his little bird against his body and turns her head so he can kiss her thoroughly. "You're going to need sleep, you know. It's too risky to sleep on the plane."
Sansa nods and moves one hand to stroke his burnt cheek. "I know. But after this...I want to make the most of tonight."
"All right. But you and I still could use a few more minutes," he tells her and reaches down to give her a little stroke. He laughs when she whimpers and pushes at his hand. "See?" He moves away - reluctant and sluggish - to discard the condom.
"Have you ever been in love?"
The fog in Sandor's head clears instantly at that question, and he looks down at Sansa. "Do I strike you as a man who's been in love?"
"Plenty of women would overlook your face."
Sandor snorts. "Yes, little bird. They would. For a good fuck. There are plenty of women out there who like a big man, and can over look half his face because they aren't after a face to begin with. But those kinds of women aren't looking for love, either."
Sansa scowls slightly. "You don't know that."
"Maybe you're right. But I never cared to find out if I was wrong." He doesn't like this conversation, not now. He settles back on the bed, hoping she'll drop it - but the expression on her face tells him he's said something wrong.
"Have you...been with a lot of women?"
Buggering hell.
Sandor pulls the girl so that she straddles his abdomen brushes her hair back from her face. "Pretty, little bird. I've killed countless people, including a man right in front of you. I worked for the Lannisters. Yes, I've fucked. By most men's definitions, not a lot. By yours, possibly. Meaningless, empty fucks, and nothing more. And if you're worried that I'm going to find someone else, don't. I've no intentions of being with anyone else. For one thing, it puts me in too vulnerable a position."
Sansa nods, thoughtful, and then, "Am I-"
"You are not them. None of them are you, and none of them matter." He pulls her down, kisses her mouth, her jaw, the skin above her pulse. "So let's not waste tonight on anything that doesn't matter."
She smiles then, eyes glassy, and nods. "Okay." She kisses him, her hands on his shoulders, and then nestles atop him. "I love you. Even if you don't love me. I know you don't think I really do. But I want you to know. Just in case." Her voice trembles when she says her last sentence.
Sandor wraps his arms around her and holds her tightly. He doesn't say anything for a long while. He doesn't really know what to say, because right now, he wants nothing more than to believe this girl really does mean what she's saying.
(And if he could stay with her, he might just would mean those words right back.)
She tells herself that this doesn't mean anything; parting happens all the time. It isn't always final, not in the movies and not in life. She tells herself that as she holds back a breakdown, sitting on the plane and clutching Sandor's jacket tightly around her body.
Sansa Stark had always wanted a life like something out of a movie. Alayne Stone is her role.