Sansa
Sandor's hand were a wonderful distraction. Though he did not sing as her mother would have, the familiar feeling, yet so unfamiliar because it was him, of fingers running through her hair was comforting. He massaged her scalp gently, relieving her of her headache brought on by Theon. No...I mustn't think of Theon.
She focused back on her husband's hands and blushed furiously. What would her mother say? Here she was, naked as her name day, willingly allowing an angry beast to touch her. I asked for him to touch me no less. Frankly, Sansa felt herself a tad disappointed when he had left her to her thoughts in the bath. Surely the Viking she met on the first night aboard The Stranger had wanted her...did he change his mind? And being left alone to ponder the soapy water had only brought on a fresh wave of sadness of her brother. No longer my brother, Sansa corrected herself angrily. He was a traitor. So she called for her husband, and she could hear his footsteps practically run to meet her, assuaging her doubts that he no longer desired her.
And here they were. His hands deep in her hair, supporting her head as she closed her eyes peacefully. "Do you have a family, Sandor?" Sansa asked.
"No." His answer was short, and since she could not see his face, she was not sure if he was angry. Thinking it best not to take the chance, Sansa decided to remain quiet. An awkward pause followed, until he cleared his throat and asked her in return: "What of your family, little bird?"
Glad for a topic of conversation that would distract her from the wonderful shivers being brought on by his attentions, Sansa said, "I have a large family. Robb is the oldest, and then my half-brother Jon. They're both very brave and true."
Sandor snorted at that, but Sansa continued, undeterred. "Then there's me, and after me is my little sister Arya."
"Ah yes, the wolf pup who waved a sword no thicker than a needle."
Sansa laughed at that and explained, "That's what she named it - Needle. She's wild. I always tried to do everything after my mother, but she was more interested in following after the boys. Once she even cut all of her hair off with shears. Mother was so very cross, but everyone else thought it was funny." An unbidden smile graced her at the warm memory. "She always plays pranks on me too. One time, she cut my bedding and filled it with...with dung! And I could not figure out where the smell was coming from for weeks!"
Sandor laughed heartily at this, his hands shaking. "So what did you do back?"
Sansa thought about this curiously. Why did I never do anything back? "I...I guess I never thought to seek revenge. The idea never occurred to me."
Her husband's hands began to grow bolder, tracing her shoulder blades and the back of her neck, seemingly no longer content with her hair. Sansa was glad he could not see her face, for she could feel the blood pounding in her cheeks. With excitement and anxiousness, she recognized that feeling, the one he had made her feel the first night she had spent with him. A warmth settled low in her belly, and her skin anticipated his touch.
To distract herself she continued, "Then after me are Bran and Rickon. Bran was always entirely wiser than his years, and Rickon was even wilder than Arya when you got him riled up." She laughed lightly. Wondering if Sandor would reciprocate now that she had told about her family, Sansa tried again: "You must have some family, Sandor."
His reply was curt. "I don't."
Sansa tried not to feel disappointed when he withdrew his hands that were creeping along her sides. He returned to her hair, and when he spoke next it was with an unexpected bitterness. "You have not mentioned that gangly lad that recognized you today. You called him your brother too, if you remember."
Is he accusing me of lying? But she knew she would cry again if she thought of Theon, so instead she answered, "I do not wish to speak of him."
"I do wish to speak of him, girl." Sandor clasped a heavy hand on her shoulder, causing her to jump in surprise. "Or were you just trying to protect the bastard, hm? Thinking that if I thought he to be your kin I would spare him, is that it?" Sansa recognized with a slight dread that her husband was becoming angry. "You told me you were a maiden, or was that a lie as well?"
Disregarding modesty in an attempt to calm Sandor before his rage became too mighty, Sansa turned toward the scarred man behind her and clasped his hands between her own. She flushed crimson when she saw his eyes flash toward her chest and cloud with desire. But she forced herself to speak nonetheless. "When Theon was six, my father found him on the shore of Winterfell. He said Theon was practically dead, having most likely survived a shipwreck. Now of course, we know that the ship that was wrecked was an Ironborn's, and he was presumably with Asha."
Once more, Sansa's thoughts turned to a childhood with Theon, though this time recalling the memories was somewhat jovial. "My father took him in. I grew up thinking he was my true brother until I was ten. What a shock that was! But to me he never felt any different than Robb, or Jon. Theon was the best brother a sister could ask for. He could always make me laugh, and he taught me how to shoot a bow, though I was just dreadful. Arya was fairly good..." she mused, deep in thought. Sandor's fingers hesitantly tracing her face brought her back to the present, and she blushed once more, dropping her gaze to the soapy water.
Seeking to voice her frustrations, Sansa snipped, "Although it is apparent I was not as good a sister to him as I had thought, considering he chooses Asha's company over mine. He does not even know Asha. To look at him now you would think my family, our family, did nothing for him."
Her husband stared at her for a long time, seemingly trying to puzzle out some unknown conundrum. His dark hair was tied back from his face, revealing the terrible burns that looked painted on his one half, twisting flesh in a distorted pattern. Though both gray eyes were mostly untouched, Sandor had only one ear, the other completely burned away. For sure, the marks were no less terrible than the day Sansa saw them atop the Ice Keep. Yet she supposed she had grown somewhat used to them now.
Carefully, she let her wet and soapy fingers drift over the scars, feeling the puckered skin beneath. He is not so terrible, not truly.
Slowly, Sandor wrapped his hand around her own and drew it away from his face. "If the boy does not value you then he is a fool, little bird."
"Perhaps I am the fool," she countered. "For being content here, with you."
Disbelief crossed his features briefly before he mastered it and narrowed his eyes. "It was but this morning you threatened to murder me, or have you forgotten that?"
Sansa blushed sheepishly, and drew her knees to chest, suddenly aware of her stark nakedness in the water. "I would never have done it. I was just scared." She thought back on what she had expected of him when he had found out the truth of her terrible secret, the one that haunted her.
He studied her once more, not even pretending to avert his gaze from her semi-covered front. "What were you scared of?"
"You," she admitted in a huff. "You knew what...what I had done...that I had..." Though Sansa tried to force the words out of her mouth, they caught in her throat, thick and uncomfortable.
"You killed a man that killed your kin." Sandor said bluntly and Sansa flinched, turning her eyes to her pale knees and trying to control the rolling waves of guilt that accompanied that statement. "I killed my first man at twelve. Can't even remember how many since then. But I have to admit, I am curious to how you went about it."
She simply shook her head, unwilling, no unable to discuss the most vile act she had ever committed so casually. It was as though he were asking her how she liked her meat prepared. How could he think of it like that? So black and white? For gods sake I murdered the man!
Sandor interpreted her silence differently. "So the little bird does not wish to share all of her secrets, eh? That is well. I have plenty of my own." At that, his hands returned to her shoulders, warm against her goose-pimpled skin. They rubbed relaxing circles, up and down her spine, though Sansa felt anything but tranquil. His touch was stirring up a flurry of emotions and sensations within her, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to focus on conversation.
"And so here you are," he rasped, "content."
"Foolish, isn't it?" Sansa murmured, closing her eyes once more and relishing in the delightful tingles dancing along her back.
"Yes," he agreed. And then his hands were tickling around her ribs to the underside of her breasts, exploring the expanse of bare flesh. Her breath hitched in her throat as Sandor encircled her bone-white skin with his rough hands, rolling the flesh between his palms. Warmth pooled in her lower stomach, and Sansa was sure her face was as red as her hair, yet she did not ask him to stop.
Unconsciously, she tipped her her head back, and felt her wet locks slid off of her shoulder, leaving her neck bare. She shuddered as she felt Sandor press his mouth almost gently to her collarbone, trailing kisses. Meanwhile, his hands, no longer satisfied with just her chest, dipped below the water to the juncture between her thighs, and Sansa stifled a gasp, opening her eyes wide.
Absurdly, the first thought that crossed her mind when Sandor's hand settled in her most personal place, was: Septa Mordane never told me about this part.
Sansa gripped his arm as he touched her and brought her a sparking, overwhelming pleasure in ways she had never given thought to. She whimpered as he pushed a finger inside with one hand, the other returning to her chest, forming a cage around her torso with a strong arm. He nipped along her neck until he reached her ear and growled, "Let me have you, Sansa."
Sandor
The girl trembled under his hands. Though there had been a nagging doubt in his mind previously that she had lied about being a maiden in the hopes that it would persuade him to be gentle, there was no doubt about that being the utmost truth. She shook like a leaf, so obviously innocent and unsure of how to react. If anything, it made the little bird all the more desirable. Sandor liked that he was the only man that had ever seen her like this, touched her this way. Sandor liked even more that when she blushed, the redness was not restrained to just her face.
Her skin was cream, her hair fire. The only fire that ever enticed him. He could not find where he dropped his self-control, but it was long gone as she mewled and shivered for him. It was so honest, so refreshing from the scripted reactions of whores and women seeking something from him. And hells, according to the little bird herself, she was content with him, naked in a bathtub.
But Sandor was holding himself back from fully devouring her, from scooping her from the water and pinning her down on the bed and taking her right then and there. He just needed her acquisition, just one word to encourage his actions, just one yes.
Yet Sansa's response to his plea was less than encouraging. "I...I don't...I'm not..." she stammered incoherently, nailing digging into his forearm as he intimately touched her.
Suddenly her responses took on a different meaning to Sandor. The trembling was not in pleasure, but in fear. The harsh grip on his arm was not to steady her, but to try to pull him off. You saw what you wanted to see, you bastard. Disgusted with himself, Sandor released his hold on her, pulling away as quickly as if she burned him.
Startled, the little bird turned around to rest her too-large eyes on him, a question on her face. He was struggling to find the words to apologize when she asked softly, "Did I do something wrong?"
Oh just bugger me. Sandor rubbed his face, growling when he felt the burnt flesh that was so easily forgotten when he was with the beautiful girl that looked at his face. "I shouldn't have touched you."
Her expression twisted into one of confusion and underlining hurt. Pouting slightly, the little bird's eyes dropped from his face and she wrung her hands in distress. "Am I not pleasing to you?"
That caused him to bark a laugh, throwing his head back at the ridiculous statement. My cock straining in my breeches is testament enough to how bloody pleasing I find you. When he focused back on his daft girl, it was clear she did not understand the jape she had made. Her eyes had grown heavy with wetness and her lower lip shook as she clenched her jaw.
"Oh hells, little bird, I did not mean-"
"I want to be alone please, Sandor." She said quietly, curling herself into a ball.
"Little bird, you could never be-"
"I wish to dress now. If you could please allow me privacy." Her dark red hair stuck wetly to her curled back, looking almost like blood as she turned her face away from him and sniffled. Angry and frustrated, Sandor rose to his feet and left the room, convinced that he would never be able to stop hurting his little bird.
...
Sandor returned sometime later, when the moon was shining brightly in the night sky, and he had drank enough to fill The Stranger and send a lesser man to his grave. He slammed the heavy door shut and barred it. Breathing in the woodsy scent of home, Sandor sighed in relief. As much as he loved the sea, there was something comforting in coming back here, to his own space.
Though it was not just his home anymore, Sandor thought as he gently pushed open the door to the bedchamber, where the little bird was visible only as a lump beneath a pile of furs. It was chilly in the room, as the hearth remained unlit. The four poster bed was a massive monstrosity, and made his wife look a child curled in the middle of it. Slowly, he peeled off his clothing which smelled of drink until only his small clothes remained.
Not wishing to wake her, Sandor eased himself onto one side on the soft bed and slipped between the blankets, shutting out the night's chill. The little bird faced him, her fists tucked underneath her chin and her hair a wild, wavy tangle framing her heart-shaped face. Her mouth was open slightly, and Sandor resisted the urge to awaken her with kisses. He remembered quite well how terribly that had gone over earlier.
So he settled for tracing her face once with his fingers, brushing away a stray lock of hair. "Sandor," she breathed, and he was not quite sure if she was awake or not. "It's cold."
In response, Sandor moved closer and wrapped an arm around her middle - the alcohol giving him courage to touch her again, however innocently. She hummed contently in response and tucked her head against his chest. Warmth inched through Sandor, though he was not entirely sure whether it was from the spiced wine or the girl he called his wife asleep in his arms. Perhaps a pleasant combination of the two.
Before he allowed himself to fall into sweet oblivion, Sandor needed to expel the foolish notions that were in the little bird's head. So he held her tightly and slurred, "You are the most pleasing creature I have ever met, little wife."
..
Yay chapter 7! If you were not already aware, I published a little one-shot called "A Flower Crown" which of course features our favorite two characters. So check it out! :)
All the feedback is completely appreciated and I love every one of you who take the time to leave a kind thought.