Chapter 25:
His mouth twitched even in his sleep. When he woke, he remembered his dream. He had been guarding the Iron Throne, upon which rested an empty cage, from a Dragon with a wolf's head.
"Someone take her back to her cage," He murmured, still half asleep.
He very rarely spoke her actual name. If he did, he feared she might vanish or fly away.
She's no little bird anymore, dog.
Sandor Clegane still had the feel of her skin on the tips of his fingers, the colour of her hair in his eyes, the taste of her soft lips on his tongue. If it made him seem like a sentimental fool, he didn't care. He had those memories of her, and he was once again a whole man.
The raised steps were where she sat, above all others in the Great Hall. He spent his days at her feet like a faithful old hound, and it was at her feet that he saw her life slowly be stitched back together.
A man named Davos Seaworth had arrived at Winterfell, and with him he had brought some wildling bitch named Osha, and, surprisingly, Rickon Stark. Upon reuniting her with her youngest brother Seaworth had told Winterfell's Lady of Stannis Baratheon. Neither Stannis nor his army had been seen by many since leaving the Wall. Apparently the Red Woman he kept by his side had been left under the Lord Commander's protection, as well as his Queen Seylse and his daughter Shireen. Seaworth suspected it was most likely that Stannis had frozen to death on his march South, along with all his men. Judging by what escapees had said, his men had resorted to eating horses, and a few had been executed for cannibalism. They had been marching to Winterfell themselves, to confront the Boltons.
Shame they didn't make it, Clegane thought to himself once, I had Stannis to thank for getting me my song.
When it was just him lying in his bed, knowing there was a wall between them, he could still hear her voice, tiny and terrified in the darkness. First it would be her singing for him, then his fingertips would tremble at the memory of pressing his blade against her porcelain skin. It was the same every night. After that the hairs on the back of his neck would stand up on end, still feeling her warm breath when she gasped into his ear. Then between his legs his manhood would stiffen as he went back to that night in the Godswood. Being inside of her, feeling her tighten at his touch.
Stop romanticising, stupid dog. You fucked her. Plain and simple. No- stop that and you're no bloody different to all the other cunts who come here looking for her favour.
The parts of him that wanted to do some good and be honourable always ended up arguing. Then another part, the mindless soul who drank himself senseless and fucked whores nightly roused itself.
You don't need to imagine or dream about anything. She still wants you with her, in her.
The awful thought that he had turned her into another faceless whore made him want to clutch a burning piece of coal and press it to his face.
As to whether the Lady Sansa would ever marry, he knew no one ever asked her out of respect, and no one dared ask Clegane himself. There was not a soul in Winterfell who did not know him as her eternal guardian. Some critics eyed them in disdain, certain that Lord Eddard's daughter was closer to the burned man than was appropriate. Since the Stark boy had returned and the little wolf bitch Arya had left, along with the Dragon Lady and Brienne of Tarth, the eldest daughter and youngest son of Winterfell ruled side by side as brother and sister, with her as the wiser and more revered of the two.
He had never given a fuck if people thought he was too close to the Lady of the North, and cared even less when a soft knock came on his door. When it opened, a small glimmer from a candle she carried was illuminating her auburn hair. He wanted it between his fingers. He rose from the bed and came to her, backing her up into the door as it closed, cementing them off from the rest of the world. This was living, he decided. Just being alone in the dark with her, for when she blew the candle out the moon was their only light. She always kissed first, standing up on her toes to reach his lips. Now, she never saw the burns, so unlike the shaking, timid little bird he had first met. Finally, he had her hair in his hands, soft, so soft. As he kissed her he could smell the smoke from the doused flame. Her lips parted and her warm breath came into his mouth.
"Sandor…" He heard her whisper. Her legs parted and his hands found their way underneath her, lifting her to latch herself around his hips. With only a few swift movements they were on the bed, her beneath him.
Gods, let me die like this.
As far as I can tell, this is the end. It has been a pleasure, although a very long one. My love and gratitude to everyone who has reviewed and commented, with praise and ideas. I Suppose I shall have to fill the days of waiting for The Winds of Winter with something else... another update on the Arya Initiative?