Chapter 8: Sleeping
The hour had grown so late when at last the master of the house made his appearance, she had been convinced he would not come at all, despite what Betsy had said.
He stumbled into the door, looking utterly exhausted.
"Littlefinger's men," he said after having wolfed down the food Betsy had put on the table. "They were trying to see where I'd go, so I let them tail me through the city for hours until they've lost the scent. Offed one of them as a message to the little fucker so he knows I am onto his games."
A slight wave of unease hit her at the thought that he'd just murdered someone.
Killing is the sweetest thing there is…
Despite what he once told her, he didn't look as if he had enjoyed himself. Much like he hadn't after he'd killed...
No, she reminded herself forcefully. Not that, don't go there.
"Why would Lord Baelish try to find me?" she asked to distract herself.
He turned his head to her and regarded her with something akin to surprise.
"Still that naive?" he asked and it didn't come out angry or disdainful as usual, but as if he honestly couldn't believe it. "What Joffrey did… giving you to me…," his eyes lingered for a moment on her as if he expected her to say something to that, "it made you fair game. And hardly any man wants you as badly as that little shit wants you."
Sansa shuddered with disgust. She knew why the man wanted her.
"He doesn't want me; I am just a stand-in for my mother."
He let his head fall back against the chair, closing his eyes.
"Be that as it may," he said with an air of finality. "I've no intention of letting him have you."
Hardly any man wants you as badly, resounded in her head.
Are you one of those men, she wanted to ask but kept quiet. Do you want me so badly? Is this the reason you saved me time and again?
And why, if you truly want me, are we still so far apart?
She didn't even know what kind of answer she'd like to hear to those questions, so they were better left unasked.
"Don't wake me in the morning," he grumbled and then got up and stumbled into the direction of the stairs.
...
She followed him quite a long time later, after having done not much more than staring unseeingly at the needlework in her hands and hoping he would already have fallen asleep and wouldn't demand anything from her.
He'd come back, he'd taken care of Littlefinger's men. He'd ensured her further safety.
She should be glad, happy, even.
But all she felt was that once again something out of her control had happened and someone else had to handle the situation because she hadn't known what to do and how to take charge of the situation.
On an impulse, she threw the needlework against the wall.
She hated that feeling of helplessness. It felt as if through all her life, she'd been helpless, left to the whims of the men around her. A toy for them to do with as they wished. Hurt her, mock her, sell her, take her, protect her. All as they saw fit.
For once she'd like to have power over something, anything... anyone.
The intensity of her anger was a novelty to her, something she had never allowed herself to feel to such an extent, but there was something invigorating, almost refreshing about it and for once she could understand why it seemed to be the only emotion Clegane ever showed.
It was much better than feeling nothing.
…
When she came into the room with the bed she had to share this night, the air was chilly.
The Hound hadn't bothered to put new logs into the fire so it had gone out. He'd probably done it on purpose, too, she surmised. Knowing his story, it might be possible he wasn't comfortable sleeping in a room with a burning fire.
Opting against cleaning the hearth and lighting a new fire, she walked towards the bed, taking in his sleeping form, faintly illuminated by moonlight.
Even horizontal, sprawled out on his belly with his face pressed into the pillow, he was an intimidating man, his strength apparent in his thick limbs, in the muscles bunching under the thin material of the linen shirt he wore untucked from his breeches.
She wondered grumpily if the man was ever without his clothes, when all she did lately was having to bare her most private parts to anyone who asked it of her.
As she tried to get under the covers, she discovered to her even greater disgruntlement that he had fallen asleep atop them, making it all but impossible for her to cover herself.
She almost growled with irritation as she tried half-successfully to have at least her naked feet covered before she tried to fall asleep, severely hindered to do just that by the anger grumbling in her belly and the cold sending shivers over her body.
…
Sleep must have come to her eventually, though, because she woke what could only have been a few hours later, shivering and teeth chattering, because the man in her bed had somehow managed to pull the last bit of bedding away from her and she lay there completely exposed to the night's chill.
She huffed angrily and was about the get up and find herself something else to huddle into, when she was kept from doing so by a strong arm pulling her against a broad and warm chest.
For a moment, she shivered even harder as the warmth of his body penetrated her own.
"M'sorry," he mumbled sleepily and, surprisingly adroit, wrestled the cover out from under himself and wrapped it around her.
Too tired and cold to contemplate her position nestled inside his very close embrace, she just relished the comfort and warmth it provided and was quickly pulled into the blackness of sleep again.
...
When she woke, it appeared both of them hadn't moved.
His arm was still around her, his front against her back and they were both still insulated against the morning cold by the thick featherbed, its inside comfortably heated by the warmth his body gave off in copious amounts.
Grey light only slightly tinged with orange shone through the windows, informing her that it was still very early in the morning. Even Betsy seemed to be not up yet; the characteristic bustling downstairs not audible for the time being, meaning she could stay where she was for a while longer.
She felt so languid and complacent, it took a long time before her mind started telling her that she shouldn't feel so safe with him.
That she should be afraid after the pain he'd inflicted on her, after the way he'd treated her.
She should, her mind kept insisting, be alarmed by the way his hand was cupping the curve of her breast through the thin material of her shift and the way his erection pressed against the small of her back.
But she wasn't. For such a long time, on so many occasions, she had relished to be close to him, always liked the warmth and safety closeness to him provided, she just couldn't find it in her to be afraid right now.
As she allowed herself to bask in the joy of feeling held and protected by a man as capable as he was, she realized with a sudden clarity that it was this she had sought to barter for when she had given herself to him.
She liked this so much, needed it so much, she would have done everything to have a right to it. That it would not only be given out of pity or duty, only ever when she was too hurt and weak to really enjoy it, but that she could just walk into his arms whenever she wanted to.
After everything Sibyl had taught her, it had certainly been foolish to expect as much, but she'd somehow thought that if he took her, it would be more like this. Warm and intimate and… nice.
Still enjoying the comfortable embrace, she wriggled a bit closer to the body behind her, having forgotten about his arousal for a moment.
A throaty groan came from behind her at that and she froze, barely daring to breathe.
"Stop moving, if you know what's good for you," he warned, voice even scratchier than usual.
As if to underscore his warning, his hand firmed on her breast, sending a strange sensation from there down to her belly.
From his words she deduced that for now he was content just lying there, holding her to him. She was sure, too, that he would even let her get up and leave the bed if she wanted to. But she still didn't want to. And if that meant having to deal with his needs, well, as Madame Sibyl's most eager student, she was prepared to do that.
She turned in his arms, facing him.
He opened his eyes when she did, looking at her with a carefully guarded expression. An expression that changed to surprise, when she slowly ran her hand up his arm.
"Why would that be good for me?" she asked.
His hips jerked towards her, pressing the heavy ridge of his manhood into her belly. The sudden movement sent a sharp spike of fear stabbing through her and it was all she could do not to flinch from him, not to let her eyes reflect the panic she felt at the thought of having once again to endure the painful intrusion of what lay hard and demanding against her.
"Because," he said and then moved so he could gently nuzzle her neck, mirroring what she'd done three nights ago, "I very badly want to fuck you."
A jolt went through her at his blunt admission, a feeling not clearly identifiable as good or bad. Before she could censor herself, a question made it past her lips.
"Even though it was so bad last time?"
He grew eerily still next to her, his breath whispering against her skin. She wondered if he would be angry again or if he would turn from her now when reminded of how she had disappointed him.
"Wasn't bad," he murmured. "Just could've been better."
Even she could tell that this was a lie to placate her, but she thought better of calling him out on it. What purpose would it serve to fight with him over this?
"Then let's make it better," she said softly, trying to sound inviting rather than afraid.
He lifted his head to fix her with one of his enigmatic stares again.
"You do not have to do this," he said.
"I know," she said and at least that was no lie. She knew that not only would he not force her, his protection and care of her was not contingent on her compliance either, regardless of what she had told herself. He had never demanded anything from her before, it was silly to think he would start now.
If she gave herself to him, now that it wasn't about Joffrey's order anymore, it had to be because she wanted to repay him, not because she had to.
He nodded shortly at hearing her answer and lowered his head to her neck again, while his hand cautiously stroked over her breast as if afraid of hurting her.
There was so much care in his handling of her, she forgot her fear for a moment. Long enough to think that the feel of his hand through the fabric of her shift was not unwelcome and the way his lips caressed her exposed neck was actually quite pleasant.
Fear came back with a vengeance, though, when his hand wandered to the hem of her shift to pull it up to her waist and he proceeded to probe the place between her legs.
She took a fortifying breath and opened her legs for him.
"You still sore?" he asked.
She shook her head.
He rolled away from her for a moment, doing something at the side of the bed she didn't see because she kept her eyes closed.
When he was next to her again, she smelled lavender and chamomile and sure enough felt the cold of the paste against her opening when he put his fingers on her again, spreading the ointment.
Breathe evenly in and out, Sibyl's advice came to her, imagine your cunt being a flower that opens and blooms with every breath you take.
She had giggled when Sibyl had told her that, but was very far from laughing now as Clegane positioned himself between her legs and fumbled one-handed with the laces of his breeches, while the other still stroked her.
His fingers didn't hurt, though, so she found the calm to do what she had been advised and prepare herself as well as she could.
Control of her fears almost slipped her leash once again when she felt him press against her. But before panic could fully form, he had already pushed inside and curiously enough, there was no pain at all. Some discomfort at being stretched tightly around the intruder, but nothing even close to what she had felt four nights ago.
She was so relieved at the discovery, tension drained out of her in a rush, making her realize that she had not been nearly as relaxed as Sibyl had told her to be, because something inside her softened and gave and she felt him slip even deeper.
He grunted when he did and then held himself motionless for a few seconds. Even with her eyes closed, she could feel how he fought to control whatever it was that usually drove men when they were with a woman. Despite her ignorance when it came to these matters, she knew he tried not to hurt her, that even in this he meant to protect her from the worst of it.
"Open your eyes," he demanded after a few moments and she obeyed.
He moved inside her with slow, controlled movements while his eyes bored into hers, a deep frown on his face.
"Does it hurt?"
She shook her head again. He frowned a little less and breathed out deeply in what sounded like relief.
Carefully holding his gaze, she tried to concentrate on what she truly felt... down there.
He slid in and out of her easily now, probably thanks to 'Mag's finest' and instead of feeling torn apart as last time, she felt… filled; slightly proud that she could accommodate him like that on only the second try. The sensation of being stretched to her limit had given way to a slight tingling that was almost pleasant, a bit like blood flowing back into cold fingers.
If this was how it could be, she could do this without fear, with joy, even. Just like she should've done the first time.
He was still watching her with hawk's eyes, as if looking for any sign of discomfort, so she decided to show him she didn't mind what he was doing. She lifted her hand, put it on his face and smiled at him.
She didn't quite know what reaction she had expected of him at that, maybe an answering smile or a kiss or something like that.
What she had not expected was for him to suddenly be the one who closed his eyes and groaned as if in pain. He jerked into her with thrusts that were far from being the careful movements from before and finally ripped himself away from her to spill his seed onto her still partly clad belly.
"Fuck," he muttered barely audible amidst panting breaths and then moved to the side to plop down on his back, still fighting for air. He'd said the same crude thing after she had pleasured him a few days earlier and she still had no idea why he did.
She carefully watched him to see if he would blow up at her as he had last time, but curiously enough, his anger didn't seem directed at her. If she should take a guess, she'd say he was somehow angry at himself.
For what, she had no idea. Or maybe she had, now that she thought about it.
Something had changed when she had touched him, as if something he meant to rein in had slipped his leash and now he was angry he had let it.
I made him lose control.
She smiled as the thought took root in her, waking a heady feeling of accomplishment.
I made him lose control.
On the heels of the victorious feeling came another thought. She had wished for something she could control, something to which she was not just a helpless victim and maybe this was it.
It might not be much and it certainly wasn't something to boast about, but in this, with him, she had some sway. She could somehow direct how the encounters between them played out, and all she needed to learn was how.
…
At long last, Sandor's heart stopped its desperate attempt to hammer its way out of his ribcage after the most intense release he had in... forever, probably. Right now, he couldn't remember.
He knew he should be basking in it, slap himself on the back for having managed to both not hurt her and still get satisfaction for himself.
But something didn't feel right about this, something seemed off and he couldn't figure out what.
It had already started yesterday, when he held her missive in his hands that had in equal parts alarmed and weirdly unsettled him with its sweetness.
Please come home, she had written and the one thing that struck him most was the word 'home'.
He couldn't remember ever having called any place home. Certainly not Clegane Keep and no other place afterwards. The house in which Sansa now lived had never been more than a bolthole, a place to sleep when Gregor was in the city. He had never so much as eaten anything there, let alone that it would have occurred to him to make himself comfortable there.
When he had come into this house three nights ago, there had been a fire in the hearth and the scent of food in the air. Upstairs, a fresh pitcher of water and a bar of fine lye soap had been waiting for him and when he had sat down for a hearty meal, the most beautiful girl in the whole of Westeros was sitting across from him, trying to lure him into conversation.
Was this what people meant when they talked about home? Was this what he could expect every night if he went there?
He had not tried to find out. As subsequent events of that evening had proved, he could not trust himself to make the right choices when he was around her and he was sick of making the wrong ones.
Heat had blazed inside of him at the memory of what Sansa had served him as dessert that night and only when the little servant in front of him (Betsy, he had to remind himself) had started to giggle very quietly had he remembered that she was still waiting for an answer.
She'd curtsied and run after he had given his orders and left him to ponder the note with a mounting sense of impending danger.
Sure enough, he had barely cantered out of the keep on Stranger's back, when he noticed a man following him. There seemed to be about a handful of them, more or less skilfully tailing him to see where he was going, but it took more than a few hired thugs to fool him. Instead he had fooled them. He was pretty sure they now suspected Sansa's hideout in quite a different part of the city.
He'd hoped that eliminating the threat Sansa had been rightfully worried about would put his mind at ease once again, but it didn't. He was even more on edge than before when he reached the door of his house.
Instead of the warm welcome some foolish part of him had hoped for after his efforts, he found Sansa unsmiling and taciturn, interested only in Baelish's little intrigue. Although he had not truly expected her to be as openly willing to please him as she had been last time – not after the way he had thanked her for her efforts – he was inexplicably disappointed that he had to crawl into a lonely bed just like the three miserable nights before.
He fell asleep to the nagging feeling that something unknown was irrevocably shifting beneath him, between them. Something over which he had no control.
His dreams were not helping either.
Dreams of finding her standing in the snow, only clad in a thin shift, teeth chattering and her feet two blocks of solid ice. For some reason, it seemed he himself had taken away her cloak and he vaguely remembered giving it back, wrapping her into it and taking her in his arms to warm her up as he had done many times before.
This morning, when he came awake from an arousing dream to an even more stirring reality, with her firm breast in his palm and her pert little ass rubbing against his cock, the notion that what was different needn't be something bad had very shortly been in his head, but dissipated as soon as she reminded him what he had done to her.
Only that she threw him even more off-balance moments later when she told him he could do what by then he so badly wanted. He'd seen that she had been afraid, but there had been courage and resolve as well and as always, her strength made him desire her even more.
Despite himself, despite all his heroic resolutions to the contrary, he once again couldn't resist temptation. As if something in him had come alive that didn't heed the commands of his conscious mind, but solely followed the primal call of everything that was Sansa.
How her body had so readily accepted him, how she somehow had managed to take even more of his length than before had made his blood boil and his head spin, but it was her smile and the gentle hand on his face that finally undid him.
As if the last couple of days had never happened, as if he had never hurt and bloodied her, the crazy girl had smiled at him while he laboured above her. She who hadn't smiled for such a long time it felt like forever.
No woman had ever smiled at him during a fuck.
If well payed, they had pretended ecstasy instead of being indifferent or disgusted, some might not even have pretended it, but none of them had ever smiled.
But she had; and together with her gentle touch on the ruin of his face, it had turned him inside out. The hold he had on his baser instincts had been precarious at best and at her smile he'd let himself go for a few blissful seconds. It was a miracle he had somehow found the wherewithal to withdraw in the nick of time to spill outside of her.
He felt her eyes on him and wished it was dark so he could carefully reassemble himself before facing her again.
"Did you like it?" she asked.
There was a certain note of spirit in her voice, a hint of pride, maybe.
He sincerely started to loathe the stupid question, but didn't find it in himself to tell her so.
"Aye," he managed tersely.
To prevent her asking any more insipid questions - and to keep her from leaving the bed - he rolled to his side and drew her against him with one arm.
She fit into his embrace as if made for it and was blessedly quiet while he was drawn under into sleep once again.
...
tbc