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Chapter 16: Undressing

Tonight, Sansa had determined, Sandor wouldn't get out of showing himself to her. The decision had been made after waking up this morning, only to find Sandor already dressed and ready to go. As always.

Even now, with so many ugly truths revealed, with both of them having said things that stripped them to their souls, he still hid his body from her eyes and she was done just putting up with it.

Over the last two weeks, she had thought about confronting him about this every now and again and sometimes a few good ideas what to say to convince him had come to her, but she'd always shied away from taking that step, afraid of destroying all that had grown between them. It wouldn't do to make him feel as if things weren't pleasing to her as they were right now, as if she was dissatisfied or unhappy. She merely wanted to show him that there still could be so much more.

Then again, it often appeared to her as if he expected her to be dissatisfied and unhappy, almost as if he wanted her to be. Not on account of himself, but because he was unshakably convinced that this wasn't a situation she should be feeling comfortable with. Every so often, he reminded her in subtle and not so subtle ways of how lowering it was for her to be his mistress. Be it with blunt words as he had used a few nights ago, be it with the heartbreakingly sweet gift he'd given her.

Walking over to the little sideboard where she kept her valuables, she took the little wooden box he'd given her and gently ran her fingers across its delicate surface. The box alone was a superior piece of craftsmanship, dark wood inlaid with lighter pieces, forming an intricate pattern. Opening it, the little silver direwolf glowered at her with ruby-red eyes.

Be what you were born to be, the little wolf seemed to growl, be a wolf, a Stark.

She shut the box again, sighing.

If she'd been a common girl, her situation would be envied. Being the kept woman of a lord, being pampered and gifted with costly jewellery, having her own servant and house and a man who would fulfil all her wishes. He even insisted on her having and wearing dresses of the quality she would have worn would she still live at the keep.

And their nights… their nights were something worthy of a queen. She was sure Margery did have nothing even close to the joy they could give each other in bed.

Sometimes she thought about how it would be to live this life forever, bearing him children who people would call bastards, but who would be loved and cared for nonetheless and have bright futures as septons, maesters, merchants or – if they had girls – respectable wives of middle class citizens. He would not leave or discard her if she was pregnant, that much she knew. He was not that kind of man.

Still, as much as such daydreams appealed sometimes, she could not forget herself and if she did, he was there to remind her.

So she did what Sibyl had taught her. Fished the little sponge out of its jar every night, carefully soaked it in vinegar and placed it deeply inside herself. Drank moon-tea shortly before her moonblood was to be upon her to prevent his seed from taking root in her.

Reminded of this, she got out of bed, padded over to the wash-stand and began with her morning ritual of cleaning herself – inside and out – and preparing herself for another day of what was now her life – for the time being, if Sandor was to be believed.

Sandor, she thought with a smile, who tonight would learn that her being more than just his mistress would mean he'd have to contend with a Stark's stubbornness.

…

As requested, Betsy had bought two dozen lightly scented candles, which Sansa planned on lighting in the bedroom and she had built a low fire in the hearth which she intended to keep burning until he arrived.

She would wait the whole night if she had to.

To that end, she had taken her needlework up with her and while working on the trimmings of a new dress Betsy had ordered for her on Sandor's behest, she prepared what she would say to him to convince him that she not just wanted, but needed to see him.

He arrived the minute the last vestiges of daylight had vanished beneath the horizon, as if he had just waited for it to be finally dark. She suspected that this might actually be the truth of it.

Coming to a halt inside the door, he took a slow look around, assessing the situation he had stumbled into. His eyes narrowed as she sauntered toward him and the suspicious look in them told her he would not give in to her without a fight. Best not to join the battle too early then.

"Let me help you with this," she offered after having kissed him in welcome.

Somewhat reluctantly, he let her squire for him and help him with his armour, but then gave her a forbidding scowl when she made to remove his shirt.

"Need to wash first," he grumbled and vanished behind the wooden screen.

She used the time to fold back the covers from the bed and light a few more candles, inhaling their sweet scent of honey and vanilla. Betsy had chosen well; they were worth the little fortune she had to pay for them.

Not surprisingly, Sandor came back still dressed in shirt and breeches, eyeing first the hearth and then the candles with open hostility.

"Do we need all that fire around here?" he asked and she had to bite her lip at the sulky tone in his voice. He meant to make her feel guilty, counted on her being too mindful of his fears to insist on having burning candles and a burning hearth fire in the room while he was in it.

Only that she knew that he liked warmth and light just fine, just as everyone else, never objected to the cosy fire in the sitting room or the candelabra on the table when they were eating their dinner.

"Yes, we do," she said decisively and took his hand to draw him to the bed. Unlike all the nights before, she actually had to pull at his hand.

"Sit down," she commanded. "I want to show you something."

Sandor sat down obediently and while clearly still morose, seemed to warm a bit to the situation when she slowly unlaced the front of her dress.

For what she had in mind, she wore one of her old, too tight dresses, only halfway laced and only her sleeping shift beneath. His eyes were fixed on the lazy movements of her hands as she undid her laces one by one and then removed the dress without her usual haste.

Usually, he would help her with undressing, or at least try to while being much more interested in touching her bare skin, but now he remained motionless, only his eyes betraying that her show didn't leave him as unfazed as he appeared to be.

Sibyl had told her about this, about how men could be astoundingly patient and passive while watching a woman undress, how they loved to have their anticipation and want stoked to a fever pitch just by letting their gazes roam where their hands or mouths usually would.

Sansa had counted on that, hoped it worked for him as well, so she could make her point.

Obviously, in this, Sandor wasn't different from other men. He looked at her as if ready to devour her whole and once she stood in front of him naked, lifted both his hands to draw her to him.

She nimbly danced out of his reach.

"Do you like what you see?" she asked, deploying a coy and sultry tone that was very unlike her, but served her purpose. He should know she played a game, he shouldn't feel safe.

He minutely lifted his good eyebrow, then pointedly looked down at his crotch, then back up again, the corner of his mouth kicking upwards a bit while his eyes held a challenge.

"What do you think?" he asked.

She smiled broadly. Looking down where he had directed her attention, the answer was a clear yes. The way he so carefully entered into her little game told her she was still making headway and that for now he was content to have her lead him.

She lifted her left leg und put her foot next to his thigh, placing a hand next to her knee. As she had suspected and counted on, his gaze immediately went to what she had exposed to him, lingering on the place between her legs with a heated intensity that felt like a caress, sowing some doubts whether she would have the fortitude to go through with this without losing out to desire before she was done.

"Do you see that?" she asked.

His answer came with a bit of a delay. "What am I supposed to see?"

"That white patch of skin there?" she said, pointing again to her knee.

Slowly, clearly unwilling, he dragged his gaze away from her woman's place to dutifully look at her knee.

"Aye," he said then looked up at her eyes.

She took her foot down from the bed again, to the sound of a dissatisfied growl from him.

"Reminds me of my sister every time I see it," she said lightly. "She stole one of my favourite dolls, the one my septa had just helped me sew a pretty new dress for and she ran around the courtyard with it, threatening to throw it into the mud. I ran after her to get it back, and then fell and scraped my knee on the flagstones. She wouldn't stop laughing after that, so delighted that instead of the doll, I myself had ended up dirty, bedraggled and in tears besides."

He nodded.

"She was quite the little she-wolf, your sister," he said.

For a second, Sansa had to fight the tears welling up in her eyes. One of these days, she would like to tell him about all of them, about her wild little sister and her brave older brother. About her parents, stern and loving both. About the two little brothers she'd lost. She'd tell him and he would listen, quiet and sympathetic and she would bathe him in her tears and let him hold her through her sobs, but it would not be today. Today was about something else.

Sitting down on his lap, she pointed at a place below her right shoulder, where four parallel scratch marks, white with age, showed on her skin.

"See these?"

Again he nodded. "Looks like scratches... a cat?"

He got a little kiss for his correct answer.

"A cat. I was maybe six or seven and just wanted to cuddle with her. Turned out cats don't like to be held like babes. At least that one didn't."

He chuckled and carefully wrapped his arms around her, nuzzling into her neck. Since this was threatening to make her lose her focus, she got up again. Seeing his confusion that threatened to turn to impatience, she directed him to scoot farther up the bed and rest his back against the headrest, his legs stretched out in front of him.

Slowly, she then crawled towards him to settle astride over his thighs.

His breath came as a hiss when he let it loose after she was where she wanted to be.

"Sansa," he said and there was a dark threat in his voice as well as in his eyes. "I'm not made of stone."

Knowing the danger well enough, she smiled.

"I know," she whispered, leaning forward to give a light kiss to his burned cheek. "That's what I am counting on."

Then she pulled back, and showed him the backside of her left upper arm, where a long pink line about a hand long could be seen.

"This...," she started but was interrupted.

"I know this one...," he growled. "Joffrey's riding crop. He was bloody fast with it, left me no time to react. Drew blood on the first hit."

She nodded confirmation.

"And this...," she skimmed her hand over her belly, over the scar he often gave so much special attention to.

"Trant."

"This one..."

"A dagger, Joffrey. Wanted to carve his initials on your breast above your heart. Glad you fainted, didn't have a hard time to convince him it was a bad idea after that."

His eyes were still dark, but the darkness had shifted, changed. Where before it had been desire, the velvety, heated blackness of want, it was a lightless pit of anguish now, of remembered pain and helplessness.

She'd foreseen that, too. As painful as it was, as it would continue to be for now, she had planned on this.

"I should've fainted more often," she said, almost carelessly.

"You should have," he gave back, not at all careless.

"My arm...," she continued, pointing.

"Blount, the idiot," he said. "Drew his sword to intimidate you on Joff's orders and managed to cut you while doing so. I would've laughed at the expression on his face if not worried he'd taken your arm right off."

"Those on the back of my thighs..."

"Trant again...," he said. "First time I tried to stop Joff and made a mess of it. Not about to be grateful to the buggering Imp, but it was good he came when he did back then."

She nodded, remembering. It was an odd discovery that this recollection wasn't a hurtful one for her for many reasons. Instead of the pain, the humiliation, she remembered the raspy "Enough!" from his throat, sounding as if dragged up from a gravelly pit. The first of many. Remembered the feel of scratchy wool on her naked skin, still warm and smelling of him. It might have been the first time, that she had noticed his scent.

"Then there are those on my back...," she said and turned a bit to the side.

He closed his eyes, grimacing.

She knew he didn't need to look. He knew those scars, had seen them when they were fresh wounds, bleeding and stinging so badly the insides of her cheeks had been bitten bloody in her desperate attempt to hold in the sobs and tears.

When he opened his eyes again, his lips had turned bloodless, the darkness in his eyes terrifying.

He lifted his hand once again, ghosted gentle fingertips over the silvery-pink lines.

"Those are my fault," he said as softly as his gravelly voice allowed.

Sansa snorted and shook her head.

"How could they, you weren't even there," she said lightly, trying not to let the terrible memory get to her. He hadn't been there and somehow that had made it so much worse. Because she couldn't rely on him to stop Joffrey, who had swung the whip himself that time. She had no idea if she would be left crawling bleeding back to her own rooms, with no strong arm to lean on, no one to care if her wounds were seen to. "Or at least, not in the beginning."

Sandor had barged in later, visibly the worse for drink, shouting his displeasure at Joffrey and glaring death and destruction at anyone else.

Joffrey had let go off the whip at once, blaming her for what happened. Said that if only she would not always act as if she felt no pain, things wouldn't have gone so far.

Sandor's hands had trembled when he had reached for her, with the aftereffects of drink, she supposed.

Not knowing how to touch her when he couldn't just take her into his arms and carry her when her back was a bleeding mess, he threw her over his shoulder like a sack of grain and staggered out of Joffrey's chamber, swaying and cursing.

"That is why they're my fault," he said, pulling her from her memory. "Because I wasn't there."

He shook his head, then sighed.

"Joffrey had gone hawking with Margery that day and Tyrell and Blount had been on duty to ride with them," he explained what in part she already knew. "Usually, Margery would spend the evening and night with Joffrey. So I thought I would have a day off, that he'd be leaving you alone. I went and..."

He trailed off and the words not said were as loud as spoken ones. Went and got himself some female company, went and got drunk afterwards.

"They must have fought or something, I never found out. He'd been angry and naturally it was you he sent for."

"Why did you come back at all?" she asked.

"Didn't want to pass out in the filth of some back alley, so I went back to sleep it off. Only meant to check up on you quickly when I found your chambers empty."

A weird, almost painful feeling curled around her heart at the thought that despite being drunk and exhausted, he'd gone to her chambers to check on her instead of just going to the White Sword Tower.

"I was so glad you came for me," she said, stroking his linen-clad chest.

Back then, she had barely kept herself from sobbing out his name when she saw him.

He shook his head, anger a living thing in his eyes.

"Too late," he said through gritted teeth. "If I'd been there..."

His fingers feathered over the scars once again.

"Never left the keep again after that," he said. "Stopped drinking, too."

She gaped at him in open-mouthed surprise. That incident had been more than five months ago. Had he truly not been... out of the keep for that long?

"Didn't you miss..."

"The wine?", he supplemented what she hadn't intended to ask. "Dreadfully. Was sick like a dog for days. But I am glad now I went through with it, it's a filthy habit anyway."

She gave him a meaningful look. "I meant..."

"I know," he cut her off, the corner of his mouth curling slightly. "That's a bit of a filthy habit, too and wouldn't have worked for me without the wine anyway."

For her. Nearly half a year ago, he had quit wine and whores and he'd done it for her. The realization brought the painful squeezing back around her heart and robbed her breath for a moment. When she could breathe again, she bent forward to kiss him. Wildly, possessively and passionately as if her intention was to make up for all the months he had lost out on sexual satisfaction due to having to watch over her.

He was the one who started gentling the kiss, when Sansa would have given in to her need and forgotten about her plan. It was him who pulled back, who held her at arm's length to look at her.

From her face down to her breasts, her belly and finally to where she was wet and wanting, to where dampness probably had already seeped through his breeches.

He made no move, just looked at her, his eyes on her face again after a while. His hands came to rest on her thighs and something worked behind his eyes, as if he fought an internal battle of which she could not influence the outcome.

"I know...," he started, then swallowed, his larynx slowly and visibly working in his throat. "I understand what you are trying to tell me."

She waited, only just barely resisting the temptation to hold her breath.

"You are beautiful, Sansa. Most beautiful woman in existence, if you ask me."

Despite herself, Sansa felt her eyes moisten at the unexpected compliment.

"I don't mind your scars, they're part of you and while I will forever regret not having prevented some of them... hells, all of them had I been able to... they don't make me not want to look at you."

Slowly, gently, he let his hands wander where his gaze had been before, threatening to have her lose the fight against her tears with his heart-breaking gentleness. This was what she'd wanted - needed - to see. This fearsome, indomitable warrior touching her as if she was made of eggshells. Strong hands, calloused from holding swords and shields, gliding over her skin feather-like and with the utmost care.

Sandor Clegane being both her gentle lover from the darkness and the man who people called the Butcher of the Blackwater, the Kinslayer, the Hound.

She had needed to see that they were one and the same man.

"And I cannot even tell you what it does to me to see you, to watch you. The joy of having you in front of my eyes... like this."

At this, his fingers found their way between her legs. He drew them along her cleft then thrusted them inside, making her cry out with an onslaught of pleasure she had been unprepared for. Quite surprisingly, watching had stoked her own desire just as much as it had his.

He understands, her mind rejoiced with the last coherent thought it had. He understands I wouldn't mind his scars for the same reason he doesn't mind mine. He understands how much more bliss we could discover if allowed to use all our senses.

She was about to sink against him, let pleasure take its heated course through her, when he withdrew his fingers, held her by her shoulders and let his gaze penetrate her, insistent, earnest.

"It's not vanity, Sansa."

"I hope it's not propriety, either," she said, only half-joking and not a little impatient.

His lips quirked at that, his eyes sparkling with mirth, but he turned serious again only a moment later.

"I've been hacked and slashed and sewn back up again," he said insistently. "Scratched, bitten and burned. Punctured by arrows and mangled by crossbow bolts. Flogged, too, a time or two."

She nodded, weakly, suddenly tired of fighting, of thinking of another point to make. She had made all of them. She knew his scars by touch, had traced them and tried to think what might have caused them. None of them would come as a surprise.

With her body weak and melting from withheld release, she considered just giving in, just keeping things as they had been. Surely it could be enough. It was so much more than most women had.

"I cannot think it will give you any joy to look at what's left," he concluded.

"Let me be the judge of that," she whispered. "Please."

He closed his eyes for a moment, sighed, the lifted his arms over his head, grabbed the back of his shirt and drew it off, then chucked it to the side.

After laying back down, he closed his eyes, his mouth a grim, bloodless line. A defendant awaiting a verdict and not expecting it to be in his favour.

He had been right in assuming that the sight would nearly be more than she could take, but wrong in how it would affect her.

His skin was indeed a landscape of violence and pain. Should they take the time to enumerate his scars - as she planned on doing at some point - to have a story for each, it should take hours if not days to do so. It physically hurt to imagine all the things he had endured for them to leave such deep and visible testimony.

But his skin spanned a body so solid, healthy and strong, she had never before seen its equal. Not even the statues of the Warrior decorating the septs she'd seen, exaggeratedly impressive as they seemed, had a chance to compete with was before her eyes.

His scars did not detract from the impression, they reinforced it. Physical pain had forged him, touched the surface, but only ever honed and strengthened what was beneath. He'd come out of everything on top, as the victor and stronger than before. He'd triumphed over his enemies' cruelty.

She let her hands glide over him, the tactile sensation so familiar, when the sight was so enticingly new.

"You're breath-taking," she whispered in awe and indeed very much out of breath.

What his clothes concealed with a pretension to conformity and civil appearance, was something so unequivocally male and savage, something that spoke so clearly of pure physical strength, of being indomitable and invincible, the feelings surging up inside her at the sight were equally savage. As if her most ancient female instincts recognized a worthy male, she was drawn to him, compelled beyond being able to resist by the urge to be conquered and possessed.

Not even caring if he protested, she got off him long enough to make short work of his breeches and climbed back on top of him.

Though she would have liked to explore his skin in more detail, look at every scar, trace the contours of every bulging muscle and the path of every vein that lay as a thick, blueish rope across his mighty arms, her body had other demands right now and looking at him, he felt the same even though he was still curiously passive.

His pupils were huge and dark when he opened his eyes, just as she lifted herself a little, to position him at her entrance.

"Gods…Sansa…," he croaked when she impaled herself on him and they both had to close their eyes at the intensity of the sensation this unfamiliar angle of penetration brought.

She hadn't gone to all this trouble to enjoy this in the darkness behind her eyelids, however, so she opened her eyes to find him looking at her with the same black hunger from when she had undressed for him. He ran his hands up her thighs and around her hips, spanned her waist and then ran his hands up her ribcage to cup her breasts, stroke them until she thought she'd go up in flames from the sensations shooting from her nipples right into her womb.

Clumsily moving atop him, the task of being the active one in this a bit more complicated than she had thought, she tried to take the edge of her need.

A slow, very male smile spread over his face and then his hands wandered downward again to take a disconcertingly firm hold of her bottom, repositioning her a little and aiding her movements in a way that soon made her forget herself entirely, lost in a maelstrom of desire.

In this position, he stroked places inside her that brought pleasure so wildly exciting she was soon panting, her movements becoming even more erratic and laboured. She fell forward and rested her hands flat on his chest, only to find that like this, her sweet spot rubbed against him with every downward stroke which brought her even closer to completion, while Sandor looked as if he could go on for quite a while longer.

"I can't…," she panted.

To have him like this, riding him, as Sibyl had called it, had been one of the things she had always been curious about, even though Sibyl had warned that taking the active part would not be as easy as it seemed in theory.

Her release beckoned, almost in reach, but the more she wanted, needed it, the less she was able to move.

"I can," he said and then - finally, thankfully - took over completely. Surged into her with all the power his virile body was capable of and in no time hurled her into a climax that had her throw back her head and howl as ecstasy crashed through her.

He joined her in bliss only moments later, her name a strangled cry on his lips as his seed spurted hotly into her; too soon for her to have her eyes opened in time to watch him.

Only opening her eyes as his face was relaxed again, his eyes on her soft and content, a smile lingering on his lips that was both very proudly male and very sweet at the same time, she smiled back. Happy and not a little proud herself.

"It sure was worth it," he drawled, his smile growing wicked.

And just like that, he earned himself another long, sweet kiss.

...

tbc