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Chapter 20: Forgiving

Sansa's eyes felt like someone had scrubbed them with sand as she opened them to grey early morning light. The air in the room was chilly, but their little nest was cosy and warm and nothing could have compelled her to leave it.

Sandor was sleeping soundly, one arm possessively thrown over her as always, looking relaxed and almost peaceful in his sleep.

Her fingers itched to touch him, to trace the bold lines of his face, to feel the satiny smoothness of his hair, to just indulge in the joy that touching him, feeling him alive and breathing next to her brought with it.

The grittiness in her eyes got worse as her emotions threatened to make her cry again. As if she hadn't cried enough already to last her a lifetime. She ought to be dried out from all the tears she'd shed, but somewhere inside of her seemed to be a well of never ceasing emotions that had their only outlet either in tears or in passionate lovemaking.

Last night, of course, she'd come so much closer to put her fingers on exactly what it was she felt and it had scared her just as much as she knew it would. If not for the fact that he had so unmistakably proven to her that he was at her side, felt something similar and was equally terrified at it, she would have shut all of it away again just as she had done before.

He'd almost broken her, had made her cry again when he'd told her that he had kept his titles and lands for her, to have something "to offer her".

The wealth of meaning behind those words was more than she could take at once, so she had shelved it away after a few minutes of senseless crying. Like a curious specimen wondered about by the maesters of the Citadel, those words would be taken out and examined later until maybe their full meaning would reveal itself. But she would only do that once she felt more like herself again.

Although she couldn't even say exactly who "herself" was.

If last night had opened her eyes to one truth, it was that while she had had a wonderful childhood, all the years she should have spent growing into adulthood had been twisted and overshadowed by lies, deceit, cruelty, fear and pain. She had survived and Sandor had even managed to make her feel proud of it, but she had paid a price.

And she only slowly started to understand just how high a price it had been.

…

She must have fallen back asleep somewhere in the midst of her musings, because when next she woke the bed was empty. The splashing and spluttering behind the wooden screen alerted her at once as to where she would find her lover. Still not too keen on leaving the bed, she wriggled into a more upright position and awaited his re-emergence.

When he came out from behind the screen, gloriously naked, he seemed a bit startled to find her awake, but then a wide grin split his face.

"Morning, beautiful," he said, eyes flashing.

She was sure she didn't deserve the compliment, because she could just about imagine how she looked: her eyes still puffy and red, her cheeks blotchy and her hair a rat's nest.

"Good morning, gorgeous," she gave back, smiling at the tinge of red that coloured his cheekbones at her words.

She kicked the covers away from herself, not caring anymore about the chilly air that hit her skin. Looking at him, she knew she would be warm soon enough.

…

Although it had been tempting, they had not stayed in bed after their early morning love-making, mostly because Sandor's stomach had grumbled loud enough to disturb the neighbours as the smell of Betsy's cooking had reached their bedchamber.

There was no keeping him in bed after that.

Once properly dressed and done eating, they had sat down to a round of playing dice. Sansa would have loved to go outside, to stroll over the streets on Sandor's arm, taking a look around the market and buy a few things she thought the house still needed. It would have been wonderful, but with Littlefinger's men probably still searching for her, it had to stay a wishful dream. For now.

After the midday meal, Sandor suddenly had the idea of showing her a few tricks of how to defend herself, should the need arise and Eric or himself not be nearby. They went to the backyard of the house and practiced it bit, although most of the moves he bade her to try ended up with her locked in his embrace, being subjected to very thorough kisses. All in all, it might not have been all that instructive, but it sure had been pleasant.

The events of last night remained a topic not touched upon by unspoken agreement. They talked and laughed as if last night had not happened, the change between them only noticeable when his gaze sharpened on her when he thought himself unobserved, or in the way her own heart started hammering every time their eyes met.

In the late afternoon, Eric arrived with the intelligence that the keep was in an uproar, since Joffrey had decided not just to ride out with his wife and the Kingsguard, but with more or less the whole court. An expedition of that size required an amount of preparation nearly impossible to achieve in three days, so servants worked night and day, packing tents and provisions, clothes and implements. Goats, hens and pigs had to be herded ahead, a reconnaissance party had to be sent to find a suitable spot for the little city of tents the king planned on having.

"At least I won't have to sleep in some barn," Sandor grumbled when Eric was done talking. "The Kingsguard tents aren't half bad, with a real bed and even a brazier to heat them through cold nights."

They talked about Eric's tidings for a while, until Betsy's announcing that she would retire for the night if no one had any more wishes, alerted them to the fact that it was in fact quite late already.

While revelling in the novelty of having Sandor for herself for a whole day, Sansa had completely forgotten to prepare the bedroom, light fresh candles and so on, but luckily Betsy had been attentive enough to build a nice fire in the bedroom hearth.

Sandor vanished behind the wooden screen to wash, while Sansa used the time to take care of the preventive measures that had to be taken. Afterwards she got out of her dress and – only in her shift – quickly went around the room to light at least a few candles.

When Sandor was done with his ablutions, he was still in shirt and breeches and stopped dead in his tracks when he saw her. His eyes flickered to the hearth and then back to her and something in them darkened, his features growing pensive.

Whatever went through his mind didn't seem to be something pleasant, so she did the one thing that came to mind and drew her shift over her head, presenting herself to him while holding out her hand, smiling invitingly.

His steps towards her were hesitant for a reason she couldn't discern, but luckily, his kisses were not.

When he pulled back to look at her, some bleakness was still left in his eyes, but she could see the smouldering black heat of lust as well.

"Get on the bed," he said, a hoarse command, an echo from the past. And at this she knew exactly which past it was that haunted him.

She had shoved it away, the memory of that first night. Regarded as something that had went all wrong despite the fact none of them had intended it that way, long made up for. He'd never again mentioned it directly, but from all he'd told her in the meantime, she knew he still suffered from having hurt her back then.

"Only if you undress first," she said lightly, kissing the underside of his jaw. "I want to see all of you, it's only fair, don't you think?"

The corner of his mouth curled a little and his eyes sparkled in appreciation of her playing along.

"You won't like what you see," he rumbled, but nonetheless got out of his remaining clothes rather quickly.

Her sigh of appreciation as she saw him had nothing to do with playing a game. The visceral, immediate reaction she had to seeing him undressed had not diminished since he'd first bared himself to her and she had a suspicion it might be a long time before it would.

"You've no idea what it does to me to see you like this," she purred, pressing light kisses to his shoulder.

Spearing his fingers though her hair, he drew her to him for another scorching kiss that threatened to take her legs out from under her.

"The bed, Sansa," he whispered into her mouth. "Now."

Somewhat dizzy and on shaky legs, she was glad to be able to lie down and did so with the expectation of him joining her at once.

Which he didn't.

He stood at the side of the bed, visibly and violently aroused and stared down at her, his expression closed to her as it hadn't been for a long time.

"I told you to spread your legs that night, didn't I?"

She nodded, remembering the painful embarrassment at his request. They had been strangers in so many ways back then. Bound by buried feelings, drawn together by something even cruelty could not sever, but each living in a separate shell. To break through this with one brutal act of commanded intimacy had been a violation for both of them.

He sat down heavily on the side of the bed and as if to demonstrate how much things had changed since then, she opened her legs just as she had done back then. There was no trace of embarrassment left, only the wish to see the sadness and self-reproach vanish from his eyes.

At first, he didn't look at her, as if he had to prove to himself that he wasn't the man he had been before, he just lightly ran one hand over her thigh, the contact sending pleasant shivers of expectation through her.

"I should've done things differently."

Yes, he should have. Maybe even more than causing her pain, he regretted the one thing that still haunted her as well when thinking about that night. That they hadn't taken the time to really learn each other, to enjoy their unexpected closeness to the fullest instead of acting as if it was something to get over with as quickly as possible.

"Then do them differently now," she whispered.

There wasn't much talking for a while after that, because he first bend to lavish attention on her breasts and later went further down her body, making her tremble and moan and endlessly repeating the one word that her mind was still capable of supplying her with. His name.

Limp and utterly satisfied, it took her awhile to notice that he was still in the grip of the past, kneeling between her open legs, aroused and ready, but shackled by guilt and regret, seemingly unable to proceed without her help.

Getting up on her own knees, she came to him, straddled his lap and took him inside herself in one practiced move, moaning in bliss as she did.

As if the contact had drawn him from wherever he had been, he drew her closer, his hands guiding her movements over him while she held onto his shoulders, oblivious to all but the sensation of having him deep inside, triggering sensations that robbed her of sense and all her inhibitions.

"Gods, I love the feeling of having you inside me," she panted, beset by a sudden wish to let him know, although there was no way he could miss her excitement.

His movements abruptly ceased and a couple of heartbeats later, he drew her firmly against his chest, hindering the freedom of her own movement and rested his forehead against her shoulder.

"You didn't always," he said and most of her lust-drunkenness evaporated at the glumness of his voice.

Want and need almost drove her to tell him that it didn't matter anymore, that it was all in the past. But it was clear from the way he held on to her, that right at this moment, it mattered. She of all people knew enough of things that were in the past but never stayed there. If there was something… anything she could do to have that awful first night between them not taint what they had now, she would do it.

Secure in his embrace, with his cock still deliciously hard inside her, she once again forced herself to think back to that night. To this painful, impersonal coupling that they could not have made more horrible if they had tried.

She didn't remember the pain though, not now with how she felt with him inside. The pain had not been the worst of it, not at all.

The worst had been the sense of betrayal, the despair of witnessing a hope that had not even been fully formed back then smashed into a thousand cutting pieces. The soul-destroying conviction that he was just like all of them, just another man to torture and hurt her, only that he had been the one she had trusted.

"I am so fucking sorry," he whispered against the skin of her shoulder. She lifted her hands to bury them in his hair, turned her head so she could place a kiss on the burnt side of his face. "I didn't know...," he rambled on, "didn't understand..."

She knew that. Had learned of it over the past weeks and even now that she allowed herself to look back at that night, she found nothing she could blame on him. There had been no harmful intent, no pleasure in hurting her, no other crime than that of not knowing how to make it more bearable for her.

And aside from all of that, he might have saved both their lives with his decision to follow Joffrey's orders. If not for Margery's intervention that day in the throne room, their heads would have ended up on spikes that very day if Joffrey had found he had been duped.

"I forgive you," she said quietly and he held her a bit more tightly at that.

There was more to say than that, because looking back, she had her own regrets, but she knew now was not the time to say all that. This was about the remorse he felt, not about hers.

"And what I said to you… afterwards…"

He trailed off, shuddering in her arms at what she assumed was the memory of that night.

"I forgive you, Sandor," she repeated. "I've forgiven you a long time ago."

She rained small kisses on his face; light, soothing, loving. Kissed the mass of scars around his eye, his closed eyelids, his forehead.

"I forgive you."

She rolled her hips against him, thinking that maybe she should prove to him with actions what her words might be insufficient to convey.

"I forgive you," she whispered and moved again, getting a groan in reply. "Let me show you."

And so she showed him by undulating in his lap until they both found their completion. By kissing him and murmuring sweet nothings to him until they both fell asleep tightly wrapped in each other's arms.

...

Sandor came awake to a very peculiar sound that could have been called snoring if it hadn't been so adorable coming from Sansa.

He smiled and made a mental note to tease her about it come the morning and then carefully pulled her closer, wrapping his body around her as if he could protect her from the world's evil with his body alone.

His Sansa, this unbelievable, precious treasure fate had decided to drop into his lap.

A woman who had easily forgiven all his failings, all his transgressions, even the most horrible of them.

To this hour, he didn't know why the past had suddenly turned against him last night with such a viciousness, when before the memory of their first time – while being a constant, dull ache – had been at least bearable.

Maybe it was because they had let go of pretending the night before. Maybe it just had been time to stop pretending as if that night had not happened. Stop pretending he hadn't failed her in the worst possible way a man could fail the woman he cared for.

"I would ask for your forgiveness as well," she said, startling him. He hadn't noticed her coming awake.

She turned in his arms and looked at him. A lonely candle still burned on the nightstand, reflecting as an eerie point of light in her eyes, giving them an ethereal shine.

"There is nothing to forgive," he said with conviction.

"I have my regrets as well and I'd like you to listen to them."

Over the weeks spent with her, he'd learned that one of the worst insults done to Sansa over and over again had been to dismiss her worries, her pain and her feelings as something inconsequential and minor. He wouldn't make the mistake again of comparing his own pain to hers just to decide who of them had suffered more. He wouldn't belittle her guilt and her regrets only because he felt so very sorry for his own and he knew that this was exactly what she asked of him.

To take her seriously. To treat her as an equal in all things.

"I will," he said.

"One thing we had in common that night, you and I, was just not knowing how to make it better. I couldn't voice what I wanted and needed, because even that little, I didn't know back then. I hadn't known it could be good, so I didn't ask it of you. I just…offered you my body like a pound of flesh that was owed."

Her hands fluttered nervously over his chest and he felt her shiver against him.

"I did not even think to kiss you first before I undressed," she said, in a voice that alarmingly sounded like she was close to tears already. "I had some affection for you even back then, twisted and buried as it was and I should have shown it to you. I longed to see you as naked as I was, but I could not put my wish into words. I did nothing of all this. I did not even try to make it into more than just what I had dreaded it would be. A bargain and a duty."

The perspective she had just offered him left him momentarily without a response. Even more so than her forgiveness, her admission that she felt she, too, had a part in turning that night into a nightmare, lifted a weight from his chest.

Not that he felt it diminished his own shortcomings, but it felt freeing to think that they had both screwed up. Because, maybe, if she had done even one of the things she'd mentioned; kissed him or asked him to undress or maybe just asked him to be gentle and make it good for her, things could have been different. Just knowing that she herself had not wanted it to be a task to fulfil, a duty, would have helped him in many ways.

Their silence had been their most grievous mistake, even though both their pasts had taught them to be silent, to keep their wants and wishes to themselves and they therefore could not be fully blamed for not being as open with one another as they should have been.

Still, there remained the one question, the one insecurity he had not been able to shake over all this time and he felt that maybe now was the time to ask her about it.

"I forgive you, Sansa," he said, "I never thought there was something to forgive in the first place, but please swear to me you do not feel like that anymore. Like it's something you owe, like it is your duty."

He feathered kisses over her lips, her cheeks, her eyelids, then came back to her mouth again.

"It's not your duty," he repeated. Her lips searched and found his, seeking to deepen the kiss, but he didn't let her. "Tell me you know that."

"I know that, Sandor," she said softly, "but how can I not feel beholden to you?"

Inside his chest, something broke and splintered, its shards leaving bleeding, painful gashes wherever they went.

"Tell me to stop and I will," he forced himself to say, drawing away from her. "Tell me to leave and I'll go. Just let me protect you, that's the only thing I ask."

Although I don't know what life would be like without this, without you. It probably would be a very special sort of hell.

Her hand found its way into his hair, stroking, caressing, trembling lightly.

"How can you still think I'd want you to stop or to leave?" she whispered back as if they were sharing a secret. "When you're the only reason I get up in the morning, when you're the only one who makes me feel alive? When you're the only good thing in this world I have left? How can you expect me not to try everything to make you happy, to have you stay with me?"

Not for the first time, he thought how much better she was at putting things into words than he could ever hope to. What she'd said about feeling alive, about having found a reason to go on, to fight and to live, he felt that same thing about her.

Maybe he couldn't imagine living without her anymore, because being without her would not be life. It would be pointless drudgery, drawing breath, eating, sleeping, killing, fucking - all without aim and sense. Without joy. Just like before, only worse.

To know she felt the same, feared being without him just as much as he feared being without her, cut him up inside once again.

"I will never leave you, Sansa," he said, his voice down to his whisper. "For as long as you'll have me."

She smothered a sob beneath him.

He lifted a hind to wipe at her tears, but she grabbed it and pressed her mouth to his knuckles, strangely reminiscent to the other time she had done this.

"By the Old Gods and the New, on the empty tombs of my family, I – Sansa of House Stark – swear to you, Sandor Clegane, that I will never willingly leave your side or your protection… for as long as I live."

Never in his life had he given two farts about the swearing of oaths. All those ritualized promises no one intended to keep were only glorified lies, meant to give importance and status. But coming from her, spoken to him in the intimacy of their embrace, the importance and the full glaring honesty of her words struck him as the truest, purest form of a vow he had ever heard.

Nothing, not even a wedding vow spoken before a septon, could hold more conviction, more upright intent.

Never in his life had he ever considered swearing an oath himself, but just in this moment, there was nothing he wanted more. To match her promise with his own, to assure her that she could count on him whatever the situation, that he'd be there for her to the last drop of his blood.

"On the blood of the brother I killed, I – Sandor Clegane – swear to you, Sansa Stark, that I will never leave you, that I will always protect you, for as long as I live."

And I'll make you my wife, Sansa, I promise you that, too. Whether Joffrey wills it or not, I'll find a way.

...

tbc