Chapter 22: Loving

She flew at him the moment he walked through the door, not even giving him the time to wonder if she would be mad at him for the little prank he'd played her.

He had no idea if he had been breaking a rule with it that he hadn't been aware of, but it had felt deliciously decadent to prolong his yearning to see her again, touch her again, for just a few moments, to hear how much she'd worried about him, how badly she wanted him back.

Even it wasn't against any rules, it surely was selfish, but he had gloried in the feelings it brought for the few moments it lasted.

Her fiercely passionate welcome almost toppled him backwards as she wound her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, fusing her mouth to his in a kiss that left no question of whether or not she had missed him just as badly as he had missed her.

Thoughts of the whole bloody excursion fled his mind completely when Sansa continued kissing him with careless abandon, pressing herself against him with an urgency he understood well enough because he felt the same way.

He hoped that Betsy and Eric had thought to make themselves scarce, otherwise there was no guarantee they wouldn't see more of both Sansa and him than they wanted, because he wasn't sure they'd even make it to the bedroom.

His blood was pounding in his ears as he turned them and pressed her against the wall.

Despite his mindless haste to come home as soon as he wouldn't be missed in the hustle and bustle that surrounded the king's homecoming, he'd thought to get rid of his armour first, leaving it to his squire to deal with the heap of metal he'd left in the stables.

So, there was nothing more between them than her skirts that were already rucked up around her waist, her smallclothes which met an unfortunate end as scraps of torn fabric in his fist and the fall of his breeches which he fumbled open with shaking fingers.

She was moaning and writhing in his hold, her cunt dripping wet as he touched her and hot and welcoming as he rammed his cock inside her, too far gone and too impatient to take things slow.

If it hadn't been for her own apparent impatience, for the way she clawed and bit him as if wanting to devour him, he might have managed to be at least a little more careful, a little gentler, but it seemed as if neither of them needed or wanted gentleness at the moment.

There was only pure, unadulterated need between them, the desperate urge to re-confirm something that had been put to the test for all those days, to find back to one another, merge back into what they've been before without delay and without restraint.

In the back of his mind, he recognized the savagery with which he was thrusting into her, knew the reason why she felt a bit different than usual. With her legs thrown over his arms and him holding them as far apart as possible, he was deeper inside than he'd ever been before, deeper than he had taught himself to go on account of not wanting to hurt her.

He faltered in his movements when his cockhead rammed against the entrance to her womb, convinced he was causing her pain.

She moaned and scraped her fingernails over his scalp.

"More," she said on an exhale, her fingernails digging into his skin to reinforce the command.

Not able to resist her plea, he thrust into her again with all the force from before, expecting a sound of pain but getting a breathless cry instead. The last vestiges of control fled him then, his possession of her not hindered anymore by anxiety or reason. The barrier inside her moved and tilted, allowed him access to her body so complete he was buried to the hilt on every thrust, his full length encased in a tight wet hold that threatened to bring him to his knees.

Spots of white danced behind his closed eyelids as her inner walls clamped around him in the familiar rhythm of her release, her hoarse shout of completion drowning his own groan as his release struck him with the force of a charging warhorse.

His legs gave then and he had just enough strength left to cushion her fall with his body as they landed in a heap of limbs and fabric on the floor, still wrapped around each other, their desperate gulps for air the only sound in the room.

"Welcome home, Sandor," Sansa said after a long while, her voice still somewhat hoarse.

He couldn't help but chuckle at the belated greeting, and his chuckle was accompanied by a giggle from her, which soon enough erupted into breathless laughter. She showered his face with kisses while she was still laughing and crying too and he wasn't sure his eyes didn't water as well as they clumsily groped at each other, assured each other in half-sentences - frequently interrupted by kisses - of how much they'd missed each other, how happy they were to be together again.

…

They managed to get upstairs eventually; managed to get undressed and crawl into bed. Sansa even went down to the kitchen to fetch some food as his stomach made itself heard and patiently waited until he'd eaten his fill before pouncing on him again, not that he minded.

Afterwards, he asked her who of them would be more sore in the morning, but she'd already fallen asleep, curled against him.

He'd missed that at least as much as he'd missed fucking her. The way she fell asleep in his arms so trustingly, the way she didn't seem to mind his bulk almost burying her, his arms nearly crushing her slim body.

But maybe he'd been wrong about that, too. If nothing else the last hour had proven that she was way tougher than he'd suspected, that he could give her all of himself, all his unrestrained passion without breaking her. That he could hold her as close as he needed her without her feeling smothered or caged.

With a familiar sweet pain in his chest, he at last followed her into sleep.

…

Sansa woke at dawn on her stomach, her hair in so much disarray around her, she had to swipe it back from her face to be able to see anything.

Sandor was sprawled on his stomach as well, scarred side of his face pressed into the pillow, the other one as relaxed, as she had never seen him before.

Her insides quivered with remembered pleasure as she thought back to the night before, to the mindlessness of how they had pounced on one another, the unrestrained fury of their lovemaking, the thrilling deepness of his possession.

Another shudder of delight sent a wave of warmth through her and she let her eyes lovingly wander over the exposed parts of his body. The bunching muscles in his arm, which he had shoved half under the pillow, the long, elegant lines of his broad back.

It might be a primitive impulse, but her whole being was thrilled at the thought of being woman to this man. That it was her of whom he wanted to be protector, lover and provider.

Warmth grew and spread through her, originating from a place halfway between her heart and her womb and she had to look away from him for a moment to deal with the wave of something that seemed too powerful for her to handle.

As she turned her gaze inwards, the wave of warmth fell into itself as she remembered that she had forgotten something in last night's frenzy. There had been no thought for using the little sponge.

With her breath held, she waited for fear to set in, or for panic. None came. There was only a quiet calm inside her, an acceptance of something that had been meant to be sooner or later. There would be no more sponges for her, nor moontea either.

She was woman to this man, in every possible way.

…

When nature clamoured for her to get out of bed and she went to pull on her shift for a quick visit to the privy, he started to stir, hand groping for her on the empty bedsheet.

"Don't go," he rasped sleepily, sounding and looking as if he was still mostly asleep.

"I'll be back," she assured him softly.

"Stay, I want to have you again."

She chuckled a little. What with one thing and another, they hadn't yet talked about what had transpired during the king's outing, but it was as clear as day that he was utterly exhausted, a state not helped by the activities of last night. Despite his seemingly inexhaustible stamina, she was sure he needed way more rest than he'd gotten so far.

Bending over him, she feathered a soft kiss onto his cheek.

"Sleep, love," she murmured against his skin in a tone meant to be soothing, "I'll be there when you'll wake and need me."

"I'll always need you."

The wave of feeling from before thundered through her again and this time, no closing her eyes and steeling her resolve could make it go away, could make it less overwhelming. Tears shot hotly into her eyes as she realized quite suddenly that at some point between first laying her eyes on him and this moment, she had fallen in love with this man.

As if the last shackle of ice had melted from around her heart in the onslaught of warmth, it swelled in her chest, choking her with the magnitude of the feeling she'd discovered.

She loved him; had loved him for what felt like an eternity.

And despite everything being said about this particular emotion, it wasn't something either of them could afford to feel.

"Damn," she said quietly to herself, while tears ran unchecked down her cheeks.

…

Standing at the window of the sitting room, looking outside with unseeing, tear-clouded eyes, Sansa sobbed quietly into her shawl.

She could not love, not him. Not the last human being in this world left to her. Not the one whose touches and kisses were as vital to her as the next breath. Her love would doom him as surely as it had doomed everyone else and she could not lose him, too. She'd lost everyone she had ever loved, so no, she would not, could not love him. It was the only way to keep him safe. The only way to keep herself sane.

"Is something amiss, my lady?"

Unnoticed by her, Betsy had come up to her and looked at her with concern marring her lovely face.

Sansa shook her head.

"No," she croaked, realizing how ridiculous that answer must be with her crying like this.

"Do you have family, Betsy?" she asked, suddenly anxious to share her fears with someone who might understand them.

"I'm an orphan, my lady," Betsy said. "Grew up in the King's Landing orphanage."

New tears came to Sansa's eyes at that. Here she was crying over her loss to a girl who'd grown up without any family at all. How utterly spoiled she must seem!

"It wasn't that bad," Betsy assured her, slightly touching her arm in an apparent misinterpretation of her tears. "Not bad at all, actually. The orphanage has a number of good-hearted, wealthy patrons. We were never wanting for food or clothes and were only beaten when we broke the rules. They even make sure every child gets into a respectable position when they leave, so as not to end up thieves or whores."

Sansa gave a mute nod at the information, feeling embarrassed that over all the weeks she had spent with Betsy, she had not even thought to inquire about how she'd grown up.

"I've heard about your family," Betsy offered after a few moments. "Eric told me everything he knew. I never knew my parents, don't know if I have any siblings. I was left on the steps of the orphanage as a baby. I guess it must be that much harder losing those you loved than never knowing your family at all."

Maybe Betsy had the right of it. Maybe it would have been way easier to have no family at all, than to have loved and then lost them.

"I cannot lose him, too," she said, Betsy's talk of loss reminding her of the reason for her misery.

Betsy's eyes widened, as if it was news to her that Sandor could ever be in danger.

"I don't think that will happen, my lady," she said, once again putting an assuring hand on Sansa's arm. "Eric says the master is the strongest knight in the whole of Westeros and that everyone is afraid of him."

"He's no knight," Sansa said, a reflex as immediate as it was ridiculous.

A crooked smile appeared on Betsy's face, but vanished again as she peered up in Sansa's face, as if the answer to why she was so miserable was written there.

"Why are you suddenly afraid for him?"

Should she tell her? Would it make it more real – and therefore more dangerous to him – to let another person in on this deadly secret?

"I think I love him."

"You think?" Betsy inquired, an eyebrow raised in patent disbelief and then she chuckled as if Sansa had just made an incredibly lame jest. "I bet even the cobbler two houses down knows you love him. You certainly make no secret out of how much joy you give each other during the nights."

Red-hot heat shot into Sansa's cheek at Betsy's words. Had they truly been that loud? For some reason, their bedchamber always seemed to her a retreat, a protected shell of absolute privacy, when in truth it was just an ordinary room... with wooden walls.

And Betsy's chamber more or less right above theirs.

"That must have been… disturbing," she stammered, shame growing by the second.

Betsy waved her concern away.

"A bit of wool in my ears and I slept like a babe."

A barrage of unwelcome feelings shot through her, embarrassment and shame the most evident, but fear as well, anxiety at being so carelessly obvious when this could easily have given them away. There was some hope as well, that Betsy might just be exaggerating to tease her. Over the weeks of living so closely together almost every hour of every day, the lines between mistress and servant had become somewhat blurred.

"So, how is it bad thing, your love of him?" Betsy inquired.

"Everyone I ever loved has died," Sansa said.

The girl took her hand in hers, her skin warm and rough from all the times her hands were submerged in water.

"I do not envy your losses, my lady," she began, her voice clear and compassionate and her accent much more cultured than it had been at first, probably owing to her exposure to Sansa, "but I wish I had had a family like yours. Even the pain of losing them, I think, could not destroy the joy it must have been to be loved unconditionally and to love like that in return."

Was she right? Was it better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all?

Would she trade the burning, cutting pain of the loss of her family for not having known them at all? Would she have rather grown up an orphan like Betsy, for only the comfort of numbness?

And would she willingly trade the joy being with Sandor was giving her for the prospect of not feeling pain should he be taken from her?

Sansa looked down at her hand, resting in Betsy's.

"I never really valued it when I had it," she said. "Just took it as a given that I should be loved and protected."

"And now?"

She thought of the man sleeping upstairs, of his ferocity and his gentleness. Thought of how he had been at her side through the very worst, how he had endured ridicule and embarrassment, how he had risked his life and livelihood for her time and again. Remembered how they had found their way to one another, stumbling and fumbling, and how rewarding it had been. How the world shrunk and disappeared when they made love. She thought about how he knew all her secrets, even the darkest ones, just as she knew his. How she could truly only ever be happy when he was with her.

"Now," she said slowly, "I think I've been given more than any one person has a right to have."

Betsy shook her head and smiled at her.

"Fear doesn't suit you, my lady," she said. "You cannot let it rule your life."

Sansa nodded. She knew that. Of course she did. She was a Stark and she ought to conquer her fears, not bow down to them.

But as so many other things, this was easier said than done.

…

Sansa had peeked into the bedroom every so often during the day, only to find the man she loved still asleep, lightly snoring at times.

She'd asked Eric to go up to the keep to speak to Sandor's squire and see if he was being missed. Eric reported back that things were still pretty chaotic at the keep, the dust from the king's arrival not having settled yet while preparations for the feast – scheduled to the day after tomorrow – were already underway.

To Sansa's surprise, Eric brought back a missive that had been delivered to Sandor's chambers at the White Tower, but was addressed to her.

My dear Lady Sansa,

since I am finding myself back in King's Landing, I would love to once again share your refreshing company.

Seeing as it is very hard to contact you directly these days, I do hope this missive reaches you and you'd give an old woman the joy of meeting you at the splendid feast our merciful monarch has planned.

For some reason, he seems disinclined to invite you himself and the Queen Mother, may the Seven protect her, is equally hesitant.

I wouldn't be averse to you appearing in the company of a certain Kingsguard, if you should be worried on this account. You'll be shown the respect your birth and station demands.

Olenna Tyrell

Sansa let the letter fall out of her fingers as if it was poisoned.

Lies, she thought. Intrigues on top of deceit and subterfuge. Not a shred of honesty, only a maze of untruths and half-lies through which she had to navigate. A game with no rules and no mercy, where you could trust no one.

At that thought, sudden, incandescent happiness washed over her, making her laugh aloud with joy.

Not no one.

There was the one she trusted even more than she trusted herself. She wasn't alone on an island in a sea of lies, surrounded by bloodthirsty creatures.

She loved the one honest, upright and brave man this land had left.

She was NOT alone.

…

Sandor was still sleeping when she tiptoed into the bedroom late in the afternoon, undressed as quietly as she could manage and slipped under the covers.

As if on instinct, he immediately turned to her and pulled her into his arms, half-crushing her with his weight as he sometimes did, which oftentimes reminded her of the saying of 'hiding under a rock'. She smilingly thought how it was far safer to hide underneath of one Sandor Clegane.

I love you, sounded through her head as she deeply breathed in his scent and let his body's warmth wash over her. The thought still wasn't all joyful, despite her earlier elation. Maybe it would always be this way, that her joy would be interwoven with worry, her happiness darkened by thoughts of loss.

But maybe even those who had not been through her experiences felt that way and the real challenge of loving and being happy wasn't to forget the dangers that lurked, but to be brave and undaunted despite knowing the risks.

"Stay where you are," a sleep-roughened voice rumbled into her ear. "I'll be right back."

"Aye," she said, imitating his tone which earned her a playful pinch to her backside.

He was back as quickly as he had said, making her squeak with indignation when cold droplets of water splashed on her naked breast from his hair, but she soon forgot about her discomfort when he pulled her to him.

…

He made love to her thoroughly and deeply. When afterwards he rested his head on her breast, she ran her fingers though his sweat matted hair, wondering if he had a right to know what she felt, if he needed to hear it.

She tested the words silently on her lips and the longer she contemplated saying them, the more momentous the admission seemed to be.

"I love you," she finally said before she could think herself out of it.

He stilled, stopped every movement. Even stopped breathing as if her words had been an evil spell that had turned him to stone.

But then his arms tightened around her, almost crushing her.

She still didn't know if he had a right to know she loved him, but she was sure now that he had needed to hear it.

…

They had decided to behave like civilized people for at least the few hours it would take to go down to have a regular dinner. If nothing else, they felt it was Betsy's due to have her services appreciated.

Sandor tried to get through the inevitable retelling of all that had happened during the last ten days as swiftly as possible, but with Sansa asking about every possible detail, it wasn't to be. The amount of information she demanded to be given was staggering and to her apparent exasperation, his memory was not completely up to the task.

"Men," she muttered under her breath not for the first time when he failed to remember the cuts and colours of the dresses Margery had worn throughout the expedition.

The task of remembering was especially difficult, because he found his mind preoccupied with something entirely different.

Love.

She'd said she loved him. He knew enough about the concept to acknowledge that this was a momentous admission. Something not said lightly and without reason, especially when it came to her.

When she'd said it, he'd reacted instinctively, or rather, his body had. With a rapidly beating heart, a tightening in his throat and an impulse to crush her to him so closely, she'd melt into him, never to be torn from him again.

Now, thinking about it, he wondered if anything had changed. If there was something different now from how it had been before. It surely hadn't changed how he felt about her, not a whit.

Love.

He turned the word around in his head and even after the thousandth time he did not get more sense out of it than the first time.

Was this what he felt for her?

Was this the iron fist around his heart when he feared for her? Was this what felt like his gut torn open when she was in pain?

Was this why he was close to weeping every time he was inside her, every time she touched him and smiled at him and acted as if he was the only fucking man in the whole world worthy of her notice?

Was love the reason he trusted her with every fibre of his being, would make every sacrifice to keep her with him, would give her everything he had to give?

This bloody, visceral, painful thing that could at times bring so much happiness it was almost too much to bear; was this love?

If so, then yes, he loved her. Had loved her from the moment she'd put her hand on him and told him that his brother was no true knight.

...

tbc