After another long snow, Jon came back to Winterfell with a second gigantic army, only instead of silver their banners were black and red. Sansa and Arya watched them approach from the walls; it almost made her jump with her sister suddenly grabbed her hand and squeezed hard. "The last time a king came through our gates, we all got seperated," Arya said, her tone even and determined. "When we go North, we can look for Bran, and then we'll never split up our pack again."
"I pray that he still lives," the lady of Winterfell whispered in response.
"Praying won't help him." And she released Sansa's hand, keeping her gray gaze trained on the approaching horde. Sansa left her there to change for Jon's arrival-Arya had the privilege of her trousers, but Sansa was the lady of this hold, and with a queen came courtiers. It would be easier to avoid whispers. As Evette took away her cloak, she remembered how the southern women had snickered at her winter gowns and her braids. She had had Lady then, too. She longed for her companion. Her prescence would have brought her great comfort.
"My lady..." Her maid's voice was small and inquisitive. "Are there really going to be dragons here?"
"It seems to be so," Sansa replied, unclipping the bodice of her current dress. "Are you excited? These are the first in hundreds of years. His Grace has written to me about them in great detail, and I am particularly looking forward to meeting the black one. He akins him to Balerion, for all his girth and power."
"Oh, I think I will hide in my room, if there are no tasks for me," Evette squeaked, surprisingly meek. "Begging your pardon, there are some wonders I'd rather not be witness to. Like something with giant teeth that can breathe fire to melt stone castles."
She wanted to smile at her anxiety, but it was too understandable to truly mock; only a fool would approach such a creature with anything less than fear. "I give you leave to hide, but not until we find a gown that will impress a Targaryen queen."
"Not exactly dressed for the weather, little bird."
Sansa only let out a sniffle in response, willing herself not to sneeze. Evette had squeezed her into a lovely, sea green dress but the thin skirts were making her legs quiver. There was no way to know what would happen, so Sansa had cleared the entire courtyard in case this queen liked dramatic entrances. No one had seen the dragons yet. Everyone's eyes kept sneaking glances up to the sky, hoping (dreading) to see one flying overhead.
She could tell Sandor was nervous. She could not fault him for it-dragons were fire made flesh, and fire was his greatest fear. Wanting to reach for his hand, but knowing he would withdraw it, she instead looked at the gate, willing Jon to appear so that she could return to her warm rooms.
"Remember your promise," Sansa whispered, without turning her head back towards him. "Tyrion will be there. He's no longer my husband, not really, but-"
"You explained yourself enough." Sandor scratched at his unburnt cheek. "Won't hear a word from me." He sounded so sullen, it made Sansa bite her bottom lip to keep from pouting. It was a childish habit. Ramsey had said he wanted to bloody her mouth every time she did it. Internally, she shook herself of such thoughts and turned them back to the man standing next to her now, who would kill anyone who ever dared to try and harm her. Arya had told her when he heard of her marriage to the youngest Lannister, he had drunk himself into a worse stupor than usual, and because of it, was sloppy. It was unlike him (the sloppiness, not the drunkenness). She hesitated with such a thought, but maybe Tyrion would be the one to help with his leg. It pained her to see him struggle at the end of the day, sometimes. A man like Sandor was used to hurting, but Sansa knew him enough to see the strain in his eyes.
Arya arrived, finally. She had not changed, but Sansa bit back her comment, recalling her vow to accept her sister rather than berate her. Instead, she smiled at the younger princess (oh, she was going to hate being addressed as such). "I watched them get close enough to see this Dragon Queen's fancy armor. I already know you're going to like her, Sansa," Arya grinned, with the happiness that had been easier when they were children. It made Sansa want to cry but a reaction like that would cause concern, so she simply reached out to straighten her sister's bangs. The skinny girl let out a huff but let her fuss over her for a moment. Maybe she has changed. Sansa wondered what different horrors Arya had had to face. All alone. Things were not exactly easy for Sansa, but she could always count on a warm bed and warmer food. They had yet to discuss it in length. Perhaps she was waiting until Jon was back in Winterfell, to spare repeating her story. Instead of impatient, she had become pragmatic.
"If she's wearing armor instead of a gown, then I think we'll both enjoy her company. Though I may be in the wrong outfit." A sharp wind brought a harsh chill, and it sent Sansa into shivers. "I think my maid was in such a hurry to find a place to hide, she simply grabbed the first thing that looked pretty and put it on me."
"You should really learn to dress yourself," Arya retorted. "It's a skill that's fairly useful."
As Alayne, she had laced herself up, but a bastard didn't have a personal maid. She kept such a comment to herself, though. It seemed petty in comparison to the hard edges around Arya's mouth.
Before Sansa could reply, another wind came, only it was not a gale of ice, but fire. She smelled it before she saw it-a great, black shadow, with wings like a bat, and the scent of warmth and scales, almost clinical. It was too high up to really catch details, but even from such a distance its size took her breath away. For a second, it was all she could do not to gape openly at the sight. Arya had no reservations, and was doing as such, though she gave off an impression of excitement rather than anxiety. Out of the corner of her eye, Sansa saw Sandor's hand twitch towards the pommel of his sword, but the sudden opening of the gate drew all their attention.
Jon led the procession, and at the sight of her brother her heart soared with gladness. He looked exhausted but whole and flushed from the cold. It struck Sansa how similar this all was-a reunion, long-awaited and dreamed of, observed by many who knew little. He strode towards them, only keeping his eyes on Sansa, barely noting the new figure to her left. It was not until he took his place next to the lady of the castle, when they all knelt to greet their new queen, that his eyes glanced over and lingered on Arya's face. Sansa could understand it a little. Their younger sister had always been lithe, but the years had made her cheeks and chin sharp, and there was the fact that she had grown a good amount. His eyes widened, though, and it seemed he could barely breathe. "Arya-" he choked out, but Daenerys Targaryen rode into the yard on her white horse; he had no choice but to bow his head, but he reached out from under his heavy cloak to grasp at her hand. Her sister accepted it without a single second of hesitation, and she felt a small amount of jealousy rise up in her throat like bile.
Arya was right. The queen was a sight to behold, in her black leathers and knee-high riding boots. A blend of masculine and feminine attire, both soft and practical. What awed Sansa most was her hair, though. She had never seen a Targaryen in the flesh, only in books and paintings, but it could not prepare her for the brightness of her person. Her hair switched from silver, to gold, to white, all depending on the light, and fell over her shoulders and breasts in waves tousled by the northern breezes. Her eyes, though, remained a lilac-purple, wide and steady. That is what a queen should look like, Sansa thought, remembering how similar she felt as a child, watching Cersei descend like a goddess into their common abode. The tilt of Daenerys' chin was not from arrogance, but resilience.
The Dragon Queen slid off of her horse gracefully, and the rest of the company followed Jon's lead and bent the knee. It struck Sansa how different this woman was from Robert, Cersei, Joffery, all the people before that had ruled carelessly. Daenerys observed Winterfell for a second before approached Jon and speaking, in a voice almost too girlish, "You know such formalities are tiresome from you. Rise, Jon Snow. Introduce me to your family."
It took a strange person to blend a commanding and playful tone. Jon did as the queen bade him, and Sansa gratefully took her knees out of the snow. My skirts will be soaked.
"Your Grace," Jon began, his voice cracking a bit like a boy. Sansa noticed he had let go of Arya's hand. "It's my honor to present my sisters, Lady Sansa and Arya Stark." At her name, she did a small cursty, while Arya clumsily attempted to copy her, though she was wearing trousers. The queen's eyes wrinkled a bit as she smiled at the two of them-with little pause, she stepped forward to take Sansa's hands in hers and said, "Your brother has spoken of you in such detail, but he is hopeless with his words. You burn so brightly, it is a wonder winter has even touched this place."
Sansa blushed a little to receive such a compliment, and she heard the snow crunch behind her as Sandor shifted on his feet. "Y-your Grace, I cannot possibly take such a comment seriously when it is coming from the most beautiful woman in the world."
"Ah, I have heard that a few times," Daenerys sighed, "and it is not true. Women are simply beautiful in different ways. Like this little wolf." That was directed at Arya. Sansa was a trifle shocked to see her sister's cheeks turn pink with embarassment. "Our families have hurt each other enough in the past. The present and future will better, and we will all work together to ensure that good work is done." The queen nodded at the both of them, and Sandor as well, though she did not inquire about him. Sansa guessed that Jon had explained Sandor's connection to The Mountain, and maybe the khaleesi was not ready to address it properly. Such a thing could not be faulted. Her niece and nephew had been butchered like lambs.
The rest of the party arrived, or perhaps they had held back to allow Sansa a chance to prepare. Even if she never loved him, it was a strange sensation to watch her estranged husband ride through her gates and dismount as clumsily as always. Behind Tyrion Lannister was a host of unfamiliar faces, but as lady of the hold she acknowledged them all. Poor things, Sansa thought. You can tell they've never seen the snow before. Behind her, she heard Sandor inhale sharply, as if to curb some knee-jerk insult, and she wished again she could reach for his hand.
"This is no place to make introductions," Jon said. "Come inside, where the fires will warm your bones."
There was time later for battle plans and strategies-now, the hall was filled to bursting with men and women, warm with drink and food. Sansa had given up her seat for Daenerys, and slipped away after an hour or so, noting how closely Jon had moved his chair to be beside hers. Let them be happy, Sansa prayed briefly. Dear Mother, let her be gentle to him. Now that she had walked far enough away that she could no longer hear anyone, she was not sure where to go. The winds were howling outside, and she felt pity for the pack in the woods. She whispered another prayer of mercy for her protectors.
She found her feet leading her back towards her chambers, but before she opened the door to her room she paused and thought of her shield, who had disappeared as soon as the feast had begun. If she dreamt, she could find him, but she was too restless in her bones to lie down now. So Sansa spun around and made her way through the silent halls until she was in front of his door. He was inside; candlelight framed the door, and she heard the swish of half-empty bottle as it was moved around. She knocked before she lost her nerve, and waited a moment. It seemed he would not answer, and she was about to retreat when he pulled open the door. The scarred half of his face was shrouded, and he looked almost like a normal man. She just wanted to brush the hair away from his eyes and see all of him. "Sandor-" she began, but he cut her off.
"What're you doing here?" he growled. "Aren't you supposed to be playing lady?"
"I am a lady," Sansa reminded him. "And I didn't want to be there anymore. I wanted to see you." She wasn't normally this bold, and there wasn't even any wine swimming in her blood. He was drowning in it, it seemed. Tyrion. But she hadn't even uttered a word to the dwarf besides a "my lord" when he presented himself.
"Your family is there. Don't you want to be with them?" Sandor muttered, looking like he wanted to shut the door in her face. Sansa wrinkled her brow and forced her way inside before he could do such a thing-he looked at her in shock as she squeezed herself between him and the doorframe. For once, she was not dreaming. This was his room, his private area. She knew it as well as her own by now, down to the crack in the far left tile. Sandor closed the door but kept his hand on the knob, as if needing something to brace himself with. "You shouldn't be here, little bird." It came out a very weak protest.
"My home is full of strangers," Sansa whispered. "Right now, I have no other desire but to be with someone familiar." She thought about sitting on his bed, but it didn't feel right, so she remained standing, hands fidgeting at her waist. How much like a child she seemed, as if she was still in a half-ripped silk dress with bruises on her shoulders and ribs. For a moment she felt regret, but it vanished when she heard Sandor's footsteps approach. He is only a few inches away. Turn around. In her dreams she had been so confident, but the fear of him shoving her away was paralyzing. "I..." I love you. I love you. Kiss me. "...am afraid."
"Of what?" Sandor's voice came out too soft for her to understand. It was like a different man was speaking to her; another language, another tone, inflextions that were foreign.
My family will never be the same, Jon is king, Bran is still missing, Arya is almost a ghost, everyone I know and love may be dead soon, I cannot fight to protect, I am so helpless.
"Everything."
The word was insufficient, but nothing else fit the swirling feeling in her gut. Sansa could almost hear the hesitation in his legs when he came closer, and successfully fought back an involuntary flinch when his fingers touched her elbow. You could have easily killed all of the men who hurt me, yet you would never. What a cruel fate to be given, to look a monster but not be one.
"Jon will leave again. And he'll take every person able to swing a sword. I fear even Arya will insist on going. But you will leave me, too. We-we finally meet after all these years, and now you are heading to a place I cannot follow. What can I do here? If Jon and the Queen fail, I will simply be waiting impatiently for death."
"'There must always be a Stark in Winterfell'. That's what your bloody brother would say right now." It did not come out unkindly. "You'd just be a liability, little bird. This is your place. The sick and old and young will need someone to keep their eyes in front of them."
"I know." She felt the animal in her heart stir. "I cannot shake this feeling that I must fight, though."
"Can't blame you. After what you've gone through, I'd want revenge. In some way. Battle by battle."
"Is that what you did?"
"It was all I could do."
Some men turn to drink or whores or opiates or gambling, but this man had used death to keep him from death.
Sansa uncrossed her arms and turned to face him-he was close enough that her skirts brushed past his shins. "You must promsie me that you will return." To me, to your home.
"Promises are lies, little bird. I'm no liar."
Before she could talk herself out of it, she crossed the distance to his body and embraced him. He tensed up like it gave him pain, and gripped her forearms like he was going to shove her again. "Sandor, please." It was enough that his fingers relaxed and he allowed her to bury her face in his chest. Wine, musk, steel, sweat, leather, it all mixed together like a potion in her senses. Sansa wanted to taste him, so she laid the gentlest of kisses on his neck, standing on her toes to do so.
"LIttle bird." It was like a warning, but she didn't want to heed it. She tilted her head back to gaze up at him, trying to convey her desires without speaking them. Sandor looked back with wide eyes-if it were a different situation, it would have been comical how scared he looked. But instead of laughing, she reached up and touched the burnt side of his face, touching her thumb to the corner of his mouth. "Is this another dream?" he muttered.
"No." Sansa pulled him down to press her mouth to his, softly and close-lipped. "It never was a dream."
"You...you can't really want this."
"I do."
"Sansa."
It made her shiver to hear her name so close to her lips. For the first time since Joff kissed her (before he cut off her father's head), her knees were trembling and her stomach was tight. It was, all at once, exciting and terrifying and beautiful to want someone so much.
Like she was made of glass, Sandor threaded his fingers in her loosened hair and leaned down to return her kiss, but over and over, small and short and sweet. He had yet to even truly touch her and her heart was already racing in her chest, fast enough that she was sure he could hear it. Once he was sure she wasn't going to shove him away, his ministrations doubled in intensity; before she could even gasp she was sitting on the edge of his bed with him kneeling between her thighs, both hands gripping her narrow waist and his teeth pulling at her bottom lip. Sansa shrugged her cloak off while he busied himself with unlacing her bodice. It was fast, maybe too fast, but she was finding it hard to truly complain when he pushed her on her back and ran his tongue over one of her nipples. Her skirts were up around her hips while his fingers pulled at her smallclothes.
Suddenly, he was gone. Sansa was about to let out a protest, when she felt his breath in between her legs, warm and damp. "Sandor-" she started, but his tongue interrupted her train of thought. "Oh, gods," she whimpered. The motion of his mouth was making her dizzy, all she could do was rotate her hips and try to keep up. He grabbed at her breasts, pinching them. Her whole lower body clenched and then unclenched, making her let out a cry. Sansa had no idea what he was doing, but it was making her vision blurry and her toes curl up. Sandor continued a relentless pace until she had no choice but to stuff her mouth with the sheet on the bed, afraid her scream would be heard by someone nearby. All she could do, for a brief moment, was inhale and exhale like she had just run for her life. His weight was above her, she could feel it, and he kissed her collarbone gently.
"Little bird," he murmured against her chest. "You should fly back to your little cage. Won't do to be caught in here with me, come the morrow."
"I don't care." She knew he was right, but all she wanted was more, more, more of him.
"If you aren't in your own bed, there'll be trouble. I think your sister will try to kill me again."
Sansa let out a soft laugh, allowing Sandor to pull her up into a sitting position. She watched him retie her dress like she was a tiny doll, and it warmed her, making her feel protected. You can cut a man in half with one swing, but you can't tie a pretty bow.
an: i'm sorry this short pathetic chapter took me so long but hey oral sex