The lady of Winterfell spent the next morning in a pleasant daze. Evette had had to repeat herself on more than a few occasions throughout the process of bathing and dressing her mistress; Sansa, even in her stupor, did not miss the odd looks she was receiving from her maid. The jumping sensation in her stomach, however, rendered her to care little, and she replayed last night several times in her mind. Sandor had been vastly different from her prior experiences. She could not believe he did not take her when he could-she would not have objected, certainly. No one had ever even breathed a word that such an act was performed in the bedchamber, but Catelyn had never gotten the chance to educate her daughter on such matters. Did Father...? She recalled how happy her mother would be sometimes, when she emerged from her chamber with her husband. As a child, she had assumed it was love (which it was, obviously), but now she wondered...
Evette left in a hurry, which Sansa was grateful for. It gave her a moment to stand by the window and cool down her flushed cheeks. It had taken all her strength to not sneak into his bed that night, but she felt that such a thing would have only succeeded in pushing him away. She longed to see him, to smell him, but she was the lady of this hold. Even with the king back, she still had many duties, which included meeting with Daenerys herself. The mere thought made her nervous, but she let the icy wind from outside brush it away from her. There was too much to do, and not enough time to dwell on pleasurable things.
The Dragon Queen was waiting for Sansa on the battlements, looking out of place in her thick cloak and furs. Two shivering Dothraki stood at her side, and they eyed Sansa as she approached. What a sight she must be, after years of wandering fields and valleys. Ignoring the horror stories that rambled in her head from Old Nan, she gracefully bent into a curtsy, taking care to not let her skirts drag in the snow. Daenerys smiled a smile that did not reach her eyes but was, regardless, kind. "Do you know," she began, "that this is the first time in years that I've seen snow? Or even felt cold, for that matter."
"It complements you, Your Grace." And it did. It seemed impossible for the young queen to ever look homely-the white of her hair shone brilliantly in the crisp, early morning, and there was a flush to her usually pale cheeks.
"I think we both know I am much suited to the warmer winds of the South." Still, there was admiration in Daenerys' eyes when she turned her gaze from Sansa to the vast plains and forests of the Northern Kingdom. "Walk with me. I fear my guards may lose their toes if we remain still for much longer."
She obeyed, politely ignoring how poorly the Dothraki were concealing their shivering knees. It all struck her as a little familiar; the Targaryen queen clasped her hands together at her waist, like any proper lady, but she lacked the stiffness that had been so exhausting. It made her think of Margaery, for the first time in months, and it brought a swift sadness to her heart. She wished she was alive now, but Cersei had seen to that. "Your brother told me how you fended off an attack while he was trying to woo my dragons," Daenerys said, slowing her step a little so that Sansa could walk by her side. It was habitual of her to maintain some distance, from Joff to Cersei to Ramsey (even Jon, sometimes). "He could not have left Winterfell in better hands, it seems."
"I did no fighting, Your Grace," Sansa murmured, while her molars ground together in her head, remembering how Petyr had screeched. "The true protectors of Winterfell are the men who died, and the ones still living."
"It certainly helps to have exceptional warriors loyal to you." The young queen tilted her head a little and-was it her imagination?-one corner of her mouth curved upwards. "Speaking of which, where is your large shadow?"
Sansa kept her composure, though her heart leaped at the mention of her lover. "He is training the young boys of Winter Town this morning."
"Even across the sea, we heard tales of The Hound. The rumors always painted him a worse monster than his brother, and having met the man, I have to say I'm quite disappointed." Her words were not harsh, in fact her ghost of a smile widened to a full smirk. "He appears to me to be a gentle giant."
It put Sansa at ease, to know that Daenerys did not harbor ill will. "He has endured much."
"We all have. It seems to me that we have all decided to be better than our situations allowed for."
The queen cast a glance at her obviously suffering guards, and gave a soft chuckle only Sansa could pick up. She spoke to them both in Dothraki, and while it was unintelligible to Sansa, it was clear they were given permission to leave; the two men almost ran away in their search of warmth. "Jon has told me Tyrion is your husband?" Daenerys continued bluntly, making Sansa almost blanch with shock.
"We never...never consummated the marriage, Your Grace." She shoved away the memory of him climbing into bed naked and reaching for her, and replaced it with the much more pleasing reality of her Hound. "It seems I cannot keep a husband." An attempt at a joke. The queen had the good grace to laugh, but Sansa grimaced internally.
"It is just as well, for he is far too old." She tilted her head and her expression became serious. "When the time comes for battle, he will remain here in Winterfell for a short while, as your guest. I need to know if there are any problems, because if it puts you at ease, I could make other arrangements-"
"Your Grace, please, there is no ill will between me and Lord Tyrion, but...why would you not bring him with you? Won't you need him as counsel?"
Daenerys sighed and looked away from Sansa, out over the woods and into the brilliantly white distance. For a moment, she said nothing, but the dragon queen murmured, "I do not have an heir. Nor am I likely to ever have one. I had thought to give the decision more thought, but given the imminent danger..." She inhaled deeply, as if trying to bring the cold inside her. "I am still not entirely sure if I believe Jon Snow, but I know he is not a fool or a madman. If I die beyond the Wall, my Hand shall rule. Right now, at this moment, I can think of no one else who would not let Westeros descend into chaos." Her grim expression lightened a bit, and she smirked at Sansa. "I have my dragons, but our lord is not much a warrior."
"Should he not be in King's Landing, then?"
"There are well trusted people maintaining peace currently, and I believe his words were, "I want to see Winterfell the way I saw it all those years ago, with Ned Stark's children alive and protecting it.""
Sansa was well adjusted to being in Winterfell at that point, but still, hearing her father's name and knowing that his ancestral home was not despoiled by men who disparaged his name brought her a sweet satisfaction.
"Now, lady of the North, lead me to the nearest fire. I tried to remain strong, but I fear my toes have become numb."
A fortnight had passed, and Sansa had seen little of her shield. He spent most of his days in Winter Town, training and teaching every boy strong enough to pick up a sword. Sansa had her own duties as well, overseeing the building and completion of shelter for the freefolk; listening to common men and women in the hall, with Jon absent at war councils. The quick, ardent glances between them were beginning to drive Sansa mad, and her dreams aided her none in that regard. She was in the midst of one now, one that she was sure Sandor was feeling, too. He had her pinned, and for a split second she thought of Ramsey-no time for that, a part of her whispered, as Sandor's hand gripped her hips so hard she knew the marks would remain for days. It was nothing like her dead husband. Her body felt too alive to be broken.
She woke before the winding, twisting sensation in her gut could snap; she stared up at the ceiling for some time, reveling in the heavy feeling between her legs. Come to me, she begged in her mind, the dream still lingering at the corners of her mouth. I need you.
It was only a short while before there came a sharp knock on Sansa's door-she was up and unlocking it in a matter of seconds, not bothering to worry over her hair or nightgown. "Little bird," Sandor growled as soon as he appeared before her, but she grabbed his tunic and tried (vainly) to pull him inside. "Do you have any idea what you're doing?"
She was unsure if he meant sex or the dreams, but she deigned not to answer, only to kiss him. He scooped her up and her legs went around his waist. It made her delightfully dizzy, and it was all she could do just to hold onto him as he closed the door behind him and strode across her room. "You don't have a fucking clue, do you?" Sandor murmured against her mouth. "This isn't a game, Sansa. If you aren't ready-"
"I am not a child anymore," she insisted. "I am ready. I have been waiting for you. Someone got in the way, and now he is not even allowed to be food for worms."
He closed her eyes at his words, and opened them a moment later, taking stock of her. Sansa knew no one would ever match the way he looked at her, the strangest combination of safety, excitement, love, comfort. He lowered her down onto her bed, getting to know her neck and shoulders with his lips while his hands busied themselves with the ribbons on her nightgown. "Always these bloody ribbons," he growled. "I'm of a mind to just rip this damn thing off you." He didn't, though. Instead, he pulled the garment down her body and watched every inch of skin as it as revealed to him, like she was a precious thing.
"What you did to me, that night in your room..." Sansa whispered, watching him run his hands over her bare thighs. "No one has ever done that to me before. I've never even heard of it."
"Aye, and that doesn't surprise me. You've read stories filled with gifts of flowers and chaste kisses, how could you possibly know-" His fingertips were gingerly tracing the folds of flesh between her legs now, and Sansa let out a barely audible gasp. "-any of the ways a man can please a woman?"
"I am not a virgin," she replied, feeling a little embarrassed by his teasing tone.
"That doesn't mean a damn thing, little bird." His hand remained, but he moved himself up so that they were now face to face. Sansa could barely make out the outline of his face in the dark, but her Hound was kissing her before she could attempt to search for him. Sandor's fingers slowly edged around her entrance-her knees started to come together before she could stop the impulse, and he ceased all movement. "Do you-"
"Don't stop," she interrupted. "Please."
"Sansa..."
"I am not afraid of you."
His expression seemed pained, but he obeyed. Easily, gently, he put his fingers inside of her, all the while pressing his mouth into her throat. "Ahh..." Sansa fought back her flinch, wanting more than anything to give herself up without childish hesitation. But she had not touched herself since Ramsey, and it felt odd, a little painful. He wiggled his digits a bit; Sansa moaned, surprising herself and Sandor with the sound. Why did that feel so good? She could feel her cheeks blushing. "S-Sandor," she stammered, grabbing his forearm when he experimentally moved again. "This feels different from before..."
"Good," he muttered.
Sansa could not give a name to the things that her lover did, but when he left later, just as dawn was creeping through the windows, she could name the loud, beautiful mess in her gut.
Happy.
a/n: ya it's a really short chapter but I've been really sad and also Dany is really hard to write and I realized I had plotholes but FUCK IT