SANSA
The intent was there, if he took it as such, but as she drew away to see him staring at her in what she could only describe as dumbfounded fury, her heart dropped that perhaps it was she who had misinterpreted everything. She knew his expressions better than anyone and yet for all of that, he could still surprise her in the way he looked at her and she wondered if she had read him entirely wrong. If she had gone too far this time, pushed him away in a way she had not intended…
An apology was on her lips when he grabbed her by the upper arms, his movements quick but soft as he searched her face, for what she couldn't say. With a glance up and down the corridor, he backed her into the door of the broom cupboard, forced the handle to give way, and pushed her inside. Barring the door from the inside with a wooden chair and broomstick, he rounded on her and she knew a terrifying thrill of not knowing or caring what would happen next.
He rounded back on her, guarded but–was she imagining it–thrilled? Seizing her once more, he hoisted her against the wall to where her feet left the ground and then moved one hand to the backside of neck to pull her forward as he returned her kiss with enthusiasm and begged her for more. His lips were rough and unrefined but moist and moving for her.
Startled at his actions, Sansa's eyelids dropped and she let him continue on as her own inexperienced lips tried to accommodate his. The few kisses she had been given by other men were dull and unpassionate compared to what Sandor Clegane was giving her now. Her breath hitched in her throat and she felt herself gasping against him as his mouth pressed against hers in an almost brutalizing, bruising fashion.
Then, with strength from a jaw much more powerful than hers, he was suddenly forcing her mouth to open, commanding that she accommodate him. Now thoroughly lost in unchartered territory, Sansa allowed her lower lip to drop open and she felt his tongue reaching out to touch hers. She struggled to restrain a shudder of terrified thrill at this new approach that she had never known existed.
The energy with which he took to this task made her wonder how he had perfected this technique because surely, no whore would have let or wanted him to be this intimate with them and the Hound was not a man who struck her as the kissing type besides. It occurred to her with a pang in her heart that he had been starved for this all of his life but that pain lightened when she realized that for many years now, he might have been waiting for her, to share this with her. She was his first in that sense and it brought a swell of pride to her chest in the sincerity of it.
She could not trouble herself with sweet thoughts at the moment, however, because now he was craning her neck even further toward him, drawing her tongue into his mouth to suck on it and the feel of his lips closing over her tongue to taste her evoked a new sensation she could not identify and the foreignness of it made her falter.
She drew her tongue back to splutter out in panic, "Sandor, stop."
He pounded his fist against the wall in frustration and stared her down. "Seven hells, what's wrong?" Already, he was breathing heavily and his lips were swollen from their work.
Sansa spluttered to give him a reason, still caught up in this whirlwind of emotion and action. They had come so far in the past few seconds, from hesitant friends to…whatever they were at this moment, but Sansa was fighting to keep those horrible memories of her previous experience at bay just now. What this passionate kissing would lead to was in essence, the same thing that had happened to her in the most brutal and unloving sort of way. She would be a fool if she wasn't hesitant.
"What is it?" he asked her again.
"Just… wait ," she pleaded, uncertain of what to say to him and how to say it. She felt his large hand on her thigh, grasping tightly and she lay her own hand upon it. "Please…please try to be gentle with me."
That pulled him up short as he tilted himself slightly backward almost with a wounded expression on his features. "You still think I would purposely hurt you?"
"No," she said quickly, hoping to not undo her hard work in getting to this point with him. "No, I know you would never…I know you wouldn't. I—I just have been, I always have been. When he took me, it hurt every time. I don't know what it feels like to not have it hurt and now the thought of doing it at all...it frightens me."
He set his knee against the wall for her to rest on and hitched her further up so she had direct eye contact with him. Those large, deep brown eyes were devoid of the gruffness she knew, softened and understanding and to see him so docile was almost as unsettling as what he so evidently wanted to do with her. Everything about their situation spoke of impropriety and many would call him a beast for seemingly forcing himself on her and her a whore for allowing him to do so, but therein was the difference. She allowed him to shove her into this cupboard because it was what she wanted, for the first time. Having a man touch her and handle her in such a way was her desire, but she wanted more than just a man to be walking her through this experience in the proper intended way. She could have nearly any man and nearly any man would leap at the opportunity to bed her, but she specifically wanted him . She wanted from him what he had given no one else.
Despite his usually rough character, he was still being extremely delicate with her–as much as the Hound could be delicate. Gentle caresses were not in his nature-yet. The way he touched her was firm but never to harm, only to ensure his hold was secure on her. She did not expect him to run his fingers along her cheek and cradle it while whispering honeyed words, nor did he. Instead his massive hand cupped the back of her head so she had no choice but to look right at him as she felt his calloused fingers pressing into her hair.
"I won't hurt you, little bird."
The words he had last told her that made her decide that he had been her friend from the first. The words that she held onto and remembered for years when she would mourn for him. The words he had assured her with, sealing the trust that he would never raise a hand to her, never maliciously say hurtful things, never take her against her will.
She was afraid, but not of him, only the pain that she associated with the act. Still a little bird in that regard.
He was waiting for her consent which she had never been offered before, and so happy was she to finally be able to make the decision for herself that she gave it without fully considering what that meant.
He rucked her skirts up around her midsection, tearing at her smallclothes and leaving her bare from the waist down. Gooseflesh erupted up and down her body at the draft but where he touched her with his hands her skin might as well have been on fire. Despite his rough handling of her clothes, his touch was gentle and aware as he anchored her with one hand firmly on her hip while the other sought to free himself from his breeches. She heard the sound of a buckle coming undone, of breeches being pushed down, and remembered how she had heard those exact same sounds on her wedding night and many nights following and been unable to do a thing about them.
The panic returned once again. Up to this point, she had done nothing with her hands but now she touched them to the Hound's chest to once again ask him: wait . He did, impatient to a small degree only because he was so close to what she knew he desired, but willing to go slow for her, to only proceed when she was ready for him.
She would never be ready. Until she felt the sensation she was told would be unlike anything she ever experienced, she would not be ready in anticipation of the pain. Conflicted, she considered asking him if there was a way she could test the waters without fully committing to it but felt it might be cruel to do so, to tease and tempt him with the promise of something only to back out and leave him with nothing.
He knew. Gods bless him, he knew what she was trying to ask. Crashing his mouth back down on hers, he bit into her lower lip, not hard enough to draw blood but firm enough to make her want more, which was also a new sensation to her. She had never wanted anything during her previous encounters and certainly never wanted more . How clever he was in returning to what she had already experienced with him, already knew was safe. In repeating the kiss, he assured her that this was as far as he would go until she felt confident in herself.
And she did, fisting her hands into the front of his tunic to draw him in closer and press his mouth as tightly against hers as she could. Now it was her turn to lick her tongue across his lips to allow her access to his and he gladly let her draw it into her mouth and close her lips over it. Odd, wet, alive, but pulsing in such a way that told her he enjoyed it. And when she sucked on his tongue hard, she heard a moan escape his throat, the sound reverberating on her lips.
She made him do that. She was the only one to ever make him do that. There was such power in being the only one to elicit such a sound from Sandor Clegane, the only one to make him go weak enough to moan with such wanton desire. His first, again.
Then as she clamped her lips down on him again in the hopes of hearing that wonderful sound, she felt an enormous, bulbous pressure at her opening and the direct contact with his flesh made her realize how moist and heated she was. She bucked forward and every muscle in her body seized, but he only held himself there; he did not try to enter her. The pressure was only to show her what came next, if she wanted it.
"You're ready for me," he growled appreciatively against her lips.
Was she? She had no way of knowing. Ramsay had always taken her directly without preparing her and she had never been ready for him, which attributed to the pain she felt every time he entered her. But if the pressure she felt at her nether lips now was any indication of how well endowed Sandor was, she suspected there would be pain only in regards to his size, not his handling of her.
Sandor moved his manhood back and forth against her opening, coating the tip in her wetness. There was such vulgarity in that act and yet she was endeared by it as he continued to show such restraint for her. She now knew that being thoroughly wet down below would ensure a smoother entrance and less pain. With Ramsay it had been dry and hard and-
No, she would not think of Ramsay. Not when she was in the arms of this man who wanted her and cared for her enough to only do what she willed him to. Her thoughts would only have room for Sandor Clegane at this moment. He would not hurt her-not intentionally.
He withheld himself, waiting for her assent to continue. They had come this far but he was still willing to wait for her, even if it meant never having this chance again. He would do that for her, even now, and that self-restraint was something no man had ever shown toward her (apart from Tyrion, but they had not gotten this far at all). He wanted her body as much as she wanted his but he would deny himself such a pleasure if he had to. She need only ask and he would set it all aside to ensure her safety over his own wants. True, he would be disappointed, but her needs outweighed his own, a gift no other man had ever given her.
She did not know what exactly to give him in terms of consent but she knew that he would recognize it for what it was, so she gave it.
Gently, slowly, she felt his manhood seeking for her entrance and the pulsing she felt there was so alike his tongue. Odd, wet, alive, but she wanted it. If experiencing a man in this way was what it meant to be a woman, she wanted it.
Sandor parted her folds, pressing against her and then pushing himself fully into her in one smooth thrust that made her try and fail to gasp. She could only choke as her body lurched toward him. Filling her to the hilt, he waited for her reaction and it came in the form of her biting down on her knuckle to silence herself. She had no words for him even as he watched her taking him all in and so he pulled back, almost completely withdrawing before gliding back into her, testing her to see what she reacted more strongly to and how she could handle his girth.
She had not mistaken his size. He was more than just large and it did not make sense that he should fit inside of her, yet as she felt herself being stretched, it was not in the least bit painful. Thoroughly lubricating himself with her arousal had served both of them well.
She had to tell him that she was lost, uncertain of what to do next almost to the point of fear. She had never experienced any sort of pleasure in this act before and never felt such a fiery need at her core or below. It was nearly burning within her, yet she wanted more of it but she could not convey that to him. She might as well have been a mute with her tongue cut out for all the direction she was giving him but she need not have worried because he was not like other men who lost themselves in their pleasure and thought only of the woman after. He was still watching her, feeding more of her want as he slid effortlessly in and out of her, going deeper every time.
It was almost rhythmic, how he pushed himself into her and drew out at a languid pace, though the firmness of his erection was not mistaken. There was no room for anything but him inside of her and she tried to train her nether muscles to accept and then expel him in time with his motions. Outward he went and she pushed, almost with the same muscles to make water and when he would come inward, she tightened around him. Her movements were clumsy and not quite in sync with him for the first several tries but when she finally matched him, it was his turn to buck against her and she heard his breath hitch in his throat.
He sought her gaze once again as if to ask her if she had intended to do that to him, if she knew that she would get that sort of reaction from him and if she even knew what she was doing.
She knew, and she did it again and this time her efforts rewarded her with another moan, followed by a look that promised her that he would make her moan for him as well before he was through with her.
He pushed into her further if it were possible, completely flush against her, and claimed her mouth with his. She would not have taken him for a romantic in the sense that he seemed to thoroughly enjoy kissing her and pleasuring her before attending to his own desires but she recognized that hesitation in him that even now he was trying to be careful with her and she loved him for it.
But strangely, confusingly, she was curious as to what he would look like if he were to drive into her with complete abandon. She wondered what it would be for Sandor Clegane to lose control and take her as hard as he so clearly wanted to...and she did not have to wonder for long.
Almost as if he had heard her thoughts, his hands slammed against the wall on either side of her, leaving her to clutch at him with the rest of her strength. She placed her arms around his shoulders and fastened her legs on either side of him but it was not enough to hold her. He lifted her again and slid out of her. One hand alone held her in place as she readjusted her upper grip on him and his other cupped the soft underflesh of her thighs to maneuver them around his hips and rest on the curve of his buttocks. Now she could not slip even if she wanted to.
He repositioned himself under her and instead of the measured softness with which he had entered her before, he shoved her down onto him. He swallowed her gasp with his mouth absorbing the sound as he lay one brutally needy kiss on her and then began what he had promised her with that one look.
The slow, careful nudges were gone as he began to pick up speed and she both felt and heard him breathing through the lips that were devouring hers. Speed was not his strong suit in battle but here, it was a gift other men would envy if they knew. He was shoving her backside into the rough stone behind her with every thrust but the sensations she was feeling at her core drowned out any pain she might have felt from it. She could do nothing but hold on and hope her mind stayed clear enough to guide her through whatever else he planned to do.
"Sandor you—you have to…you have to stop ," she gasped, terrified of what her body was telling her and so completely confused. It was an exquisite pain that tormented her and warned her that she was about to implode but simultaneously, it felt so incredibly powerful that she didn't want him to. She feared what might happen to her body if he did not stop but she could not deny herself the sensation of the unknown that so many women had told her was worth all the pain in the world.
He was not slowing down, not pulling out. With his ragged pants in her ear, she knew he would see it through to the end. Even as she tried to force out the words to tell him once again to stop, her body was pleading with her to let him finish.
Biting down to stifle the scream she knew was coming, she clenched her nails into his shoulder, finding the skin steaming like coals to the touch.
"Sandor, please…"
With both hands, he took hold of her face, his gaze dominating, but also to the point of pleading. "Do you want me to stop?" he asked even as he continued to drive into her.
The head of his manhood struck against an incredibly sensitive area within her that elicited a choke from her throat. She was trying to form words that would not come, only half-uttered pleas of incomprehension as her body fought against what her mouth was trying to say.
"Tell me," he demanded. "Look at me."
He wanted to see her come into her release, knowing that he was the first and only man to do this to her. Her first.
If she wanted him to, if she put conviction into her words and ordered him to stop, he would. It was the right thing to do, the most sensible, the safest, but she no longer had control over anything but the complete desire for that luscious ignition at her core. The only sin she saw in this was her own sense of decency. She was not wed to him, this was not the proper place, and he was unbefitting a woman of her status. Damn it all. She was going to die and this was what she wanted, what she deserved.
She could not tell him to stop, but she could not use her words to encourage him either. All she could do was shake her head madly and hold on. She replaced her arms on his shoulders, entangling her fingers into the hair on the back of his scalp and clinging to him.
Please, don't stop , she silently begged him.
With his hands on her hips, he drove her forward and back onto him with such force that she was certain she would bruise—and she did not care one bit. His thrusts were becoming frenzied but he had the wherewithal to slow himself down to make this moment last as long as possible. Reaching a hand down the front of her dress, he sought out her breast and rubbed a hand over her nipple which elicited a groan from her. His other hand trailed down under her skirts to tease the delicate nub he found there, making her wetter than she already was, preparing her.
He placed each of her arms around him to secure a fierce hold of him, pulled out until he was almost an arm's length from her, and then slammed himself into her. Again and again, almost completely withdrawing and then fully sheathing himself within her. Then his speed began to build again and she kissed the nape of his neck to suck on the skin there so she had something to do with her mouth besides scream.
She tightened her hold on him and he took a hand from her waist to press his palm against her mouth. Her strained cry of release came out muffled under his hand and when she had nothing left to give, he set her head against his shoulder to support her weight. If she cared to open her eyes, his movements would have been a blur and she could feel his speed even though she was numb below now.
He rammed himself into her and then she felt his manhood shuddering. She remained absolutely still as he came to completion. His groan came out almost wounded, clogged with exhaustion and ecstasy as she felt him filling every last bit of her cavern with his seed. His hips continued to grind against her but the rest of him was pressing her to the wall, half-leaning on her to not fall over or sink to the ground.
"Fuck," he muttered as he realized at the same time as she what massive error had just occurred. She could feel his seed trickling out of her but the utter horror on his face at his mistake was what had her greater attention. He had been too consumed by her, driven by the moment and the passion he had longed for and he completely abandoned reason as his release came upon him. And now he had irresponsibly spilled within her.
"I don't think it matters now," she told him. "I won't live long enough for the seed to take hold." Inwardly, she considered that moon tea had not been one of the essential supplies they had sent for in their final shipment to Winterfell and so she did not have that escape route if by some miracle she did live long enough for the seed to take hold.
Pushing aside a wooden bucket and a pile of unused bed sheets, Sandor lay back and brought her to him, cradling her against his chest as he tried to find his breath in the aftermath. The air was heavy with the musk of their coupling and much warmer here on the floor. Sansa could feel her heart pounding against his except his was slightly slower, slightly stronger.
A lifetime ago, she would have been ashamed to have had her first true coupling with a man in an abandoned broom cupboard and she would have been doubly ashamed to be laying on the floor, wrapped in that man's embrace afterward. But life had taught her otherwise. Her first time had been in the marriage bed, by all accounts exactly how everyone would have expected her to have her maidenhead broken. The man who had deflowered her had been a man only by the loosest definition of the word and it was only where he committed his husbandly duties that was proper. What was proper and what was desired were two entirely different things and only now that Sansa had had a man in the fashion she wanted could she appreciate that.
Her first real, reciprocated encounter with a man had been as transient and secretive as two young lovers stealing away into a spare room for a brief few moments of passion. It had all been so raw, but it felt right. This was what Margaery Tyrell had spoken of to her. She had said Sansa would not know what she wanted until she tried it. Too long had it taken Sansa to realize "it" was Sandor Clegane.
She could not have known when she first set eyes on him just outside these very walls that she would one day have him inside her and what's more, that she would want him. If she was completely honest with herself, she had first experienced this wanting of him many years ago but in recent weeks that want had grown more and more present as she saw him struggling to deny his attraction to her. She could see his daily battle in how he tried to both push her away but also press her to engage him, fight for him, want him–on her own terms.
Other men had been given to her without ever having to work for them and as she eventually came to find out, she had wanted none of them, but she had fought herself and every stroke of fate to end up here, with this man. The one man she had refused to give up, the one who had marked her as his own without either of them fully knowing or understanding it when he had prevented her from killing Joffrey.
Somewhere between King's Landing and Winterfell, her constant thoughts of this man had turned from musings on where he might be to fantasies of what he might have done if she had gone with him. Constantly on her mind, he had been with her during her lowest moments, when Ramsay had left her with only her thoughts during those long hours of waiting for him to forcibly bed her night after night. Sandor could not have known that Sansa had turned to the comfort of his last words to her as something fleeting but friendly to grasp at when she lay in pain.
He became almost a myth to her in that she never expected to see him again, so when she finally did, when she saw him ride into Winterfell after nearly six years apart, she could hardly believe he was real. She found both the same and a different man when she spoke to him–or maybe she was different and she now had a fresh perspective when viewing their relationship. The more she interacted with him and saw snippets of his true self shine through his harsh exterior, the more she wanted to be the one he surrendered his guard to.
The end of the world did prompt her to act sooner rather than later, but she had no doubt that if they had had more time, this would have happened all the same, though most likely not in this manner. She and Sandor were not the only ones to be acting with haste today, she was sure, but they had seized the opportunity while they still had one to make up for lost time. There was something to be said that they would have come together at some point whether or not there was an undead army headed their way.
She felt herself rising and falling with the movement of his chest and knew that he, like she, was trying to think of something to say. What did one say after being so intimate when before there had been such distance?
"Sandor–"
"Does it scare you, little bird?"
"Does–what?" she asked, perplexed as to what sort of answer he was expecting.
"Does anything about it scare you? How much you enjoyed it, how much you wanted it, what it could mean now that it's done?"
Slowly putting together what he was asking, she became uncomfortably aware of her thighs sticking together with the remnants of his seed. "I have no fear of a child and especially not one given to me by a man I desire. It was only ever his that I didn't want. Before this, I had never wanted in the way that a woman should. I confess that I have wanted this without fully knowing what this would be or mean, but you must know that there is more than that. More than desire."
"I know."
Despite the very obvious smell of their love making, neither of them felt comfortable admitting to harboring truer feelings for the other. It was simply not done. Two people who had come together in such a way as they had, who battled with stringing words together but could speak volumes by expression alone did not openly acknowledge those emotions that ran deeper than attraction.
Sansa lifted her head from his chest to meet his eyes. There was a light in them unlike any she had seen in them before. She had seen that light exchanged between Jon and Daenerys and between her mother and father and it nearly brought her to tears to see it now, for her. This was a gift she thought not to have before she died. Men had been ruined for her, as had any prospects of finding someone with whom she could share this bond, but it seemed that fate decided that she did deserve this one gift.
She realized few women were as fortunate as she was in that she knew this man before consummating their relationship. Most did not even meet their husbands until their wedding day and few ever truly grew to love and appreciate them. To be able to not only know Sandor Clegane (to some degree) but to also approve of and choose him was a luxury she never thought to have.
"What?" he asked, and she realized she had been staring at him, lost in her thoughts and good fortune.
"Even as I lay here atop you, I would do it again. I would do it, not only because I did enjoy it but because of how you acted, what you did during the course of it. You showed such restraint for me, waiting, asking, and never forcing. You gave me control and that is something I have been denied for most of my life. You did that for me because you are so adamant that I not be subjected to any more harm. It pains you to even think that you could hurt me and that devotion is a rare thing. That protective instinct stems from more than just the need to defend the helpless. You decided long ago that I was yours to protect, didn't you?"
She expected nothing from him in asking the one question he could not answer, but he must have mustered the courage for some time to give her some form of response. He had known at some point, maybe even on the day they reunited in the antichamber off of the great hall, that she would ask him this.
"Aye, that I did."
"Am I still?"
"You are." And you always will be, his eyes finished in what his mouth could not say.
Yours. As you are mine.
Sansa would liked to have lay here with him for hours despite how uncomfortable the floor was and the few spiders dangling off of their webs in the dust-filled corners of the room but she had agreed to meet with her siblings before sunset in what could very well be their last gathering. She sat up, smoothing down her skirts and making a note to stop by her chambers to wipe her legs clean before she headed outside.
Sandor tucked himself back into his breeches and then pulled her to her feet. He was chewing on the inside of his lip, a nervous trait she had seen him resort to a time or two in the past. As loud and commanding and outright terrifying as he could be, he was still unaccustomed to such straightforward attention, but that shyness only endeared him to her further.
"I will expect you to not return to the barracks tonight, or ever," Sansa told him.
"They'll all take notice that I've gone," he told her pointedly. "Are you prepared to answer to those questions? About what they'll say? About what your brother will say?"
"Jon surrendered his own crown to a foreign queen. By all accounts, she is the one having to endure whispers of taking a bastard to bed. Hearing that the Lady of Winterfell has taken the Hound to bed can hardly be more scandalous. But I plan to tell him and the rest of my family and since they all know what sort of man you are, I don't think any of them will have anything to say. What's good enough for them should be good enough for everyone else and besides, our direwolf has already accepted you, so they should have anticipated this."
A ghost of a smile played at the outer corner of his lips. Sansa had a mind to kiss him in departure but now that the heat of the moment was gone, she faltered, not entirely sure that that he would care for the act when it would not lead to more. Besides, she would have more time tonight to delve deeper into what he liked and what he was comfortable with. She intended to make full use of the hours and days left to her with this man.
/ /
Brienne and Ser Bronn found her at the same time when she was halfway down one of the spiraling stone staircases leading out of the great keep and there was a brief argument as to who should be the one to escort Sansa to her siblings but Sansa offered the solution that both of them could attend the duty. Though Ser Bronn now served Sansa, he was not strictly speaking a sworn shield, but took to the task with just as much enthusiasm as Brienne had and lucky for him, Brienne was not a jealous woman. Luckier still, she knew Bronn from her time spent in Ser Jaime's company and so she was more accepting or perhaps tolerant of him than she would have been of someone else.
As she walked slightly ahead but still between the two of them, sansa realized that both of them also had a history with Sandor and wondered if she dared tell them of his new status with her. They already knew him to be trustworthy and would allow him to approach her without question, but she still felt that they needed to be brought up to speed. The last thing she needed was for one of them-and she had heavy stakes claimed on Ser Bronn-to barge into her chambers unannounced and find her and Sandor abed together.
She would say nothing just yet, though. Her siblings deserved to know first–and Bran probably already knew. The thought did not sit quite well with Sansa but she knew he could not help what he saw or when he saw it. He had seen her on her wedding night and this, with Sandor, was something she was not ashamed of.
The outside air was refreshing after the confinements of the broom cupboard and it cooled her flushed cheeks. Unlike the first time she had been taken as a woman by a man, she did not feel like she was a shining beacon to others this time. When she had been in the company of anyone after her first night with Ramsay, she knew she saw eyes following her everywhere, wondering what Ramsay had done to her. Now, she felt renewed as if she had just experienced her first time again and for all intents and purposes, it had been her first time.
It was difficult to fight back a smile. Her people did not often see her do such a thing and to display anything so trivial as a grin would be strange for them to see now. They would all know soon enough (maybe) but there was no need to hurry the process along by announcing to the world that she had just been taken by Sandor Clegane.
She met Arya at the entrance to the godswood and her sister informed her that Jon and Bran were already waiting for them inside. Brienne and Ser Bronn promised to not allow anyone through the gate, not accounting for krakens that climbed the walls, but Ghost would be with Jon and so long as she had the wolf as well as all three of her siblings who had skills and powers within their own right, she knew that no agent of Cersei or Euron Greyjoy could touch her.
"You look different today," said Arya as she and Sansa began the walk to the weirwood tree.
"Don't people usually look different after they've rid themselves of something that makes them unhappy?" offered Sansa.
"What did you get rid of?"
"Who I got rid of," Sansa corrected. "And it was Littlefinger. I dismissed him."
"That's the only reason for that look you have like you know something I don't?" Arya pried. Sansa knew her sister had become something of an expert in telling when a person was being truthful or not, but if Sansa did not speak, she would not have to lie. And besides, could Arya not wait five minutes until they joined their brothers?
"You know, I can smell him on you."
Sansa missed a step and Arya caught her by the arm to prevent her from falling and cracking her jaw open on the ice that coated the godswood pools.
"Thought so," said her sister triumphantly. "Before you ask, I lived with him for a few years; I remember his stench, though he appears to have cleaned up some for you. Can't say I'm surprised at him, but I am at you. At least, a little bit."
"What do you mean?" asked Sansa quickly.
"I mean, I've known that something like this would happen. I was wondering if either of you were going to do something about it. When you told me what he'd done for you in King's Landing, it matched what he told me while he was taking me to ransom me back to Mother and Robb. And he told me once how he'd like to fuck you, but I knew he was lying about how he wanted to, not that he wanted to. I was just curious to see if you'd catch on."
"That's all? You were just curious, not angry?"
"Why would I be angry? He saved my life quite a few times. I took him off of my list and I accepted that he had done his best for me, however hard it was for me to see it at the time. He came to fight for us and he's taken over for Brienne and me in protecting you. It's good to know that he hasn't changed in that sense."
"Yes, but aside from protecting me, you don't care that we–that he and I…" This was never a conversation Sansa thought she would be having with her sister. She thought she would simply tell her siblings that she was now with Sandor and that would be the end of it, not filling out the finer details.
"I don't care who fucks who in this world. I'm just surprised since he isn't anything like the sort of men you ever expressed interest in. You had your type as a girl and he doesn't fit into what your ideal man should be."
"Most of the things I wanted as a girl are no longer relevant. I didn't know that the many, many things I wanted were frivolous but now that I have so few wants, I have had time to be selective about them. I have given more thought to Sandor and my standing with him than I have to any other person."
Arya shrugged. "If he's what you want, don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
They were within sight of the weirwood tree now and Bran's chair was facing it but he turned in his seat to watch Sansa and Arya come closer. The way he regarded Sansa told her that he already knew, which made the task of having to tell Jon only slightly more bearable.
"Where's Ghost?" Sansa asked, not spotting the wolf anywhere near Jon.
"Hunting what he can, while he can," said Jon. Beckoning Sansa and Arya closer to stand before him and Bran, he rested a hand on Bran's shoulder. "I know we all most likely have things to say, all equally important," he continued as the four of them gathered in memory of their father who had sat beneath this tree many times and prayed for their health and happiness. "This may be the last chance we have to say those things, so know that whatever it that we say here, nothing will change the fact that I love you all and I am proud of the people you've become. And I know Father would be, too."
"Of the four of us, Sansa has the best news," said Bran. Had they been children, Sansa might have complained loudly at him for spoiling what was her secret to tell but since Jon was the only one here who didn't yet know and since Sansa was a woman grown and far too old to engage in such childish activities, she simply gave Bran a look of reproach that he returned with a lopsided grin. He was teasing her and it was a relief to know that he could still act human when he wanted to. She had been afraid that the solemn, no-nonsensical man that had returned to Winterfell would be all that remained of her once cheerful and playful little brother.
Jon looked expectantly to Sansa in anticipation of this so-called "best" news, only Sansa was at a loss as to how to tell him. Arya had guessed, Bran knew ahead of time, but how should she word it to Jon? Jon, who had nearly killed the last man who had lay with her (entirely for different reasons, but he was as protective as he could possibly be without suffocating her).
"I…I am now with someone," said Sansa somewhat awkwardly.
Her brother's eyebrows turned up in surprise, but he said nothing as he waited for her to continue.
"Sandor Clegane."
Jon's mouth dropped open an inch or two which she took as a good sign that he was more shocked than angry.
"He makes her happy," said Bran when Jon had still not spoken. "Doesn't he?" he asked Sansa.
"He does," answered Sansa before she could even begin to think to answer any differently. The answer was immediate and reactive; she didn't need to contemplate it. "Happier than I have been since I came home. Or maybe 'happy' isn't quite the right word. I feel…safe with him. Safe and at peace. I don't think any of us can expect happiness to come our way at this time."
Jon nodded as if he understood her situation on a personal level. It would be difficult to be happy in the knowledge that he had given up his crown and surrendered the North for a woman who was not accepted or wanted by his people but if he could find peace with Daenerys after so many years of war and uncertainty at the Wall, he could understand how Sansa might have found the same with Sandor Clegane.
"I won't ask you, but I know he cares about you, so I know you must feel the same," said Jon.
"How do you know?"
"He let it slip while we were looking for wights north of the Wall. I told him I remembered him from his time in Winterfell and he asked who I was. I told him I was your brother, that I'd helped you take back our home after you'd found your way North again only to be delivered to the Boltons. He seemed ready to leave me and the others to find the wight on our own so that he could march back down to Winterfell and murder Ramsay's bones. I didn't know that you two had known each other before until his trial and after that, I suspected that he had more of a history with you than he was letting on."
It was hardly anything that she didn't already know about him, but it was still wonderful to hear that even before their reunion, Sandor had been thinking of her, ready to come to her defense. She did not share that with her siblings, however. She was still waiting for Jon to speak his mind.
Jon gave a half-hearted chuckle. "Sansa, you keep looking at me like you're expecting me to yell at you but I'm the furthest from being upset that I could possibly be. You were right when you said it's difficult for any of us to feel happiness right now but I am happy for you, if he's who you want and he's what you need, and it seems that he is so what're you waiting for me to say?"
Standing there before the weirwood tree in his lord's fur cloak, holding a Valyrian steel sword, hair styled back as the Northern lords did, Jon looked like their father and Sansa realized she had been waiting for him to speak because she was subconsciously seeking their father's approval through him. She had not even considered what her parents might have thought of Sandor until she made the decision to tell her siblings. Age played no role here, as her mother had seen her sister Lysa wed to Jon Arryn who was more than twice her age. Her mother would only have cared that the man Sansa chose was good to her and capable of both loving and protecting her, something that her mother had not seen in Joffrey, had tried to warn her against when Sansa had lusted after the prince.
Her father had eventually seen that evil in Joffrey and tried to back out when it was too late. He had made the match before knowing the sort of person Joffrey would become, without ever really knowing him at all. If he were still alive, Sansa would not have been given to Ramsay, but neither would she be in a position to choose the man she wanted. Her father would have made that decision for her. She would likely never have known Sandor if Joffrey had spared her father.
How strange that she would not be the woman she was or know the people she knew if she had not gone with her father to King's Landing. How different her life would have turned out. Would she even be alive if she had stayed home? Would there have been a war between the Starks and the Lannisters? Would they be here, ready to fight and die beside one another? Would the dead have ever made it past the Wall?
She would never know and speculation on every "what if" could not help to answer any questions she might have had. Whether or not her parents would have approved of Sandor was irrelevant. Whether or not Jon approved was irrelevant (even though he already had). She was the Lady of Winterfell and there was no one left who could make decisions for her. She would have what she wanted, damned be the rules that stated otherwise. If she was alive during the time of the war of two queens, the lords who would advise against her bedding a man of lower birth could not think that they held power over her. If the great battle was won in their favor, it would be a time for women to make the future their own.
"I think Father would have approved," said Bran as if he had been in Sansa's head having these thoughts right alongside her. "Mother might have taken some convincing but she always gave you what you wanted anyway."
"I wish she hadn't," said Sansa remorsefully.
"We can't know what would have happened if she hadn't. But we're here now and we live with the choices we make," said Bran with wisdom beyond his years. "We have always been told that what we are is more important that who we are, that our name means more than us, but we choose our paths because of who we are, not because of the names given to us at birth. We make those decisions that lead us here and there. If we die, it's because we chose to." Here Bran looked to Jon in that very un-Bran-like manner as if he were seeing through Jon, seeing Jon's entire history that led up to this moment. He looked so unlike the boy Sansa had known when he did that, it never failed to make her shiver every so slightly.
"Why is he looking at you like that?" Arya asked Jon.
"I had something I wanted to say that would explain why he's looking at me like that, but after hearing Sansa's news, I don't think now is the time," said Jon.
"Now may be the only time, that's why you called us here."
"It may be, but if it isn't, I promise to tell you all after. If there isn't an after, what I have to say won't matter anyway and I'd rather have never told you if we all die than to send you to your graves with the knowledge. Trust me; it's better not knowing unless you have to."
Sansa and Arya looked to Bran but Bran shook his head. "It won't help to know now. It could mean everything to know after–if there is an after, like Jon said. But it's his secret to tell, not mine."
"Then what are we doing here?" asked Arya somewhat petulantly.
"The Night King will be here in less than a week," said Bran. "He still blocks my way, but I can tell he's close. I don't want to start a panic, but I wanted you to know first to set your affairs in order. I knew that there was a possibility that we would share more than what actually was shared when we came here, but I also knew that we might not say anything at all. I wanted there to be an opportunity for us. I wanted us to be together one last time, to say that the part of me that is still your brother loves you. And the part of me that isn't wants to tell you not to be afraid of death."
There was that awful chill again and Sansa drew her cloak tighter around herself. She did not like asking Bran to look into the future and liked asking him to relive the past even less, but she had to know. "Do we win?"
"Sometimes. We lose just as often. So many things could happen but none are certain until they simply are. I've seen us all die, I've seen your bodies. I've seen us live. I don't know what will be until it is, but I can't tell you anything more than I have. If I did, things wouldn't happen how they should. We have to make those choices without knowing the ramifications."
He made it sound so simple, to choose whether to live or die, but so many other factors, so many decisions made by other people could mean the difference between a narrow victory or a devastating defeat. Sansa tried not to think about the fact that her brother had seen her die a hundred different ways and all from one simple choice. If she asked how she would die and he told her, she would do everything to avoid dying in such a way that would inevitably lead to her dying in some other fashion. There was no stopping it; only accepting it. She would have to take it as it came, greet it or run from it.
And hope against hope that her choices were the right ones.
Somewhere unseen in the godswood, Ghost let out a lone, forlorn howl. The last of his pack, left to face winter and the Long Night alone.
When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.
They may not be his littermates or his kind, but Sansa and her siblings were part of their last direwolf's new pack along with a select few he had chosen for himself and Sansa prayed that their pack would be enough to survive the worst winter that had ever plagued the world.