Sansa & Sandor

It had been over an hour since Arya had come back to the room they shared. She'd splashed water on her face, ignored the hairbrush, changed into a borrowed night shift, and climbed into bed. She'd turned on her side, recited that list of hers that had become like a prayer, and fallen asleep immediately.

Sansa lay awake. She'd been thinking of Podrick, then worried over Arya, her list, and her vengeance. That had turned her thoughts to Arya's story, and to Sandor, who was never long from her thoughts anyway. It was strange to think that the old Sansa might have been jealous. Not of their relationship as such, but just of the fact that she wasn't the only one he'd looked after. The old Sansa might have felt that made her less special somehow and resented it. Now she knew that life was too precious for her to have any room for that kind of pettiness in it. And Arya, too, was more precious to her now than her old self could have fathomed.

The other part that seemed strange to hear about was how he had looked after Ayra, in much the same way he'd looked after Sansa at the Red Keep. Strange because, when she thought about it, it wasn't a surprise. It wasn't a revelation, it was a confirmation of a conclusion she'd already reached, a knowledge built slowly over time, that the man beneath armor was a caretaker at heart.

Her mind turned to all of his glances over dinner, both the straightforward and the stolen. He was still watching her, and she was still liking it. The tension between them was as disconcerting as it was delicious, and she fervently hoped that no one else noticed it. They hadn't been alone since Arya and Podrick walked in on them in the ship's hold. Arya might have left them, but Podrick made sure he was always nearby. Sansa suspected that Sandor was avoiding her as well. So things were left unfinished between them, uncertain.

The ladies at court spoke of leaving a man dangling, of increasing his interest and passion through such uncertainty, but Sansa was unconvinced. Perhaps another sort of man. But from what she'd come to understand about Sandor in the last weeks, she feared that uncertainty would fester into mistrust somehow, that his mind would turn it to something that would come between them. And the more she thought of that, the more restless she became. There were those times, moments that made her heart stutter to think of them, when she thought that she had breached those walls he'd built and touched something real. She wasn't willing to lose that ground.

She rose from the bed, drawing a shawl around her shoulders. She lit a candlestick from a taper in the low-burning fire, and slipped from the room.

Sandor knew the sound of her step in the hall. He was out of his bed in a moment, but she was faster, slipping through his unlocked door and closing it behind her. For a moment he couldn't speak, only stare at how small and fine she looked, standing there against the door in her bare feet, at the way the flicker of the candle turned her hair to flame.

"All is well," she told him, hoping to ease the tension on his face.

"Why are you here?" he rasped.

"I...We've hardly had a chance to speak these last two days."

"You came for a chat, little bird?" he sneered, moving toward her. The candlelight flickered over his wide chest, danced across the map of his battle scars. "Should I call for tea?" His expression darkened as he loomed over her. "What are you about?"

There had to be a reason she was there. He searched her face, trying to read her intent, but saw only wariness. He'd put that there. He'd already accused her of using her body to try to secure his protection. He regretted insulting her that way, knowing that he'd hurt her. He regretted every time that he'd insulted her, every time he'd purposely frightened her, and he regretted his future transgressions, knowing he would do it again. He didn't want to hurt her. He didn't want to be like this. He just didn't know how to be.

He turned and walked away from her, putting needed space between them, feeling too edgy and way too sober. He sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his palms on his the legs of his breeches, trying to clear his head of the fog that came with being close to her. "What is it, then? Podrick? You're the one who released him. If you can't find the pretty words to talk sense into him, don't think I can."

Her feet whispered on the stone as she crossed to him, setting the candlestick on the bedside table. "I didn't come here to talk about Podrick."

"What then?"

She took a small step forward, edging between his knees. He straightened, almost shrinking back away from her. She felt the shivering tension between them, as though they were a sculpture formed of glass, veined with a million tiny cracks that made them both so very fragile. The slightest misstep, the smallest careless act and they would shatter into pieces, jagged shards that would never again fit together quite the way they should.

He wore some of his cracks on the outside, the scars on his body, the burns on his face. She raised her hand slowly, not breathing, waiting for that moment when he would grab her wrist in his bruising grip and demand to know what she was doing. But it didn't come, and her hand settled against his scarred temple. She couldn't read his expression, the intensity of the dark eyes that stared up at her. He didn't move away, and he made no move to touch her in return. He was perfectly still beneath her hand, but his slow, steady breaths had the quality of someone trying to force himself to calm.

She drew one finger down a line of scar tissue, feeling the way his skin was pulled and stretched, over the place where his brow was drawn down over his eyes. This was where it started, wasn't it? These cracks that formed his perpetual scowl, these old, old cracks that grew inward to meet the ones that grew inside. She knew those, because they were like hers. The ones that were born of fear and cruelty, and grew from loneliness and hate. She wouldn't tell him. How could she begin to compare her months in the Red Keep with the years he had suffered? But she did know, and the knowing drew her to him, inexplicably, inexorably.

He watched her face intently, searching for that first familiar flicker of pity or disgust that would break this spell and allow him to shove her away. He could barely feel the light touch of her fingertip as it traced over the ruin of his face. What he felt was that snarling rage he kept chained inside his chest, prowling, waiting, held in check only by the crushing weight of tension.

She curled her hand, turning it, drawing the backs of her fingers across his cheek, and when her expression shifted, it was to something that looked like tenderness. He set his teeth as that creature inside him growled a warning, fisted his hands in the sheets in a effort to keep himself still. Her eyes shifted to his, the blue almost lost to the dark. Red hair streaming down, her other hand coming up to touch him, her lips parting, her eyes drifting closed. Then her mouth was on his, a gentle brush, a whisper of sensation. He opened his eyes to find hers again, measuring and cautious. She was the bird, small and bright, and the only way to keep her from taking flight was to hold himself utterly still.

She kissed him again, her mouth gliding against his, teasing him with the taste of her. He tilted his head back, wanting more, coaxing more from her with nothing but his mouth and his will. Her fingers slid into his hair as her tongue slid into his mouth, and he dug his fingers into the mattress thinking he would tear it apart if he didn't touch her soon. And if he did touch her?

"Sansa." Her name was almost a moan, a deep, undulating sound that fell from his lips and spilled down her body. "You have to go."

"I don't," she whispered, taking that last step to bring her body flush against his. She could almost hear the build of tension, the weight of it that pressed in all around them. The heat of him seared her skin through the thin fabric of her shift, burned her even as she wanted more of it.

His hands left the bed, but he hesitated to touch her. She held her breath until they settled, light and unsure, against her waist. His eyes were on hers, wide and searching. Warmth swept through her, a heavy wave of tenderness that made her ache for this fierce and broken man.

She drew him in, wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and he was surrounded by her. The scent of her, the fine skin of her throat, smooth against his brow, the silken fall of hair across his cheek. He crossed his arms behind her back, pulling her tight against him, her shawl sliding to the floor as he surrendered his breath in a long, shuddering sigh.

Her heart wrenched, a bright, sweet pain that she had to set her teeth against. This is what she could have given him. On the night of the Blackwater, when he'd stood over her, looking down at her with eyes that asked for something she hadn't understood. "I won't hurt you. I'll keep you safe," but under those words he had been pleading for her to trust him. This is what she could have given him that night, if only she'd stepped in and given her acceptance, the way he gave to her now. Aching with tenderness and regret, she curled her hands into his hair and raised his face once more. Her eyes fell closed as her lips whispered over his skin, learning the feel, and the taste, and the scent of him.

He held himself still under her gentle assault, cradled in her hands, her mouth warm against his skin as her kisses roamed over his face, her small body rigid in his arms. No one had ever touched him this way, this slow, soft exploration. The intimacy was unbearable.

He turned his head and caught her lips with his, raising a hand to the back of her neck, taking control. He needed. So much, everything, he just needed. First her mouth, rising to his feet, sliding up her body to tower over her, triumphant as her head fell back on his hand, as she opened to him, as he swept into her. Then her throat, that fine, delicious skin beneath his open mouth, the beat of her pulse beneath it, hammering and his. His fingers found the tie that lay against her collarbone and worked it open, tugged it loose.

She was molten, a river of liquid fire running through her, the current following the path drawn by his lips against her skin, bright sparks and spouts of flame. Her shift fell away from her shoulder, and he fell to feasting on it, sending another wave of heat coursing through her. In the back of her mind, a question, an accusation, being drowned and slowly consumed, whispering words like shame and dishonor across a mind laid waste by passion.

"Sansa..." he whispered against her, coming back to take her mouth again. She raised her hands to his face once more, feeling the scars and the prickle of beard beneath her fingertips. Arya's words drifted past, unbidden, unexpected, "...he had been fighting for me for a long time." But when had anyone fought for him, this man who took because he was afraid to ask? How could there be shame in loving the man who risked everything to keep them safe, and demanded nothing in return? How could there be honor in saving herself for love by contract, and dishonor in giving to a man who wanted her only for herself?

Her hands slid from his face and pushed lightly against his chest. He wanted to roar in denial. He shut his eyes, every ounce of his will summoned to open his arms and let her step away. She wasn't his, couldn't be his. Whatever this was, she knew that, even when he made himself forget. He had to let her go. He had to watch her walk away.

He opened his eyes. She was still there, close enough to touch, close enough to snare. His hands fisted with the effort not to yank her back against him. Holding his eyes, she raised her hand to right her shift where it lay fallen from her shoulder. Her shoulder rolled. His heart stopped as she pushed the fabric down, jerked in his chest as she drew out her arm, exposing her breast. Moving faster, she shed the other side. The fabric slid past her waist, catching at her hips. A tug, a shake of her hips, and he was staring at the garment, pooled on the floor around her feet.

She took a small step forward on shaky legs, out of the pile of linen, the cool of the room swirling over her naked skin. Her body trembled, wracked by the vicious pounding of her heart as she raised her eyes beneath lowered lashes. His face was hard and drawn, dark eyes glittering as they raked her. She saw the Hound in them, crouched and warning, poised to spring. She should have been the wolf, sure and smooth and cunning, but she felt the fawn, vulnerable and new, taking her first steps on unsteady legs.

She wanted his skin against hers, the heat of him, to lean into his hardness, to be held up by the strength of his arms. She was lost, and she wanted him lead her. But he only stared at her with his predator's gaze and would not touch her. She raised a hand to his chest, felt him flinch as she laid her palm to his skin so she could feel that the pounding of his heart was just the same as hers. With her other hand she captured one of his, her fingers easing his fist open, and placing it against her hip. "I've posed us to dance," she thought, feeling foolish and inept.

But as if in a dance they whirled, spinning, dipping to the bed behind them. And then she was beneath him, arching to the rough caresses of his hands, the heat of his mouth, the scrape of his beard and his scars. This was what she had longed for, all unknowing, to be the victim of this madness, to give herself up anything he wished to take. She writhed under the onslaught of sensation. His mouth worked first one breast, then the other, drawing forth an ache in her that was nearly unbearable. Making her clamp her thighs against it, and her lips against the whimper of sound that would escape them.

He ran his hand down the center of her body, a long, hard stroke. He closed his eyes, feeling every silken plane of her, every shuddering breath she took. He met resistance at the top of her auburn curls. "Open for me," he whispered into her ear, nudging her thighs apart with his hand. She hesitated, but gave under the insistent push of his fingers, sliding down to find her drenched and ready for him. His vision grayed for a moment, his hardness, his need for her a physical pain now. His blood coursing through his veins, beating a chant of take her in his mind.

He moved to strip his breeches, back in a moment to where she lay, stretched, still, and waiting. Pale and perfect, long, supple limbs, ripe breasts, a halo of red silk on his pillow, and the subtler rose flush of her skin. Her eyes, wide and blue, and fixed on him, and as he lowered to cage her with his arms, a flicker of uncertainty flit across her face. He sat back, kneeling beside her, his body screaming for him to take her.

"Last chance. Fly, little bird, and I'll try not to chase you."

Fear had slid into her. Not of him, but of them. Of men and their nature. Cersei's words, "When a man's blood is up, anything with tits looks good. A precious thing like you will look very, very good. A slice of cake, just waiting to be eaten." Sandor looked at her like that now, as though she were a slice of cake. She thought about the rioters. When a man's blood is up, how they'd grabbed at her, how their hands had hurt, "You ever been fucked, little girl?" how they'd dragged her-

"Sansa, for the sake of all the gods, take yourself away from here."

He would let her go. No matter that his blood was up, no matter that she'd gone this far, he would still let her walk away from this. She rose. She saw in his face that he thought she would go, saw resignation and pain settle into the lines of his face. It hurt to see how they belonged there, how familiar they were. It hurt her to let them have any part of him.

She came to her knees before him. Saw the doubt and confusion behind his eyes. It wasn't enough to let him take her, it wasn't enough to lie back in surrender to his desires. His doubts would always come back to haunt him, to come between them. The answer bloomed in her breast, and she smiled at the warmth of it. She had to give to him. He needed, he denied, and all she had to do was give.

She leaned up to him, pulling his head down until her lips brushed his ear. "I don't want to leave you," she whispered. She kissed him, again, moving in to feel the hardness of his chest against her breasts, pressing kisses down the side of his neck as he'd done to her.

His hands moved over her, urging her closer, groaning as his head fell to the side, baring his throat to her. He struggled to keep his movements slow, to touch her gently, but she urged him on with her mouth and her hands, with the glide of her body against his, with her moans and incoherent whispers. Fucking he could handle, but not this, not this aching need for her that was driving him to the edge of sanity. Not this starving thing that clawed inside him, begging for her, to be closer, to be inside her.

They fell back on the bed, but she was with him this time, her hands in his hair, her body arching and undulating against his. There was only madness and the moment, only her and his need. His mouth devouring hers, his cock poised at her entrance, her hips opening to him, and then he was pushing into her, so tight, wet heat, his eyes rolling back behind his closed lids, so good. Needing more, small retreat, then shoving forward to sheath himself inside her.

Her cry flew into his mouth, stabbing into his heart, and he was frozen by it. By the time he'd felt the barrier, it had been too late. He'd never felt that tearing, but he knew what it was.

"Fuck!"

His withdrawal felt like another tear inside her as he ripped himself from her, leaving Sansa dizzy and gasping. The sheet was flung over her and she grasped it in her fingers, holding it to her breasts as she sought to calm herself. It took only a moment for the gray to recede from her vision, but there was a burning edge to the soreness between her legs. She rolled to her side to draw up her knees beneath the sheet, hoping that would ease it.

"Say something, curse you!" he snapped.

She opened her eyes. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to her, just close enough to touch and too far away to think about it. She'd made a mistake, she realized. More than anything, she needed to gain his trust, and she should have told him the truth before. What would he wish to hear from her now?

He sighed, a ragged, loathful sound. "Are you...badly hurt?"

"No." Even now it was more the memory of pain, the shock of it that was still coursing through her. She sat up, drawing the sheet with her. "It was supposed to hurt. I knew that."

"Well I bloody well didn't!"

"I know," she told him softly, letting the sheet fall and moving carefully behind his hunched shoulders. "I should have told you. Forgive me."

He shrugged off the hand that settled on his arm, felt her yank it back as though he'd burned her. He could feel her, hovering behind his naked back, so close to touching him.

"You never would have touched me if you had known."

"You're bloody damned right I wouldn't. That wasn't mine to take."

"That's as much as saying it wasn't mine to give. My most precious possession, and I just threw it away on the likes of you, that's what you're thinking. Fuck that."

He snapped his face to hers, shocked to his bones. "What did you say?"

"You heard what I said. I was never supposed to have a choice. Father chose Joffrey, Robb would have chosen someone else. Tywin chose Tyrion. Tyrion was the first person who ever gave me a say."

"Idiot dwarf."

"For not forcing me to his bed?"

"For...I don't know."

"He called me a child."

"For that, then. You haven't been a child for a long time."

She smiled softly, though he was looking away "I'm grateful to Tyrion for giving me a choice. At least you're valued for your ability. I'm a broodmare. I'm tired of being treated like a prize and a commodity."

"Well, you've got back at them all now, haven't you?"

She drew her knees up against her chest, wrapped her arms around her legs. "Gods, how you can hurt me," she whispered. He turned to her, his expression stricken and confused. She knew he didn't understand, and that only made it hurt more. This time, when she reached out to touch his face, he didn't flinch away.

She crawled into his lap. Allowing him no time to deny her, she curled against his chest. His arms slid around her, rough hands dragging across her skin. It was no right thing for a maiden or a lady to do, but she was finished with all of that. "Don't treat me like a spoiled child. Don't treat me like I don't know my own mind. Have I not seen your worst moments? Have you not made me more than aware of your faults?"

"I thought I had."

She ignored the sarcasm. "I told you that I see you now. Not the dog you call yourself, not the brute you'd have me see, not your sword arm or your protection. I see the man you are." She raised herself, bringing her lips to his ear. "I choose you. Please don't mock me for it."

His arms clamped hard around her. "I don't understand."

"I know," she answered sadly. But someday, perhaps.

She drew his mouth to hers for a kiss, and he gave it to her. His heart ached. Everything in him ached, with regret for every way he had hurt her, with longing for her to soothe him. He was drowning in her, in her kiss, the feel of her skin, in what she was. He was drowning, and the only way to survive her was to fall.

They were back on the bed. Somehow, lost in her, he found himself once again in the cradle of her hips. Fear he'd never known whipped through him. "I can't hurt you again."

Her throat was so tight. Mothers and septas spoke of duty, pain, and getting children. Young married ladies in the gardens spoke of their ability to inflame the passions of their husbands and suffer their sweaty, exuberant endurance. None of them spoke of this longing she felt to wrap herself around this man, to take him into her. To hold him close to her for as long as she could, no matter what it cost her.

She understood him, his violence, his wildness, the way that hurting her would damage him. She would keep him grounded. Keep him safe. "Trust me," she whispered. "Please don't deny me this."

"I can't deny you," he breathed in her ear. He trembled with tension as he eased into her. So hot and tight, so wet for him. He stopped, letting her adjust, letting them both breathe. "Easy, little bird. Try to relax."

She tried, letting out her breath and allowing her head to fall to the side for the nuzzle of his lips behind her ear. The burn she'd felt at his entrance subsided, and she relaxed into the play of his mouth on her skin. The feel of him inside her became more odd than uncomfortable, causing her to bump her hips restlessly. His hand fisted beside her as he slid deeper.

"Sansa, Gods," he groaned. Her eyes went wide as he slid from her. The easing of that fullness, the slow drag against her inner flesh, the burn that was somehow painful and delicious. Then he slid back, the sensation of being filled by him pushing the breath from her lips in a startled gasp of pleasure. Again, longer this time, deeper.

"Sandor..." His name sighed from her lips, and he thought she would break him. He would be crushed under the aching tenderness he felt for her. Her sweetness would tear him to pieces, and he would never be able to put himself back together. He needed to thrust, to pound into her and find his release. She was so delicate in his arms, so sensitive and responsive, so fucking new. What business did he have touching anything like her? What did he know except rutting with whores, his dirty business, both wanting the matter over quickly, and to be out of each others' sight?

"Whatever you're thinking," she said breathlessly, "leave it. I-I would have all of you here with me."

She'd said it so shyly, as though she didn't know she owned him. Aye, she could have all of him. Everything he was, and everything he ever could be, was for her.

Something shifted inside her. Languid pleasure turned to coiling tension. Her limbs wanted to move without her consent, everything in her wanting to draw him closer, deeper and faster. Her legs bent at the knees, her feet dragging against the sheets, down his legs, finally wrapping her legs around him. Even her nails began to scrape against his skin. His voice caressed her, deep and soft in her ear, "Sansa," and "my little bird."

Something in her was drawing tight, so tight and- she couldn't catch her breath, nor a thought, and she pushed at his shoulders in panic.

"I've got you," he crooned. One arm was locked tight around her, but with the other hand he reached down to touch her where their bodies were joined. "I've got you. Trust me and let it go."

She didn't know what the words meant, but her body bowed as spasms took her. He covered her cry with his mouth as throbbing beats of unbearable pleasure burst from the place where he touched her. Rippling with each of his thrusts that grew stronger and faster. His hand left her to fist in the sheets. She curled around him, holding tightly with everything she had as her inner muscles continued to pulse and shudder, as his breath came harsh in her ear, as his whole body became hard as steel in her embrace. She speared her fingers into his hair and he scooped up her hips from the bed and drove, deep and still, roaring something into the pillow that almost sounded like "No."

He slid from her, rolling away with the groan of something wounded, leaving her suddenly alone and open, unprotected and cold. Before she knew what to think, his arm snaked around her waist and yanked her against him, back to front. He was curled against her, his arms tight around her. Rough, and warm, and hard everywhere he touched her, his breaths labored and harsh in her ear.

She felt soft and loose, like she could float away if he didn't hold her so tightly. She felt cocooned in his warmth, protected and safe. She couldn't remember that she had ever felt this safe, this content, or this...right. His arms tightened more when she burrowed back against him, bringing a smile to her lips as sleep dragged at her.

She felt a tickle against her skin, a wetness at her temple, sliding down into her hair. She forced herself to stillness, knowing mustn't acknowledge his tears.