Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/803998.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      Sandor_Clegane/Sansa_Stark
  Character:
      Sandor_Clegane, Sansa_Stark
  Additional Tags:
      Coming_of_Age, Age_Difference, Mutual_Pining, Sexual_Tension, Fluff_and
      Angst, Masturbation, Voyeurism, Mutual_Masturbation, Oral_Sex, First
      Time, Romance, Parenthood
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-05-15 Completed: 2013-06-16 Chapters: 5/5 Words: 17112
****** Maslowian Needs ******
by Helholden
Summary
     And now for something completely different — from the Vale to across
     the Narrow Sea, in which Sandor gives and learns how to receive, and
     realizes how Sansa Stark fell in love with him in the first place.
Notes
     Each section of the story covers one of the branches of Maslow’s
     Needs, starting from the bottom and working its way up: (1) Basic
     needs — food, shelter, water, sleep (2) Safety and security (3)
     Belonging and love (4) Esteem (5) Self-actualization. Nerdy
     McNerdpants over here. Sansa also gains a year of age with each part,
     so she’s not as young as she is in other stories of mine, and sexy
     times won’t start until part three.
     Anyway, this is my attempt at fluff and romance. Boy, let’s see if I
     crash and burn this, huh?
***** The Basic Needs *****
i.
 
Sansa Stark was four and ten when he came for her in the Vale, and Sandor
Clegane’s only thoughts had been to protect her from all of the hunters out for
her blood. He draped her in a too long tattered grey cloak with a cowl to hide
her hair, and then he offered her his hand. Sansa gazed at him unsure, but she
took his hand in hers and accepted his help. She could have chosen to stay with
Littlefinger, but there was no happy ending in that tale. If the snakes hiding
in the grass didn’t come to steal her away from Petyr Baelish when he wasn’t
looking, then Baelish would have had his way with her and married her to
himself in an attempt to claim Winterfell and the North as his own.
 
They made their camp at the base of trees during the nights, which were cold
and unforgiving, and Sandor gave her the largest blanket and kept his distance
by lying down a few feet away, but every day when he woke up in the morning, he
found she had rolled into him sometime during the night. He hunted for them
whenever they were hungry, and sometimes Sansa found edible plants in the
forests or bushes of berries to pluck. She never sat around and waited on him
to do everything. Sansa helped out where she could help, and he made sure her
needs were taken care of to the best of his ability. If it rained, he made a
small shelter. If she was hungry, he got her food. If she was cold, he would
start a fire to keep her warm.
 
Sandor brushed at Stranger’s coat one morning when Sansa stirred from her
sleep, and she slowly pushed herself up on her hands and glanced around the
forest floor. She lifted her head, searching for something, until her eyes
landed on him. Sansa sat up a little straighter, wiggling upright amongst the
crunchy leaves, and Sandor glanced over at her. Sansa had been staring at him,
and she looked away quickly. Her cheeks turned pink, but Sandor didn’t say
anything about it. He returned his attention back to Stranger.
 
“Did you sleep well?” he asked her, still running the brush over Stranger’s
shiny black coat. In the corner of his peripheral vision, he saw Sansa nod her
head at his question.
 
“Yes,” she answered him, and Sandor looked at her again. Sansa bit gently on
her bottom lip. “Thank you for asking.”
 
He didn’t answer her, silently accepting her thank you. Sandor instead focused
on his task with Stranger, and when he was done, they packed everything and he
helped her onto the horse. He mounted the courser behind her, took the reins,
and they trotted off at a leisurely pace through the end of their journey on
horseback. They made it out to a small port city on the coast, and Sandor
didn’t want to do it, but he had to, and so he sold Stranger. It wasn’t for the
money. He just couldn’t take the beast over the sea with them.
 
Buying them passage on one of the small galleys, Sandor escorted Sansa safely
onto the deck of the ship. When the sailors asked them questions, Sandor wasn’t
comfortable with saying she was his wife, so he called her his daughter. Even
though he wasn’t truly old enough to be her father, no one seemed to notice the
difference and no more questions were asked. When they took to their chamber on
the ship, it was small and cramped and there was only one bed. Sansa looked
uncomfortable as she wrapped her arms around herself, but she didn’t say
anything out loud.
 
“I’ll sleep on the floor,” Sandor told her, not wanting to make her feel ill at
ease.
 
Sansa looked up at him, surprise clear in her blue eyes, but she seemed to find
this thought a comforting one at least. There was no argument over it. Each
night he lied on the floor with a blanket and one of the lumpy pillows under
his head and managed to sleep just fine, and Sansa slept in the bed wrapped up
in a bundle. They ate with the sailors, stale bread and hard meat, but food was
food and Sansa didn’t even make a face at it anymore like she did in the
forest. She ate like the rest of them, glad for the sustenance and a full
belly.
 
When they landed on a shore on the opposite side of the Narrow Sea, Sandor
stood on the top deck with Sansa at his side. They had been watching the
approach of distant land for some time now under the painted colors of a new
sunrise. The flare of red and pink flushed the sky and sea, and the sun rose
red out of the waters at the end of the world. With apprehension in their
hearts and equal looks of hesitation on their faces, they approached a new
world much different from the one they were leaving.
 
Sandor placed his hand on Sansa’s shoulder in a reassuring gesture, gently
squeezing it, which drew her attention. She looked up at him as he looked down
at her. Their gazes met in the middle. Sansa tried to smile at him, but it
wasn’t a full smile, and Sandor wondered how long it would be before the girl
smiled again, real and true.
 
She looked back out at the city ahead of them, bustling with inhabitants and
activity, and Sandor’s eyes followed hers to take in the view before they
descended into it. The ports were full and overflowing, housing a crowd big
enough to get lost in, and that was exactly what they meant to do. They
shouldered their bags, though Sandor took most of the weight, and walked off
the ship into the gates of a new city thriving with life.
 
Sansa reached out for his hand and grasped it before they completely stepped
off the ship, and Sandor looked back at her with a furrowed brow, wondering at
the delicate gesture that normally would have invaded his personal space. She
didn’t seem to even notice his look, staring ahead in wonder at everything
around them, and Sandor turned his attention away from Sansa and focused on
finding a way through the swarm of bodies. It was only later that he thought
she grabbed his hand so as to not lose him in the crowd, which was smart of her
because he didn’t think of it.
 
They stayed at an inn until Sandor managed to find work, and even then he still
had to build up some coin in order to get them their own place. He didn’t like
the idea of leaving her alone at the inn while he was gone, so he took her with
him whenever he had to work, and Sansa sat on the sidelines and watched
whatever manual labor he had to perform to provide for them. It gave her a
sense of understanding of just how much effort he was putting forth for her
anyway, which was a good thing. Sansa often brought him water to drink while he
worked, and he would take a break to enjoy it. Sometimes he thought it was more
often than necessary, but Sandor never complained. It was sweet of the girl to
think of him, and it was more than just her usual common courtesy.
 
Sansa was sitting on the wall one day while he was digging with the other men
during a sweltering wave of heat, her legs kicking underneath her, her palms
flat on the square beige stones she sat upon, with the most intent look of
concentration on her face he had ever seen from a girl watching men work.
Sandor was shirtless and covered in dirt and sweat, and when he paused to wipe
his brow, he glanced up at Sansa through the bright sunlight to see that look
on her face. She sat there up on the wall, kicking her legs under her dress,
staring openly.
 
When she noticed him looking back at her, her whole face turned red and Sansa
shied her gaze away from his to her right. She stilled her feet from her
kicking, crossing them modestly at the ankles. Her shoulders twisted, and she
bit her lip. Sandor frowned and shook his head at the girl. She was a strange
one, he thought, and Sandor looked away from her to focus once more on his
task, never noticing how her eyes slowly veered back to watch, her legs
resuming their playful kicks.
 
“Gods, I need a bath,” Sandor said that evening when he was finished for the
day and they were walking back to the inn together. Sansa hurried in front of
him, walking backwards to face Sandor as she spoke, with a small smile planted
across her face.
 
“I can help,” she piped up.
 
Sandor froze mid-step, staring at her with a look that must have said exactly
what he was thinking because Sansa’s face fell at the look she saw on his, and
she froze too, and then she started to stumble over her words in an effort to
explain herself.
 
“I mean, well, not like that,” Sansa tried to say, albeit nervously, her hands
fidgeting in front of her. She looked like she didn’t know what to say next,
but Sandor wasn’t going to interrupt her. He just had to hear her explain
herself out of this one because if that wasn’t an awkward proposal, then he
didn’t know what in the seven hells was awkward. Sansa raised one of her hands,
weakly pointing it over his shoulder. “I mean, your back. You might have
trouble . . . reaching it . . . ”
 
Sandor decided to save her the embarrassment for her poor choice of words. He
knew she didn’t mean for it to come out the way it did, and there was no point
in upsetting her over it. “I think I can manage my back on my own,” Sandor told
her, and he pushed his way into the inn with Sansa following close behind him.
They made it up to their room, and Sansa sat on her bed as he gathered some
fresh clothes and left their room for the bathhouse below.
 
The water was cool and refreshing, and Sandor preferred the falls over the
baths, and so he washed himself under the cascade of running water instead of
lounging in one of the pools. Only the section of the bathhouse with the
falling water had no roof, and it was open to the left side of the building.
Though he never looked up to see her, Sansa was peeking out of one of the
windows in their room, watching him bathe below in the waterfall with hitched
breath, her fingers gripping on the windowsill as she leaned over to see him.
 
When Sandor returned to the room, Sansa looked a little disheveled compared to
her usual self, which he thought was odd but he wasn’t going to lose sleep over
it. The girl didn’t have to look perfect every single hour of every single day,
even if it was her mission in life. Sansa gently brushed down some of her hair
with her fingers, tucking it behind her ear, and when he walked by her, he
smelled it.
 
Sandor halted, and then abruptly he was looking around the room like he was
prepared for a fight. “Was someone here?” he asked, his voice edged with
danger. Sansa was quiet, and when he turned to glare at her, her mouth was
hanging open in surprise.
 
“What?” she returned back to him, and Sandor looked away from her, growling.
 
“Someone was in this room,” he snarled. Suddenly, he was very angry. The room
smelled of sex. Sandor knew what sex smelled like, and in the heat of this
godforsaken weather, the room stank of it. Who had been in here with her?
Sandor turned his furious gaze back onto Sansa, and he snatched her hand. “Who
was here?” he demanded of her. “Tell me!” He would kill the boy, the man,
whoever the hell—
 
“No one!” Sansa cried out, trying to pull her hand back. “Please, stop it.
You’re scaring me—”
 
Quickly, Sandor let her go. Sansa brought her arm to her chest, holding it
close to her. She stared at him with wide eyes, large pupils, and flushed
cheeks. The realization hit him like a ton of bricks. Her disheveled hair, the
redness of her face, the intoxicating scent wafting off of her . . .
 
Sandor pulled back and turned away from her. He needed a moment to compose
himself. Running his hand over his face, he took a deep breath and tried to
clear his thoughts. He had thought that someone had come in here, that someone
had bothered her, touched her, done something they very well shouldn’t have
with the girl he was meant to protect, and he would have murdered that person
if it were true. However, Sandor was faced with a very different dilemma. The
first one was easy, and its solution simple.
 
This one was a little more complicated.
 
It was normal, Sandor told himself. All boys and girls her age started getting
curious and doing things like that, but he couldn’t stay in the room with her
with that knowledge floating around in his head. Thinking about Sansa touching
herself was too much even for Sandor, and it bothered him that he was turned on
by the thought. No, he couldn’t stay here. He had to leave the room.
 
“I’ll be downstairs,” he said abruptly, and Sandor made for the door, leaving
her alone in the room.
 
He had a few drinks downstairs in the tavern until the sun went down, and then
he stumbled back up to their shared room. Sandor tried to cross it in the
darkness, hitting his shin against a chair and cursing, and eventually he
stumbled into his bed and fell flat on his back against the soft cot. Letting
out a soft sigh, he breathed in the clean, cool air and closed his eyes.
 
Only he was in the wrong bed, and he didn’t realize it. Sansa was staring at
him, half afraid and half intrigued as to why he was in her bed instead of his
own, and when he rolled over, he threw his arm around her. He was so pissed
drunk he didn’t even realize it was Sansa, or to hell with that, he didn’t even
realize it was a person—and, thinking it a pillow, pulled it close to his body
with a deep, contented sigh.
 
Sansa lied in his arms as still as a frozen bird, barely daring to allow
herself to breathe, and when nothing further happened except Sandor’s snoring,
Sansa breathed a sigh of relief and closed her eyes, curling into his embrace
and accepting it, she fell asleep.
***** Safety and Security *****
ii.
 
Sansa was five and ten when she picked up one of the many books she had asked
him to buy for her and held it out to him, smiling brightly. “I can teach you
how to read better,” Sansa said, and she waited for his reaction before saying
anything more. Sandor stared at the book, and then he lifted his gaze to her,
and he wondered for the hundredth time how she managed to perfect the puppy dog
look in her eyes when she was supposed to be a damn wolf.
 
He was rubbing off on her, Sandor supposed, and he narrowed his eyes at first
to give the impression that he was thinking of it but that he might say no.
Sansa pushed the innocent look on her face even harder, big doleful eyes
staring out at him, and leaned over the table to slowly push the book towards
him. When Sandor looked down at the book, her cleavage was right in his view
and pressed up against the hard wood of the table. He took a good long look
without complaining.
 
Later, Sansa thought it was her eyes that got him to say yes, but what she
didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.
 
Truth be told, Sandor had an education, but it wasn’t up to par with hers.
Sansa had been raised in the typical life of a highborn lady with septas and
maesters and everything the world had to offer right at her fingertips. Sandor
had a basic education that was abruptly cut off in his youth, and so he sat
down with Sansa on most nights and allowed her to tutor him, which was
frustrating at first, but it soon paid off. Sandor could read better, and soon
he began to talk a little different, testing out new words in his everyday
vocabulary. Every time he said something new, Sansa would grin at him with this
light in her eyes like she was so proud of him. It was annoying at first, and
Sandor scowled at her a couple of times, but there came a point when she would
grin at him and either he would laugh his raspy laugh or look away and try not
to smirk, shaking his head at her.
 
Sansa also insisted on giving him dancing lessons, not that he wanted any part
of that business, but she wanted to start going to local parties and meeting
people and participating in those sorts of things, and Sandor didn’t have the
heart to tell her no. With a sigh of resignation, he agreed to learn a few
things. She maintained he had more grace than he thought he did, but there were
still a few stubbed toes from time to time.
 
Sansa would hold out her arm, and Sandor would take it, and she would guide him
one by one, one by one through the steps, and then she would release him and
ask him to repeat it on his own. Sandor glared at her at first, flat out
refusing, but Sansa persisted that it was important for him to do it or he
wouldn’t properly learn it. Eventually, Sandor growled low in his throat and
conceded, and they spent a few months perfecting it.
 
When Sansa was satisfied with his progress, she accepted a local invitation for
a party at one of the manses on their street. It was a big deal for Sansa. She
was a girl, and she loved parties. She missed the ones from her childhood, and
Sandor knew some part of her was trying to relive her life from Winterfell
before King’s Landing came and took all of her dreams away from her. It was
their first social call in the neighborhood that he allowed her to answer, and
while Sansa was happy about it, Sandor was nervous. Gatherings and parties were
things Sandor could do without in his life, but he was doing this for Sansa.
 
Now that he thought about it, he did a lot of things for Sansa.
 
Luckily, it wasn’t an extravagant affair. It was a simple party, more like an
elaborate gathering, at one of the manses in the city. The pillars were wrapped
in green vines, the tables lined with white tablecloths and piled with exotic
foods, and they were greeted by their host with a jovial welcome as he held out
both of his arms at them and a massive grin spread across his face.
 
“Welcome!” Astero bellowed in his deep voice. He was a big man with a kindly
face, a scruffy beard and curly brown hair that reached past his shoulders. He
took one look at Sansa and his jaw almost hit the floor. Astero held his arms
out to her. “This must be your lovely bride!”
 
Sandor’s eyes grew wide, and he opened his mouth to correct that mistake when
Sansa grinned in her usual cheerful manner, wrapped her arm around Sandor’s
arm, and dashed all hopes of fixing it by saying, “Yes, my husband and I are so
happy you invited us to your party. We have been meaning to go out for some
time now and meet all of our neighbors, but finding the time . . . ” Sansa let
her voice trail off on purpose, giving Astero a warm smile.
 
“You need say no more,” Astero replied with a grin as he leaned towards Sansa.
The man’s eyes were already glittering from too much wine, even Sandor could
see it. Sandor knew the look of a drunken man. He was shocked when Astero
didn’t topple over right then and hit the floor. “Please, enjoy yourselves!”
Astero told them. “There’s wine, food, and music! What more could you want?”
Astero burst out laughing, slapping his belly, and walked off to grab another
goblet of red wine for himself.
 
Sandor grasped Sansa’s arm and dragged her over to one of the pillars away from
everyone else. “What was that about?” he hissed, speaking in a low tone to keep
their conversation private.
 
“What was what about?” Sansa asked him, and she seemed genuinely confused. The
bright blue pools of her innocent eyes stared back at him, uncomprehending.
 
“About you being my wife,” Sandor snapped. “When we came over the sea, I told
them you were my daughter—“
 
Sansa looked offended. “I’m too old to be your daughter,” she said, and she
shook her arm free of his grasp. “It is just a title for when we are out in
public. It does not mean anything. I don’t understand why it makes you so
upset—”
 
Before she could finish, Sandor stalked away from her and stormed right up to
one of the tables to grab a glass of wine and down it in three gulps. He
scooped up a second one and worked on that one too, and when he looked back
over at the pillar, Sansa was no longer there. He looked over the crowd, seeing
her approaching another girl close to her age. They started to talk, laughing
and smiling, and Sandor downed yet another cup of wine.
 
He was drunk faster than he meant to be, so when one of the serving wenches
made a move on him, Sandor didn’t resist it. He couldn’t remember the last time
a woman dared to kiss him, but this one was a bold wench, and she did just
that. She could have been a whore, and he thought with the way she used her
tongue she definitely had experience with using it on men.
 
When she pulled away from him and leaned in to whisper in his ear about going
somewhere private, Sandor looked out in the crowd and that was when he saw
it—Sansa staring back at him, horror written all across her fair features.
Sandor wrinkled his face in confusion at her as he returned her gaze, and then
Sansa’s hand flew up to cover her mouth. Not a second later, she whirled around
and vanished into the crowd. Sandor pushed the wench away and stumbled through
the swarm of bodies, hurrying after Sansa.
 
Sandor staggered out of the doors of Astero’s manse, looking both ways down the
street, and spotted Sansa running far ahead in the darkness. Sandor gritted his
teeth. He wasn’t about to yell her name across the whole damn city, so he had
to run after her. Sandor pursued her all the way back to their manse until he
was out of breath, but Sansa had already hurried inside past the doors by the
time he reached it.
 
Sandor burst through the front entrance not long after her.
 
“Sansa!” he hollered down the hallways, but she didn’t answer him. Sandor felt
his whole face twist in anger, and he marched right up to her chambers to find
the door shut tight. When he tried the handle, it was locked. It wiggled
without giving way, and he slammed his fist hard against the door one time. The
whole thing shook on its hinges, but it remained firmly shut.
 
“Sansa, open up,” Sandor demanded, and he banged his fist against the door.
There was no answer from within her room. Sandor had to take a deep breath to
try and keep his calm. Sansa was testing his patience after that little stunt
of running away, and now this. “What’s wrong with you? Running off into the
streets like that! You could have been hurt!” When he was met with silence yet
again, Sandor banged his fist even harder on the door. “Open the door, Sansa!”
 
“No!” came her voice in reply, muffled by the thick door.
 
Seven hells, this was his manse. If he wanted to kick the damn door down to get
to her, then he was going to kick the damn door down to get to her—and he did,
because he was drunk, he was angry, and she was pissing him off even more. With
one forceful thrust of his boot, he cracked the hinges and sent the door flying
inward into her room. When Sandor caught her horrified gaze, he jutted his
thumb at the broken door. “If you lock another fucking door in this house, this
is what’s going to happen to it!”
 
Sansa wasn’t afraid of him, though. She knew he wouldn’t hurt her, so she just
glared back at him with the force of her father in her beautiful, young face.
 
“You’re a brute!” Sansa hollered back at him.
 
Sandor shook his head as a gleam came into his eyes. “Oh, you haven’t seen me
be a brute,” he said. When he marched towards her, Sansa dashed around her bed
in a circle to avoid him. Sandor tried to follow her, but when he went left,
she went right, and when he went right, she went left. Sandor growled low in
his throat as he glared at her across the bed, and then he grasped the bedpost
and made a motion to climb the damn thing to get to her. Sansa’s eyes went
wide, and that was when she made a run for it to the door.
 
Sandor immediately retreated back onto the floor and grasped Sansa’s arm as she
ran past him, catching her at last before she could escape him. His grip was
gentle on her, despite all of his previous harsh words, and he pulled her
towards him.
 
“Sansa, what is wrong with you,” Sandor repeated in a brusque whisper, trying
to understand what had happened tonight and getting nowhere in his head. Sansa
stopped trying to struggle, defeated now that he had her, and she was quiet for
a moment before she answered him at last.
 
“Tonight was supposed to be for me,” she said quietly. “You were supposed to go
for me.”
 
Reaching for her chin with his free hand, Sandor lifted Sansa’s face to make
her look at him. Sansa tried to pull her head away from him, but his fingers
were firm on her chin. Her eyes were full of water, though not a single drop of
it spilled down her cheeks. Sansa was trying to be strong, he saw, with her
steely jaw and firm gaze, but she was moments away from breaking. It hit him
hard. Sandor had gone through all of this trouble for her, to make her happy,
and then he still somehow managed to piss all over it like the dog he was.
 
He fought back his pride and pulled Sansa into his arms, hugging her to his
chest. Sansa didn’t have a family anymore, and what did he take her in for if
not to take care of her and provide for her when no one else would do it
without using her? Sandor was trying to be there for her, and yet he was
letting her down. Sansa clutched him back, holding onto him for dear life. She
laid her head against his chest, and he felt her fingers digging hard into the
fabric of his doublet, gripping onto him too tight.
 
“I’m sorry,” he rasped, hoping it was enough. “I will try harder next time.”
 
“Will you?” she asked, and her voice was far away and small.
 
Sandor felt his jaw tighten at the idea of making a promise. He hated promises,
but what was this? What was taking care of her, but a promise to keep doing so?
He took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly, nodding his head above hers.
“Yes,” he said, settling for simpler words. “I will.”
 
Sansa was quiet for a little while, but eventually she spoke up again. “Were
you going to sleep with that woman?” she asked all of a sudden, her voice tiny
and so small, muffled against his chest where she had laid her head against
him.
 
Shocked to be asked such a question, and by her of all people, Sandor pulled
away from Sansa with his hands on her shoulders to get a good look at her face.
“What?” Sandor asked her, returning her question with yet another one.
 
Face to face, Sansa looked ten times more nervous. Her shoulders shook under
his hands. “That woman,” she repeated quietly, “you were kissing.”
 
Sandor’s face wrinkled in confusion. “That wench?”
 
“Did you like her?” Sansa asked, bolder than before, holding up her chin.
 
“I don’t even know her—”
 
This time it was Sansa’s turn to be confused. “But you were kissing her . . . ”
 
Sandor snorted at that, laughing low. “Gods, that doesn’t mean anything.”
 
Sansa narrowed her eyes at him. “Then, why did you kiss her?” she demanded.
 
“Because—” Wait, why was he explaining this to her? Sandor stopped himself from
answering her questions and turned the tables onto Sansa. “Why do you care
where my mouth goes?” he snapped at her, and it was the wrong thing to say
because Sansa’s whole face started to tremble, her eyes filled with tears, and
she turned to run away from him again.
 
Sandor grabbed her arm, gently hauling her back to him. “Sansa . . . ”
 
“No,” she said, her voice shaking, and Sansa tried to wrench her arm out of his
grip. “Let me go.”
 
“Not until you tell me what the hell is the matter,” Sandor demanded, giving
her no room to wiggle away from him this time. He was going to get a damn
answer out of her whether she liked it or not.
 
Sansa whirled on him, tears spilling down her pretty cheeks, though her eyes
were red-rimmed and her lips trembled. “What’s the matter?” she asked, her
voice rising with each word. “What’s the matter? Do you just share yourself
with people who don’t matter? Is that it? Everyone who doesn’t matter gets to
have you? What about people who do matter? Do they get any of your time? What
about me? Do I matter?”
 
Her diatribe went on too long for him to catch the meaning of it all at once,
but Sandor understood the last bit as soon as it had left her mouth. He took
Sansa by the chin, raising her face to his. Sandor shook his head, a pained
expression on his face. “You’re the only one that matters,” he rasped, looking
her in the eyes. “I thought you knew that.”
 
Sandor expected her to be happy to hear that, but Sansa’s face fell. “That
explains a lot,” she whispered sadly, and her bottom lip trembled once more.
Sandor was beginning to feel frustrated all over again. Was nothing he said
good enough for her, nothing at all?
 
“I don’t understand what you want from me, Sansa,” Sandor ground out from
between his clenched teeth, and he was still so close to her, his fingers
gripping her chin to hold it up as he searched her eyes for the answer—and when
her hand reached up and cupped his cheek and her lips caught his mouth in a
kiss, he thought oh. Sandor’s next thought was to pull away, but his mouth
reacted to hers before his thoughts could take action against it. Sandor kissed
her back, and her soft lips felt like heaven against his ruined mouth.
 
It was not a heady kiss, and there was no tongue, but that did not lessen the
intensity or the spark beneath the surface. Sandor slowly pulled away from her,
realizing his hand was on the back of her neck. He didn’t remember how it got
there, only that it was there, and he didn’t know what to do next. Sansa stared
up at him, her eyes glazed and her lips tantalizingly parted in shock.
 
Sandor pulled away from her, putting distance between them. The moment he left
her, he saw Sansa’s arms wrap over her chest to clutch onto herself. “Am I not
good enough, is that it?” she asked him, trying to calm her trembling voice.
 
He gritted his teeth at the question and cast his gaze to the floor. “And who
told you that?”
 
“You pulled away . . . ”
 
Sandor closed his eyes. He was going to regret this. He knew he was, but if it
still bothered him so much then he wasn’t going to do it. No matter how much
she begged. “You’re too young,” Sandor finally said, and then he slowly shook
his head. “I’ll not be that man.”
 
He wanted to protect her. He didn’t want to spoil her, even if his thoughts
went dark sometimes. Sandor wanted Sansa to be happy and normal. It meant more
than any of his desires or wicked fantasies. He just wanted her to smile, but
her lips were turned the wrong way and every word out of his mouth was only
hurting her more. Sandor didn’t understand it. How could he want the best for
her and that make her unhappy?
 
Sansa’s next question was barely a whisper on the wind. “Will you take other
women, then?”
 
That made him look at her. Sandor never in all his life had someone be jealous
of the whores and wenches that he only used to sate an urge for the night and
then left right after. They meant nothing to him, and she meant everything, and
here she was, jealous of them. Sandor tried to imagine how that could feel and
how it was even possible, but when he thought of Sansa randomly fucking some
boy just for the hell of satisfying an urge, he saw red and developed a strong
urge to kill someone.
 
His reaction to such a thought brought on a heavy dose of shame that made
Sandor lower his head. Was that how she felt, then, over him? It was so
surreal, but she wouldn’t be this upset if it weren’t true. She wouldn’t be
crying over him, of all people, if it weren’t true. All of the intense emotions
mixing with the alcohol in his system made him feel dizzy and sick all at once,
and Sandor leaned his head forward as he covered his face with his hand.
 
When the feeling of sickness passed him, Sandor raised his gaze back to hers.
“I’ll not,” he said. “Not if it makes you unhappy.”
 
Sansa was still at last, and a look of hope blossomed in her eyes. “You’ll wait
for me?” she asked quietly, and the breathless quality of her voice made Sandor
bite down hard on his tongue. That wasn’t what he said or what he meant by it,
but he didn’t want to dash her hopes all over again and hurt her even more. He
wouldn’t touch another woman until Sansa realized what she really wanted out of
life, and he was sure it wasn’t him. She was just young and confused, but he
wouldn’t hurt her if he could stop it. Celibacy didn’t have a nice ring to it,
but he supposed there were sacrifices in raising a girl.
 
“Wait until you’re older,” Sandor said, “and see if anything changes. In the
mean time, I’m not going anywhere. You’re not chasing me off that easy.” Sandor
closed the distance between them to take her in one arm and kiss the top of her
head. It would calm her, he knew, and give her a sense of peace. Girls were
funny like that, he had learned with her. “That’s not so hard, is it?” he asked
her, and when he looked down at her, Sansa looked up at him and smiled softly.
 
“Okay,” she agreed, nodding her head. When she hugged him and laid her head
against his chest again, in spite of everything, Sandor wasn’t so sure he
wanted it to change after all.
***** Belonging and Love *****
iii.
 
Sansa was months past her six and tenth name day when she decided she was going
to invade Sandor’s personal space by spying on him during a very private
moment. Swearing off any and all women for her sake hadn’t been easy. In fact,
it was really hard. Sandor had urges he couldn’t just sit around and ignore all
day, not when he was so used to sating his urges in the past, but now he had to
find other ways too alleviate his sexual appetite. He took to relieving himself
in his hand as often as was necessary, which was very often. When he had women,
he didn’t need sex that often, but when it was just his hand, well, he was
never fully satisfied afterwards.
 
Whenever he took a bath, in the morning if he woke up with an erection, at
night when everything was silent and dark and he could just close his eyes and
imagine Sansa’s pretty pink lips encircling his cock as her dark, lustful blue
eyes watched him and he fisted his hand in her auburn hair and fucked her mouth
as she moaned around his shaft—
 
“Fuck,” Sandor swore aloud, tipping his head back and covering his face with
his free hand. He was doing it again. Every time he closed his eyes, he tried
to picture a serving wench or some random face to satisfy him, but all he ever
saw was Sansa’s face above him, Sansa’s naked body sitting on his cock to
please him, and Sansa riding him as she tipped her hair back and moaned at the
ceiling, her hair bouncing in a cascade down her back and her teats bouncing in
front of him as he gripped her hips and planted his feet against the bed to
buck up against her and fuck her with so much force she screamed each time he
sheathed his cock in her.
 
He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. Sansa was older now—taller with
even longer legs, fuller in her breasts and hips, and the baby roundness of her
face had sharpened with age. She even acted differently than she had when she
was younger, laughing low instead of giggling, smiling instead of grinning like
a silly girl. One time, five days ago, when they were playing a game of cyvasse
late into the night and drinking too much wine—not just him, her too—Sansa had
captured one of his elephants. She grinned a wicked grin, biting her lower lip,
and stole his piece from the board. Sansa held it up in the air, asking him if
he had wanted it back with a gleam in her eyes. Sandor matched her look with a
challenge of his own, and he held out his hand palm up to see if she would
return it.
 
Sansa had slowly leaned forward, still smiling that wicked smile, and made a
move as if she meant to put the piece back in his hand—but then she curled it
beneath two of her fingers away from him and used her other fingers to gently
trace them over his palm. It had sent all of the right pleasant tingles through
his body, and part of his mind imagined Sansa leaning forward and dragging her
tongue along his hand, but she never did. Sansa pulled back, laughing, dangling
his elephant in the air. “Mine now,” she had said, and she picked up her goblet
of wine and drank more, never breaking her gaze from his eyes.
 
Sandor never beat off so hard as he did that night, and he hadn’t come that
hard in years.
 
As he stared up at the ceiling in the darkness of his bed chamber, he tried to
find excuses to not think of Sansa in that way, but he couldn’t find any
excuses anymore to justify it. His tongue curled in the back of his mouth as he
stretched his jaw to alleviate the tension there. His whole body thrummed with
tension because he was about to throw it all to the wind and just give into the
urges and picture Sansa any way he wanted to picture her in his head and stop
feeling miserable about doing it. Releasing a deep breath, Sandor shook his
head and dropped it back again.
 
“Bugger it all,” he hissed at the ceiling, and he spit in his hand and wrapped
his fingers back around his cock and stroked himself as he went back to his
previous fantasy.
 
Sandor imagined Sansa’s mouth taking him in, her inexperience causing her teeth
to gently drag against his cock. He groaned at that, and then he thought of her
pulling back and lapping at the tip of his cock like it was fountain of youth
and she was going to drain every last drop from it. Sandor imagined Sansa would
then suck on the sensitive head of his cock, and he would tell her to suck and
swirl her tongue around the tip at the same time, and she would do it, and he
would swear aloud as the pleasure overwhelmed him, and then she would take him
in her mouth in full as far as she could go, choking before pulling back—
 
“Oh, fuck, Sansa,” he said aloud, groaning deep in the back of his throat, and
his breathing quickened and his hand quickened—
 
Then, he heard it.
 
A gasp from the doorway.
 
Sandor shot upright on the bed, struggling to pull something into his lap to
cover his erection, and quickly turned to look and see who the hell had
interrupted him—but some sinking part of his stomach knew the answer to that
already because Sandor only shared this manse with one other person, and he had
just called her name out while fucking his hand. Fuck, Sandor thought, knowing
how it looked, knowing how it sounded, and knowing it was pointless to ask who
was there when he knew who was there without having to ask.
 
“Sansa,” he called out, but his eyes were on the bed because he couldn’t lift
them to look at the doorway. There weren’t many things that could embarrass
Sandor, but this was definitely one of them—Sansa, witnessing him pleasure
himself to the thought of her because he had to open his big mouth in the
middle of it all. At first, there was nothing but silence, but Sandor waited
patiently for her to answer him or at least make her presence known. He knew
she was there. There was no point in trying to pretend otherwise when it would
just come up again later if they didn’t face it now.
 
Eventually, there came a soft rustle from the doorway, and Sansa edged her way
in from the darkness beyond his door in nothing more than a sleeping shift and
slippers on her feet. Her hair was down, long auburn tresses hanging loose
about her arms in contrast to her pale skin and cream-colored sleeping shift.
Despite everything about her appearance making her look very much like a woman
these days, as she stood in his doorway so nervous and so unsure she never
looked more like a scared child than she did in that moment.
 
“Were you watching me?” Sandor asked her, raising his eyes to meet hers. There,
he said it. It was out in the open. Now she just had to answer him, but he
wondered if she would be honest about it. Maybe she would come up with some
excuse about how she heard something in the night and got scared and came to
his room for—
 
“I watch you a lot,” Sansa whispered quietly, and despite her bold words, she
hugged herself with one of her arms and tilted her head downward in the
moonlight while still looking at him across the room. Sandor felt his mouth
fall open at her admission. His eyes widened, and he wondered when this started
and how. This wasn’t the first time he had said her name out loud while beating
off. How many times had she heard him—or better yet, how many times had she
seen him and in how many compromising positions?
 
Sandor brought a hand to his head and dragged his fingers through his hair,
gripping it at the top of his head as he gritted his teeth. When he let go, it
fell back down, and he tried to think of what to say to that, but nothing came
to mind. He said a lot of dirty things to her in his mind, but when faced with
the real life prospect of it, he shut down. Sandor couldn’t find anything to
say, and when he raised his gaze to her at the other side of the room, they
stared at each other for the longest time in absolute silence.
 
Eventually, Sansa shied away from his door. She stepped slowly across the
floor, and Sandor pulled back further on the bed once he realized she was
coming towards him. Sansa froze for a moment, like she was thinking better of
her decision, but then she swallowed noticeably past a catch in her throat and
started approaching his bed again. Sandor scooted further back yet again,
taking the sheet over his lap with him, but his actions did not deter Sansa.
She crept onto his bed with her knees, keeping herself upright even as her
palms pressed down on the soft mattress.
 
Her sleeping shift only reached to her knees when standing, but as she crawled
onto his bed, it raked up higher, exposing her thighs. Sandor felt his cock
twitch at the sight, betraying him. He wasn’t going to be able to resist her.
Not this time, he knew it. She crossed the distance on his bed slowly until she
reached him, and he had nowhere to go. Not that he really wanted anywhere to
go. Wasn’t this every fantasy he ever had coming to life? Sansa Stark in his
bed, in his arms, wrapping her legs around his—
 
Sansa’s hands were on his shoulders, and before he could register what was
happening, Sansa used his shoulders for leverage as she straddled his lap with
one leg on each side of his body. She sat down on his lap, the sheet thankfully
between them, but he was already hard again, and when she sat down on his
erection, she gasped, lifting up her body and looking down all of a sudden as
if she didn’t know what that was pressing against her. Sandor wasn’t sure what
possessed him, but he grabbed her sides tight with both hands and shoved her
back down into his lap and onto his hardened cock. Sansa cried out in shock,
looking at him with frantic eyes, but her mouth was open in a look of pleasure
as she felt him through the thin sheet. The look on her face was intoxicating,
and Sandor leaned his forehead against hers, giving up.
 
Giving in, at last.
 
Sansa didn’t move at first, but she ran her fingers in small tracing patterns
against his arms and shoulders, each light swirl sending tingles through
Sandor’s body. He sat still, letting her do as she willed for as long as she
wanted to. He wouldn’t interrupt her, nor would he rush her. Her fingers played
across his skin, dropping from his shoulders to his bare chest, and her feather
light touches caused Sandor’s eyes to drift to a close. Her fingers curled
against his chest hair, and she slowly drew her hands up over his chest towards
his neck. Sandor tilted his head back, and Sansa ran her fingers over his neck.
His body shuddered at the contact, and he moaned low in his throat.
 
Her hands went to his face, and Sandor opened his eyes to look at her. Sansa
was staring back at him as each of her fingers gently touched his face, grazing
his skin, memorizing the lines and curves and imperfections and the scars as
well. She leaned forward then, and with the softest kisses imaginable, she
gently placed her lips against his scarred flesh. She kissed a feather light
trail from his temple to his jaw on the ruined side of his face, and Sandor
took a deep breath, trying to ignore the sting behind his eyes.
 
With her hands on either side of his jaw, Sansa pulled back from him and gazed
at his face. Sandor blinked and felt hot tears spill down his cheeks. He was
about to dash them away with his hand when Sansa leaned forward and, ever so
gently, kissed each tear streak away, her lips catching the fallen moisture
from his eyes and claiming it as her own. Her thumbs softly stroked his cheeks,
and then she trailed her lips from the tear streaks on his face to his nose,
kissing the tip of it, before pulling away just enough to lower her lips to his
mouth.
 
When Sansa kissed his mouth, Sandor let her guide the motions of their lips. He
barely moved against her but to match the soft touch of her lips with his own.
No matter how badly he wanted to grab her and kiss her so hard that he couldn’t
breathe, releasing all of his pent up emotion and frustrations, he did no such
thing. This was so much better; he had never had this before, and every loving
touch of her hands on his face sent such pleasant aches through his chest.
Sandor parted his lips against hers, and Sansa moaned softly against him,
parting her lips as well. When he tasted her tongue, he had never tasted
anything so sweet.
 
Her tongue slid against his, tentative at first, and then she moaned against
him once more, and Sandor lost himself in the sensation of her mouth and the
feel of her soft body against his. He wrapped his arms around her waist and
pulled her closer, her lower body scooting over his erection, and he groaned as
a sharp noise of pleasure escaped through Sansa’s mouth out onto his open lips.
Sandor captured her mouth with his yet again, swallowing her cry, and Sansa
wrapped her arms around his neck as she kissed him back.
 
Her breasts were soft against his chest, and Sandor reached out to cup one with
a gentle squeeze. Sansa responded to his touch by rocking into him, and his
cock pulsed from the friction, and her mouth pulled away from his just a
fraction. “Oh,” Sansa said in a little almost pained voice, and she rocked her
hips against his again, pressing downward onto his erection. Sandor bit his
bottom lip, resisting the urge to thrust upward at her.
 
Sansa looked down between them then, and with one arm around his neck, she sent
the other one down between their bodies and snaked it under the sheet, pushing
it aside to expose him. Sandor groaned aloud when her cool hand wrapped around
his firm cock and gave him three slow tugs, but then she pulled her hand away,
and a look of disappointment temporarily clouded his face—but Sansa brought her
hand to her mouth and, instead of spitting in her hand like he did with his,
Sansa was a bit more ladylike, covering her mouth until he realized she was
dragging her tongue along her palm. When her hand returned to his cock, it was
wet, and Sandor tipped his head back, allowing a deep groan to fill his throat
as she stroked her hand up and down his length, gliding it easily with the
saliva from her mouth.
 
Sandor wrapped his arms around Sansa, leaning his forehead to hers, and looked
down between their bodies to watch every movement of her hand. She knew exactly
what he liked because she had watched him a hundred times, he bet, and when a
clear liquid covered his cockhead, she took her thumb and swirled it around and
then spread it downward, eliciting another sound of pleasure from his throat.
Sansa kissed him, squeezing her hand around the base of his shaft, and then she
quickened the pace of her hand near the top, moving her closed fingers up and
down in little circular motions. Sandor finally kissed her a little harder,
pushing his tongue past her lips, and Sansa moaned as her hand faltered on his
cock.
 
Not wanting to interrupt Sansa again, Sandor pulled his mouth away from hers
and put his hand on the back of Sansa’s neck, leaning his forehead against hers
once more and looking down to watch her hand on him. As she squeezed him again,
the lower muscles of his abdomen tightened, and he felt the familiar pulse of
his veins, and he knew he was close. Sandor thrust upward into her hand with a
gentle motion, and Sansa gasped half in surprise and half in pleasure. She
began quickening each stroke she made along his cock as he built up to his
release, every screaming muscle begging for an end.
 
When he came in her hand, Sansa gasped yet again as the white fluid spurted
over her fingers and covered his cock, making a mess between them. A heavy
groan wracked his chest, and Sandor had to close his eyes for a moment to let
the sensations wash over him in full in the darkness behind his eyes. He
expected her to immediately pull her hand away and wipe it on the bed to get it
off of her, but Sansa surprised him. She slowly milked him until every drop was
spent and she was satisfied with what she had done, until his cock started to
soften in her hand, and then she finally pulled her hand away from him.
 
Sandor pulled back to look at her, his eyes heavy with his arousal. Sansa
slowly lifted her hand, looking at the mess he had made on her. She brought her
hand to her mouth, and tentatively, touched the tip of one of her fingers to
her tongue. After a moment of stillness, as if she was trying to make a
decision in her head about whether she liked the taste or not, Sansa slid her
finger further into her mouth and closed her lips around it, sucking his come
off it. Sandor had never in all his life seen anything as arousing as the prim
and proper Sansa Stark tasting his come off her fingers.
 
“You taste sweet,” Sansa said softly, not trying to be anything other than her
normal self, but it was the sexiest thing in the world to Sandor. Timidly, she
licked another finger clean to taste him, and Sandor lost it, seeing his come
on her tongue, and he let his head fall backwards as he swore loudly at the
ceiling. He would be hard again in no time if she kept this up. When he lifted
his head, Sansa was staring at him, and she reached down to wipe the rest of
her hand on the bed.
 
She grabbed his hand next, guiding it to the hem of her sleeping shift. Sandor
didn’t need anymore encouragement to know what she wanted from him, and he slid
his hand under her shift as she lifted herself somewhat from his lap, her knees
braced against the bed on either side of him. He expected to feel the barrier
of smallclothes between them, but when his hand felt the fine curly hair
between her legs, Sandor’s eyes went wide. She wasn’t even wearing any
smallclothes, and Sansa seemed to sense his shock at that.
 
“I like to touch myself when I watch you,” Sansa whispered in a wavering voice,
her fingers grazing his jaw. Sandor growled low in his throat and gripped her
neck with his free hand, drawing out a gasp from her lips. He slid three
fingers against her lower lips, and Sansa shook above him. She spread her legs
further, and Sandor slipped his fingers against her warm wetness. She shuddered
this time, and he moved his fingers in a slow circular pattern against her, his
thumb straying upward to that particular little nub—and when he rubbed it,
Sansa cried out and arched her back. She started to rock into his hand, and he
stroked his fingers between the slick lips of her cunt in tune with her body
moving against him, enjoying every moan and shaky roll of her hips. Sansa’s
eagerness to be touched was obvious. She wanted it, and there was no denying
it, but Sandor had a better idea of how to make her shudder.
 
Removing his hand from her, he wrapped an arm around her body and flipped them
over on the bed, putting her back against the mattress and him above her.
Sansa’s hair splayed about her face and shoulders so beautifully, but her eyes
went wide as she shook her head at him, putting her hands between her legs to
cover herself down there because his body lied between her legs and prevented
her from closing them. “No,” she said quickly. “No, not that.”
 
Sandor understood her meaning immediately, and he shook his head too. “I’ll not
do that,” he said, reassuring her. “Not unless you ask me to.”
 
Sansa relaxed beneath him. Taking a deep breath, she looked at him quizzically,
and Sandor descended down her body, pushing up her sleeping shift. “What are
you going to—oh—” Dragging his fingers against her upper thigh, he had leaned
forward and pressed his mouth against the inner side of her thigh and kissed
her there. Sansa’s body jolted pleasantly at the touch, and the nervous
tightness in her leg muscles relaxed further. As he drew his tongue across her
thigh closer to the sweet spot between her legs, Sansa’s stomach shuddered
above his head, and she opened her legs more for him, her shallow breaths
urging him onward.
 
Sandor had no intentions of teasing her; he wanted her too damn much for that.
Hooking his arms under her arched legs, he pulled her towards him and brought
his mouth down onto her sweet cunt. He kissed her like he would kiss her mouth
at first, drawing his tongue against her sweet wetness and lapping it up until
her whole body seemed to shake with pleasure. Sansa gripped the bed sheets with
her fists and planted her feet firmly against the bed for leverage as his
tongue slid between her lips and sent her to all new heights her hands could
never accomplish by themselves.
 
He suckled on the little nub atop her cunt, and Sansa cried out at that, all of
her muscles tightening beneath his ministrations. He even nibbled at it ever so
gently, and Sansa shook harder as she moaned above him. Sandor never thought he
would hear so many amazing sounds from her throat, and all because of him.
Sansa bucked her hips against his mouth, and Sandor growled against her. Sansa
gasped at the sensation, and he felt her hand in his hair, gently stroking his
head as he pleasured her with his tongue.
 
Sandor noticed it when all of her muscles tightened up, and then suddenly she
shook with such a violence beneath him. He pressed his hand down against her
stomach as he continued to eat her out, and Sansa’s waves of pleasure became
smaller ripples throughout her body as she settled down, but he wasn’t done
with her yet. Sandor moved his head lower, sliding his tongue into her cunt,
and Sansa cried out yet again, her hand gripping hard in his hair. He fucked
her with his tongue until a new surge of wetness covered her, and then he
dragged his tongue along her cunt up to her nub again, closing his lips around
it once more.
 
Sandor moved his hand between them, teasing her entrance with one of his
fingers. He slipped it in easily, and then he began to thrust it in and out up
to the knuckle as he sucked on her nub. Sansa couldn’t even cease her moaning
at this point; one after another after another after another poured out of her
throat in a sweet waterfall, and Sandor quickened the pace of his finger,
adding a second one and pumping them in and out, as he continued to suckle on
her swollen nub. Sansa’s muscles tightened up yet again, and she came in
another wave of uncontrollable shocks, her whole body loosening up and her
muscles turning to jelly beneath him.
 
Gently, he removed his fingers from her, but Sandor kissed her once more in her
intimate area, and Sansa moaned softly, but he could tell she was sated and
tired at last. Sansa was still new to all this, and maybe later she would want
more, but right now she wanted to lie still and relax as she came down off her
high. Sandor withdrew from between her legs and settled himself on the bed
beside her, pulling Sansa into his arms despite the erection he had still had
laying against his leg. Sansa, somewhere in her haze, must have felt it as he
pulled her close, and she gazed down and took notice of it.
 
“You’re still hard,” she said quietly, almost sounding sleepy, and Sandor
chuckled deep within his throat as he stroked his hand up and down her arm in a
comforting gesture.
 
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, and he leaned over to kiss the top of her
head. Her hair smelled like lavender, and Sandor pulled her closer, finding he
didn’t want to let her go. He had never wanted to hold a woman before, at least
not one he had ever met, but dreams didn’t count. Sansa was real and flesh and
beating heart, and he never wanted to hold onto something as much as he wanted
to hold onto her as she lied there in his arms.
 
Sansa rolled over in his embrace, sliding one of her arms over his chest and
pulling him close as well. She snuggled her head against him, pressing every
inch of her body against his own, perfectly content and safe and happy where
she was—like there was nowhere else in all the world she wanted to be—and
Sandor felt his hand unconsciously grip her arm harder, but Sansa didn’t seem
to notice, or at least she didn’t say anything.
 
She fell asleep in his arms, right where she belonged.
***** Esteem *****
iv.
 
Sansa was seven and ten when Sandor realized she wanted to be a married woman.
She hurried ahead of him in her pale green gown and, grasping the sides of it,
lifted it from the ground as she stepped upon the ledge of the large fountain
in the middle of the public forum. Sansa let go of her gown, letting it flow
around her sandaled feet, as she carefully balanced herself along the
fountain’s marble rim. When she turned to look at Sandor, Sansa smiled in her
innocent and yet mischievous way and dipped one of her feet in the water,
gently plucking it back up as she gazed across the distance at him.
 
“It’s warm,” she called out to him, and Sandor raised his brow as he gave her a
pointed look that said she was crazy if she thought he was getting in that
water in a public place with people around to see him do it. Sansa read his
look immediately, and she pouted at him, holding out her arms in front of her.
“Oh, come now, Sandor,” Sansa pleaded with him. “It’s warm. It feels good.” As
if to show him she wasn’t lying, Sansa grasped her dress to lift it again as
she carefully lowered herself into the water until she was wading in it,
smiling at him, and she whirled around in a circle. “See?” she called out.
“Perfectly harmless.”
 
Sandor approached the fountain, but he made no move to get in it. He held out
his hand to her. “Come on,” he told her. “Let’s go.”
 
Sansa backed away from him, swaying gently from side to side in the water. She
pursed her lips as if in thought, but Sandor noticed the gleam in her eyes and
he knew what was coming next. She twirled in another circle with her head
tilted back and her eyes closed, her pale green gown swirling in the water
around her legs. “I’m a mermaid,” she said to the sky, and then she lowered her
eyes to his, and he noticed suddenly they were a darker blue. “You’re going to
have to catch me.”
 
She liked to play games, but most of all, she liked getting him to play along
with them. Sansa was more serious with other people, very proper and ladylike
as she ought to be, but when she was only around Sandor, a whole new side of
her came out that only he saw—and it was feisty and playful and mischievous and
teasing, and it was only for him. As she held out her arms again, Sandor took
her hands and she led him into the water of the fountain, his boots and
breeches soaking up the crystal clear water.
 
Sansa fell back into his arms, leaning against his chest and looking up at his
face with a dreamy quality to her eyes. Her delicate hand reached up to touch
his face, cupping his cheek. “My prince,” she murmured, and Sandor felt a
painful ache in his chest at the title. The corner of his mouth twitched
because the word had hurt him, and he didn’t like it.
 
“I’m no prince,” Sandor said sharply, and he regretted it in as instant because
he was afraid it would upset Sansa, but she looked at him with a curious, false
fear in her eyes as her fingers stroked his cheek.
 
“Then,” she asked him quietly, her eyes deep and inquiring, “what are you going
to do with me, now that you’ve caught me?” Her lips parted as she breathed
through them, and Sandor did the only thing that came to his mind. He pressed
his lips to hers in a deep but gentle kiss as the fountain poured around them
and her hand came up to cup the back of his head, her mouth returning the kiss.
Sansa moaned softly beneath him.
 
When he got her home after the forum, Sandor tore at Sansa’s clothes to get
them off of her, and then he shucked his clothes off as well and backed her
into his bed, pushing her onto it. He kissed her heatedly in his passion, and
their hands struggled to touch every inch of skin that they could in their
hurry as if time was of the essence and they didn’t have much of it left to
them. Sandor still hadn’t claimed her maidenhead, but Sansa never asked him to
do it, and he was starting to get frustrated after nearly a year of everything
but being able to sink his cock into her. He wanted that, too. He wanted to
claim every inch of her.
 
So, when Sandor positioned himself between her legs instead of pleasuring her
in his usual ways and Sansa stopped him by pushing at his chest and shaking her
head at him, telling him no, Sandor grew angry with her. He pulled back,
glaring at her. “Why?” he demanded. “Do you just plan on teasing me for the
rest of your life?”
 
Sansa was shocked at his sudden anger. Her eyes grew wide, and her hands shrunk
away from his chest to unconsciously cover hers. “No,” she said softly. “It’s .
. . it’s for my husband,” Sansa tried to explain to him, and Sandor felt her
words like they were arrows shot straight into his heart. His chest tightened
and constricted, his vision blurring suddenly, as all of the sound went out of
his ears.
 
“Who?” he snarled at her, and Sansa’s matching look of ire resulted in her
raising her hand to slap him hard across the face.
 
Sandor snatched her wrists and pinned them to the bed, an uncontrollable fury
taking him over from the inside out, but Sansa raised herself from the bed to
show him that she wasn’t afraid of him. Her face was only inches from his, her
eyes fiery despite their blue. “You,” she said with such ferocity that she
caught Sandor off guard, and his grip slackened on her as he stared down at
Sansa’s livid face, and it was only then that he saw the pain beneath the
surface and the hurt his thoughtless question had caused her. “Or at least I
have hoped,” Sansa whispered, her gaze still intense but her voice faltering.
 
He deserved that slap, Sandor thought.
 
Sandor fell to the bed beside her, and then he wondered why he hadn’t seen it
sooner. He had never even thought of marriage before with Sansa. When he
finally had her, Sandor had figured she was his regardless of titles, ties, or
customs, but perhaps he should have known Sansa was raised a certain way and
some part of her still clung to those ideals, even though they were a world
away. He should have asked sooner, but he never thought she was so adamant
about being a maid until marriage. Sandor had figured it was fear or
uncertainty that held her back, and he never wanted to pressure her into it.
 
Sansa rose from the bed and picked up her dress, wrapping the loose and long
material around her body to cover up her nudeness, and Sandor sat up quickly to
grab her arm before she could leave. “Sansa,” he said, and she stilled, but he
could feel the gentle shake of her nerves beneath his fingers. Sandor did not
want her to walk away like this. This was something that they had to talk about
properly, or it was going to fester like an open wound in the middle of their
relationship.
 
He rose from the bed, moving to stand behind her, and wrapped his arms around
her waist. Sansa was not so proud that she couldn’t lean into his embrace, and
when she did, she laid her head against his shoulder as well. “I didn’t know
you were waiting for marriage,” Sandor admitted, though he felt a bit like a
fool to say it out loud. It had been eight to nine months of an all consuming
play of passion, power, and love, and she had yielded everything to him but her
maidenhead. Now that he thought about it, he ought to have known the reason
why.
 
Sansa was quiet for a moment, and then she spoke. “I want to be a wife,” she
murmured softly, and he felt her hands run over his arms. “I want to be a
mother, but I want to be a proper wife, and I want to be a proper mother, and I
want to make my own family.” Her breath hitched, her voice becoming unsteady.
“I lost my old family, and I want a new one.” Sandor’s arms tightened around
her. He had lost his family, too. She wasn’t the only one. He felt Sansa’s
hands tighten their grip on him as well. “And I chose you,” she whispered
sadly. “All I have wanted was for you to choose me.”
 
“I’ve already chosen you,” Sandor answered her without hesitation.
 
Sansa turned around in his arms, and she lost her hold on the haphazard drape
of a dress she had tried to wrap around her body. It fell down, exposing her to
Sandor’s gaze. Her beautiful eyes looked up at him, her hair falling over her
naked shoulders. “Then, claim me,” Sansa said to him. “Marry me. Make me your
wife. Give me your name, lay me down on your bed, and make love to me every
night. Give me sons, and give me daughters, and give me—”
 
Sandor grasped Sansa by the back of her head and silenced her with his lips
upon hers. He kissed her so hard her mouth swallowed up his breath, and she
returned the kiss with a passion equal to his own. Her hands scrabbled for
purchase behind his neck, and Sandor pulled her closer with one strong arm
wrapped about her waist while the other one held her firmly in place. She
didn’t have to say another word. Anything she wanted, she would get it.
Anything she wanted of him, she could have it.
 
Neither of them wanted to risk the attention of a big affair with the wedding,
so there was no ceremony with guests in attendance. In the presence of a single
septon, they recited their vows, and they were husband and wife. It was easier
than it should have been, but Sandor didn’t feel any different afterwards. He
still felt the same. It didn’t change his feelings for Sansa, and it didn’t
change the fact that he needed her or the truth that he wanted her or reality
that he had her. The stars in the sky still shone the same way, and her smile
still gladdened his heart.
 
On their way back home, they passed through the open forum during the newly
falling night. Sansa spotted the fountain from earlier, and she took Sandor by
the hand and, grinning at him, pulled him towards it. Wondering what was on her
mind this time, he had little choice but to follow her. The forum was empty and
dead with nothing watching it but the stars winking awake in the night sky
above their heads, and Sansa happily hopped over the edge of the fountain and
splashed into the water. Turning around to look back at Sandor, she bit her
bottom lip and beckoned him with her hand.
 
Sandor stepped over the ledge and into the fountain with her because he was
hers and he did anything she asked of him, and Sansa wrapped her arms around
his neck and pulled him close as she kissed him. He molded himself into her
embrace, and surprisingly, the water around his legs was warm like her mouth,
and Sandor forgot himself in the moment until Sansa pushed at his shoulders and
backed him into the ledge. She pushed him down, and Sandor found himself
sitting on the ledge as Sansa straddled his lap. He was about to ask her just
what she thought she was doing, but Sansa ran her fingers through his hair and
silenced anything he might have said with her lips against his.
 
As she hiked up her dress, Sandor began to finally understand what was going on
in her head. He pulled away from her long enough to make a protest. “Sansa,
this is a public place—”
 
Sansa shook her head, returning her fingers to his hair, and she said, “No one
is here, and no one will see us. No one we know will see us. I am not Sansa
Stark, and you are not Sandor Clegane, and I want my husband to take my
maidenhead here under the stars . . . ” Her mouth descended on his once more,
and Sandor thought maybe he should protest for the sake of her modesty, but he
found that he didn’t particularly care anymore.
 
When Sansa pulled away from him again, she held his face and gazed into his
eyes. “Have you ever taken a woman in a fountain?” she asked softly.
 
Sandor just stared at her, shaking his head, dumbfounded by the question at
first. “No,” he admitted.
 
“Good,” Sansa whispered. “A first for us both, then—” In no time at all after
her words, her hands were working on his trousers, and Sandor gave up any
intentions of protesting. Her cool fingers wrapped around his manhood and
stroked him into hardness, and then Sansa was kneeling in the water in front of
him and she took him into her mouth and closed her exquisite lips around his
cock. Sandor thought of nothing then, nothing but the warmth of her mouth and
the slide of her tongue against the underside of his cock, and he groaned when
she dragged her teeth along his sensitive skin. As she pulled back, Sansa
kissed and then suckled at the tip, her hand pumping along the base of his
shaft, and Sandor tilted his head back to stare at the sky only briefly, his
eyes closing to enjoy the feel of her.
 
Sansa took him in deep once, and Sandor swore aloud as he felt himself hit the
back of her mouth, but Sansa had to pull back, coughing a bit. She closed her
mouth tight around him and moved him in and out, sucking to increase the
pressure. When he felt his muscles jerk in response, that was when she pulled
back and left him, and suddenly, she was in his lap again and her dress was out
of their way and her smallclothes—Sandor had no idea where those were, but he
didn’t care.
 
She positioned him at her entrance with her hand, teasing herself with his head
by rubbing it gently between her folds, and Sandor felt the slickness of her
center coat the tip of his cock, felt his body jerk in response, and he knew
what was about to come next as he grasped her hips hard with his hands. He
hadn’t had sex in over two years because of her, and he wanted this—gods, he
wanted it more than anything. Sansa sank down on him, pausing as she cried out
half in shock and half in pleasure, and Sandor felt the resistance of her cunt,
the tight slickness taking him in and squeezing him hard.
 
He gripped her hips harder with his fingers, gritting his teeth, but he didn’t
force her down on him. Sandor gave her the time to push further, and Sansa
completely sheathed himself in her as she sat her weight down on his lap,
opening her legs further and moaning deeply as he filled her to the brim. She
wrapped her arms around his neck, and Sandor hugged his arms around her waist
as he laid his head to her breasts. His eyes drifted to a close for just a
moment. She felt like heaven around his cock, and he could never imagine
wanting to be inside another woman again.
 
Sansa raised herself and sunk down again, moaning softly near his ear. Her
movements were slow and deliberate, and Sandor allowed himself to enjoy the
unhurried pace of her body on top of his. He ran his hands over her back and
raised his mouth to hers to kiss her. Sansa returned it, sinking down on him
again, and Sandor groaned deeply in the back of his throat, his hands
tightening their hold on her—but he wanted more than this.
 
Two years of waiting, and he wanted to be inside of her in ways that would make
her scream, not just moan. Sandor hoisted her up with his strong arms under her
bottom, and Sansa gasped in surprise as she tightened her arms around his neck
and held onto him for dear life. He stood from the ledge of the fountain and
slowly carried her to the center. Once there, Sandor sat her on the ledge of a
higher bowl, setting her bottom right into the water, which splashed over the
edge, and holding her legs open with both hands on her knees, he thrust his
cock inside of her and Sansa cried out, her walls gripping him as tightly as
her fingernails in his shoulders.
 
“Take me,” she whispered, her voice so quiet. “Take me, and make me yours—” He
thrust again, and she groaned this time as he hit something deep inside of her.
Sansa tipped her head back, her eyes rolling with it, and she scooted down over
the ledge a little more, spreading her legs further for him. When he sunk his
cock into her again, Sansa cried out, encouraging him on with each sound out of
her throat, and he obliged, quickening his pace and sheathing himself inside of
her each time with such a feeling of fullness as he could never remember having
inside of a woman before.
 
Sansa’s back was pressed hard against the carved marble cylinder of the
fountain’s center, but she barely seemed to notice it—and he only just realized
it, but there was warm water falling all around them from higher up, a gentle
sprinkle spilling from the edge of the higher bowls, soaking into their clothes
and wetting their hair, but he only thought of Sansa’s wetness and finishing
himself inside of her. He was losing himself already, fingers gripping her legs
too tight, his thrusts becoming faster and soon, he knew, more erratic. Sansa
leaned her head back, her walls contracting tightly around him, her stomach
shuddering, and then her whole body began to shake beneath him.
 
Sandor lost himself in that moment, sheathing himself deeply inside of her and
stilling as he spilled his seed and he closed his eyes, the world flashing
white behind them. His grip on her legs was like iron, and he knew in the
morning there would be bruises there and on her back. He tried to catch his
breath, but he nearly fell against her—his legs barely wanted to hold him up.
Sansa caught him, and she started giggling, laughing beneath him as she shook
again, but this time for a different reason. Sandor exhaled a heavy breath as
he braced his hands against the fountain’s bowl, and he looked down at her.
 
“What are you laughing at?” he asked her, but there was look of amusement on
his face, and when Sansa lifted her head, she saw it and it made her smile
brightly at him.
 
“Nothing,” she said, and then she grinned. “Everything . . . ” Sansa shifted
beneath him, and a look of pain crossed her face. “Ow, my back—”
 
Sandor pulled away from her, and he helped her down from the bowl. He pulled
her to him with one arm and tucked himself away with the other. Sansa, noticing
he was only using one hand, helped him to refasten his trousers. When she was
done, she looked up at him, smiling. The stars shone in her eyes, and Sandor
wanted to kiss her, so he did. With one hand on the side of her face and the
other on her back, he pulled her closer and covered her mouth with his in a
slow and gentle press of lips with just a touch of tongue. Sansa returned it,
sighing softly when they parted from each other.
 
“It’s going to hurt in the morning,” Sandor said, referring to her back.
 
“I know,” Sansa murmured. She made a little face. “It hurts now,” she added
sheepishly, and he chuckled at her.
 
“It was your idea,” Sandor warned her. “Don’t blame me for it.”
 
“I’ll blame you for it if I want to,” she shot back, poking at his arm with her
finger, but her eyes gleamed with mischief and she caught her bottom lip with
her teeth. Sansa leaned closer to him, whispering near his mouth. “I think we
should go home and . . . practice some more. I want to get better at it . . . ”
 
Sandor snorted at that. “You get any better at it, and I won’t last five
seconds.”
 
Sansa grinned wickedly at him, wrapping her arms around his middle. She looked
at up him, but tilted her head backwards. “Is that so?” she asked him, and it
almost sounded like a challenge. “Should we make a game of it? ‘How long can
Sandor laaast—’” But Sansa couldn’t finish the line because she was laughing,
because Sandor had snatched her by the sides and did the one thing that he knew
would shut her up—tickle her. “Stop, stop!” she hollered, laughing. “Stop,
please!” Sansa squealed suddenly, and Sandor grasped her by the waist and
hoisted her over his shoulder as if she weighed nothing.
 
He carried her all the way back to their home like that, thrown over his
shoulder, and once or twice Sansa protested that they should go back because
she left her smallclothes at the fountain, but Sandor could really have cared
less if she lost all of her smallclothes in various places across the city. The
more naked she was underneath her clothes, the easier he could take her
whenever he wanted her, and that was a good thing in his mind. Seven hells, he
would help her lose them all on purpose.
 
Sandor carried her over the threshold of their door, closed it with a kick of
his foot, and carried her all the way to his room before placing her gently on
the bed. Sansa sat up, looking up at him, and all of the playfulness had left
her eyes. She was serious now, and Sandor wondered what brought about this
sudden change. He kneeled beside the bed in front of Sansa, and when her hand
came up to cup his cheek, he grasped her wrist with his hand and looked her
straight in the eyes.
 
“You mean the world to me,” Sansa said softly. “I need you to know that,
Sandor, and I need you to believe it and never forget it. Please, tell me you
will never question your importance to me ever again. Do not ever believe you
are not worthy of me, or that I do not love you more than anything.” Tears
welled up behind her beautiful blue eyes, and Sandor felt his mouth go dry as
he tried to think of how to respond to that.
 
His hand found the back of her neck, and he pulled her close to him, pressing
her forehead to his own. Sandor had never been good with emotions, feeling them
or expression them, and this was the only true bond he had ever shared with
another person since his childhood, since before he lost his father and his
mother and his sister, so every step was learning, and every step was
faltering, and every step was fighting a war inside of himself while still
trying to do right by her. Old habits died hard, but he had been trying and he
was going to keep trying for however long it took, and even if he never got
there, at least he never gave up.
 
“As long as you promise to do the same, I will,” Sandor rasped in the quiet of
his chambers, and he felt her arms circle around him and pull him into her
embrace. Sansa stroked her hand through his hair, and he closed his eyes at the
touch of her hand, letting it coax him into relaxation despite the sudden
tension in his muscles. It was fear, he realized, the tension in his body.
Sandor was afraid of loving someone and losing them, whether he lost her to
death, sickness, or another man. It didn’t matter which. He didn’t want to lose
her because he didn’t want to hurt, but he hurt long before he truly called her
his, and he didn’t see the difference anymore. Sandor would hurt loving her
either way, so he might as well give in and allow himself to accept what they
had with each other and trust her. The hurt would come whether he did it or
not, and at least this way, at least this way he did something in his life
worth living for.
 
Sansa gave his life meaning, and she made his miserable existence finally
matter for once in a long line of failures, self-hatred, bloodbaths and
butchery. As she held him close in her tender embrace, Sandor knew he mattered
to her without having to question it anymore.
 
“I love you so much,” Sansa whispered against his ear, and Sandor knew all of
his actions had an affect on her, and he never wanted to let her down ever
again.
***** Self-actualization *****
Chapter Notes
     I’m so sorry this took so long to finish, but here it is! It’s done!
     I hope you all have enjoyed this! <3
v.
 
“Catelyn! Brandon! Robert and Lyanna!” Sansa hollered out as loudly as her
lungs would allow her, and Sandor heard her from clear across their home. His
first thought was to wonder what in the seven hells was going on now. Sighing
in frustration, he decided he might as well check things out before the
children drove Sansa mad and she took her anger out on him like it was all his
fault. They were a rambunctious lot, and Sansa was never rambunctious, so
Sandor always wondered where they got it from—but who was he kidding, they got
it from his side. They were little devils. Every single one of them.
 
When Sandor arrived on the scene, all four children were ignoring their
mother’s calls and demands and running around the foyer like maddened demon
monkeys, giggling and laughing all the while. Catelyn, the eldest of the four
children at the age of five, was leading the bunch in their rampage across the
room. There was a time in Sandor’s life when such a sight would have enraged
him, but as he stood there watching the children run around and laughing their
heads off, he found his only reaction was amusement. He might have even
twitched out a small smirk at the corner of his mouth if it weren’t for his
wife’s distress over the whole situation.
 
“If you don’t listen to me right now, I swear—” Sansa called out to them one
more time, but they didn’t listen to her and she didn’t swear anything. Sandor
decided he might as well help her out with this situation.
 
Sandor pointed one finger at the bench in the center of the room.
 
“Sit!” he demanded of all four children.
 
All of a sudden in the midst of their running and laughing, all four children
came to a halt. Catelyn, who was the eldest with her wild mess of auburn curls,
froze first at the front of the line. Brandon, the second eldest at the age of
four with a messy mop of dark hair on his head, ran into his older sister and
almost lost his footing, but just barely managed to stay upright. Robert, the
third eldest at the age of three with fiery red hair, crashed straight into
Brandon’s back and grabbed his older brother to steady himself in place.
 
Lyanna, the baby of the bunch with the most beautiful dark hair who wasn’t
quite at the age of two yet but would be there soon, ran smack into Robert,
fell backwards onto her bottom, and started giggling up a storm.
 
Three of them, Catelyn and Brandon and Robert, all whipped their heads in their
father’s direction with wide eyes set in their adorable faces. Lyanna remained
sitting on the floor, giggling, and she patted the floor with her hands, and
then she raised them and clapped them together. Sandor had no idea what that
meant at all.
 
Without a single word of complaint or defiance, the three eldest children all
immediately ran for the bench to sit down on it nice and proper as they were
taught to do—by their mother, of course—and folded their hands in their laps,
looking up expectantly at their father. Lyanna, the only one who didn’t yet
fully understand the situation because of her age, pushed herself up from the
floor and waddled over to Sandor instead, still giggling, and reached up her
arms to make grabbing motions with her hands at him. Sandor bent over to scoop
Lyanna up into a single arm and lifted her, and then he looked over at Sansa.
 
She stood ten feet away with her hands on her hips and a look of disbelief on
her beautiful face.
 
“You see how easy that was?” he asked her, and Sansa’s look of disbelief turned
into a glare straight away at his smart comment.
 
“They only do that because they’re afraid of you,” Sansa said hotly, and she
crossed her arms over her chest.
 
Sandor looked at Lyanna in his right arm, and he bounced her once. Lyanna
laughed out loud this time instead of giggling, clapped her hands, and reached
out to touch his face with both hands. Sandor let her touch him, and when
Lyanna was done, he turned his head towards Sansa to give her a pointed look.
 
“I can see the fear in her eyes,” he deadpanned.
 
Sansa growled in the back of her throat, and Sandor turned to face the other
children for good measure. “Are you afraid of me?” he asked them. “Your mother
thinks so.”
 
Catelyn and Brandon and Robert all shared a hesitant look together as if they
weren’t sure how to answer that question and not upset at least one person in
the room with whatever answer they gave in response. They leaned together in
quiet commiseration, which resulted in them all nodding their heads together
before pulling away from each other and settling themselves back in proper
place on the bench. Immediately, they all shook their heads.
 
“They’re lying!” Sansa protested loudly.
 
“I bet I could get them to roll over, too,” Sandor added.
 
“Oh, don’t you dare,” Sansa shot back at him. “They’re children, not dogs!”
 
“Well, they are half dog if I’m their father.”
 
“Oh, please.”
 
“Go play,” Sandor told the children, and all three of them got up off the bench
and ran out of the foyer into one of the hallways, disappearing from sight.
Sandor was still holding Lyanna in his arm, but Sansa came up to his side and
gently took their youngest daughter from his hands to hold the child herself.
Sansa was calmer now, and she brushed her hand through Lyanna’s hair as she
looked up at Sandor.
 
“I’m sorry,” she said. “They’ve been driving me crazy all day . . . ”
 
“What’s wrong?” Sandor asked immediately, noticing something was off about her.
Sansa was paler than usual, and she looked tired. She hadn’t been keeping much
food down lately, and Sandor was beginning to think she was sick. If she was
sick, he was getting her some help straight away. Sickness took people quickly
in this world, and he wasn’t about to have it take Sansa away from him.
 
Sansa lowered her eyes from his, though, her hand gently patting Lyanna on the
back as she rocked her back and forth. “It’s . . . it’s nothing,” Sansa said
softly.
 
“You’re sick,” Sandor rasped, and he took Lyanna from her hands despite Sansa’s
protests. “You need a maester.”
 
“They don’t have maesters here,” Sansa said, “but Sandor—”
 
“I don’t care what they call them here,” Sandor said roughly. “You need to see
one.”
 
“Sandor . . . ”
 
Sandor stared at her, narrowing his eyes. There was something she knew that she
wasn’t telling him, and so Sandor waited in silence to give her time to say it,
but Sansa remained quiet and started rubbing her forehead with her hand. Sandor
raised one of his hands to press it to her forehead, shocking Sansa, but he
felt no heat and she had no fever, so that was a blessing. Fevers were death.
 
“Do you know what’s wrong?” he asked her this time, and Sansa sighed softly,
her breath rattling inside of her chest.
 
“I haven’t been keeping food down,” she said slowly, “and . . . I’ve missed my
moon blood.”
 
Very carefully, Sansa lifted her chin and her gaze to gauge Sandor’s reaction.
His mouth opened somewhat in silent shock. Four children, and she was with
child again. It wasn’t a bad thing, though. Their children were his world, but
he hadn’t expected this. He had thought they were being careful enough to not
have another one. Sandor didn’t like the idea of Sansa drinking moon tea, so he
had forbidden it, afraid that one day he might walk into a room and find her
dead from bleeding out because of it. They resorted to more basic methods of
child prevention, but apparently, somewhere along the way something had failed
them.
 
Another child wasn’t such a bad thing, though. Sansa was healthy and strong,
and all four births went without any problems. Sansa always had the best
maesters and the best care and the best medicine. Sandor had always made sure
of that.
 
While still holding Lyanna in one arm, Sandor used the other arm to pull Sansa
to him, holding her to his chest. Lyanna was playing with his hair somewhere
off to the right, but Sandor didn’t mind it. The first child had been the hard
one, but by the second time it had become more bearable, and by the third time,
Sandor had gotten over it almost completely. When Lyanna had come along, the
little girl could do whatever she wanted and it seemed like nothing she did
could ever possibly make Sandor angry. The children had weeded out a lot of his
worse traits, teaching him how to be a better person along the way, and Sansa
helped with that, too.
 
He wouldn’t have any of this if it wasn’t for Sansa, though. Sandor wouldn’t
have known what it was like to be a decent father, or a decent husband, or even
a decent man he sometimes thought, if it hadn’t been for her in his life. Elder
Brother had started the transformation inside of Sandor, but Sansa and the
children had completed it until he was barely recognizable from the person he
used to be once upon a time. Which wasn’t to say that Sandor wasn’t still rough
around the edges because he was and that wasn’t going to ever go away, but he
knew when to be rough and when to be gentle, when to be angry and when to be
calm, and when to be harsh and when to be kind.
 
Sansa had put her arms around him at some point, hugging him back. Sandor felt
her hands running up and down his back as Lyanna still played with his hair.
 
“You’re not angry?” Sansa asked softly from below his chin, and Sandor found
himself take in a deep breath at that and sigh it out.
 
“Why would I be angry?” he asked her right back.
 
“Because we’ve been trying not to have another . . . ”
 
“And we have another,” Sandor answered simply. “What is wrong with that?”
 
He felt Sansa’s fingers clutch him tightly, almost painfully, until she pulled
away from him to reach up on her toes and kiss him. Sandor savored the kiss,
even though Lyanna was giggling beside his ear like seeing her parents kissing
was the funniest thing in the world to her. She was most sweet-natured out of
all of the children, more like her mother than her father, and Sandor thought
she would grow up to be just as beautiful as well. He would have to chase the
boys off one day when it came to her. Hopefully, Sandor wouldn’t have to kill
any of them.
 
“You must pick a name this time,” Sansa said when she pulled away from the kiss
to look up into Sandor’s eyes.
 
“I don’t like picking names,” Sandor said, his usual gruff voice coming back to
him. “You pick the names. You have picked them all so far.”
 
Sansa looked a little hurt, though. “But I want you to pick one,” she told him,
running her hands over his chest. “There must be a name somewhere at sometime
that you liked and would have given to a child of yours one day.”
 
“I never thought of children before,” Sandor answered her, and it was the
truth. Before his marriage to Sansa, he never even imagined someone like him
would one day be a father outside of accidentally having some bastard with a
whore somewhere, which as far as he knew never happened to him. He had once
entertained the idea of maybe becoming a lord, if Robb Stark would have given
it to him for returning Arya Stark, but things didn’t go according to plan with
that. Maybe as a lord he could have married, he had once briefly thought, but
then Arya Stark had left him dying by the roadside in the Riverlands, and along
with the Hound had gone all of those far-reaching notions of lordship and
possible marriage.
 
Of course, until he left Quiet Isle and sought out Sansa Stark, taking her away
from the Seven Kingdoms and dragging her across the Narrow Sea with him to
Essos. Somewhere along the way as she grew up, Sandor found himself gaining
interest in her, which had been sexual but also more than that as well. While
he never envisioned marriage until Sansa had mentioned it, here they were,
years later, married and with four kids and another one on the way.
 
“I still want you to pick the name this time,” Sansa said in her soft voice,
and she leaned forward again on her toes to kiss Sandor once more. When she
pulled back and opened her eyes, Sandor regarded her with a stern look before
he finally gave in and gave her what she wanted to hear.
 
“Fine,” he rasped. “I’ll pick the name.”
 
Sansa grinned so brightly that, despite her paleness and illness from being
with child, her face took on a flush of color from her excitement. She threw
her arms around Sandor, hugging him tightly, and laid her head against his
chest. Suddenly, off to his right, Lyanna decided she wanted to hug him as
well, and she wrapped her arms around Sandor’s neck and squeezed gently as she
laid her head against his.
 
“I love you, Sandor,” Sansa said against his chest, and Sandor brought his hand
up along her back to embrace her.
 
“I love you, too, Sansa,” Sandor answered in a low voice.
 
Somewhere off in the house, he could hear the other three children all
squealing at each other in laughter.
 
 
                                     * * *
 
 
“ . . . if the gods are good, she’ll forget she was a Stark. She’ll wed some
burly blacksmith or fat-faced innkeep, fill his house with children, and never
need to fear that some knight might come along to smash their heads against a
wall.”
 
                     — Jaime Lannister, A_Feast_for_Crows
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