Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/440843.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin, Game_of_Thrones_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Joffrey_Baratheon/Sansa_Stark, Sandor_Clegane/Sansa_Stark
  Character:
      Joffrey_Baratheon, Sansa_Stark, Sandor_Clegane
  Additional Tags:
      Age_Difference, Physical_Abuse, Dubious_Consent, First_Time, Oral_Sex
  Collections:
      Game_of_Ships_Porn_Battle
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-06-22 Words: 5611
****** Sing Sweet, Little Bird ******
by startwithsparks
Summary
     After a particularly brutal beating at the hands of King Joffrey,
     Sansa takes solace in the Hound's presence, and takes control of only
     thing she can.
The first time Joffrey called on her in the middle of the night, Sansa felt
like the world was about to fall out from under her. Even with two of her
ladies flanking her, their quiet reassurances whispered in her ears, she still
felt the floor tipping beneath her feet, and every passing torch seemed to burn
into her skin. She'd been woken out of a fitful sleep, the image of her
father's face haunting her dreams as much now as it had that day at the sept.
Her ladies rushed from her bed and into her clothes, with no time to twist her
hair up into its intricate designs or hide the dark circles of sleeplessness
that had formed under her eyes.
She clung to her ladies, begged them to make up some excuse for her, her
exhaustion crumbling all outward attempts to seem like she still wanted this.
Not even the sight of the Hound standing, an ever-present sentinel, outside
Joffrey's door could calm her fears. He simply stared at her, his dark eyes
unreadable, and pushed open the door to let her in.
Her ladies couldn't come with her, they rushed back to her room and away from
the scarred monument in the hall as fast as they thought was decent, leaving
Sansa on her own in a room with the king.
She didn't think of him as hers anymore, and she hadn't since the moment she
thought about shoving him off the bridge at the Keep. He was simply the king,
and as it had already been explained to her, the king got what he wanted. Sansa
tried being strong, but her heart was beating so fast in her chest that she
thought it might burst, and Joffrey's cold stare made her cheeks burn and her
stomach twist into knots. She loved him, she tried to tell herself, she loved
him and she would be his queen one day and this was what she wanted more than
anything else in the world. She'd given up everything to be his queen and
maybe, she prayed, he would offer her the same soft words here as he had the
last time they were alone.
But he didn't.
He stalked forward like a hungry predator, staring her down until she felt
impossibly small in his gaze, and reached out to grasp her hair in his fist. He
pulled her forward and tossed her down on the floor at the foot of his bed,
barely giving her enough time to compose herself before he was on top of her.
His hand closed around her throat and Sansa saw glimmers of the riot behind her
eyes. As Joffrey ripped the front of her robe open, snapping the ties from
around her waist and pushing it aside, she couldn't help but remember the
filthy men who pulled her to the ground and tore at her clothes and body that
afternoon.
Before she could stop it, a sob escaped her lips, and Joffrey's hand fell hard
on her cheek, hard enough that Sansa lost focus for a moment. She tried to push
him off, but her strength was lost to her fear and all she managed was a weak
shove at his shoulders. That seemed to only infuriate him more and he grabbed
her hair again to turn her on her stomach and press her face against the floor.
Sansa counted it as a small blessing, hardly any kind of blessing at all, that
the only thing Joffrey seemed interested in was beating her. Bruises would
heal, and while his fists fell with conviction, they lacked too much strength.
She wanted to spit at him, to tell him that this was why he had to order other
people to beat her for him, but the words wouldn't make it past her lips.
Little at a time, King Joffrey whittled away at Sansa's unwavering love for
Prince Joffrey, the boy she thought she knew. It wasn't just her father's
execution or his lack of honor or mercy, but the cruelness that ran through him
and went deep into his bones. She was more ashamed that she had ever believed
his lies than anything else, and yet she still couldn't speak a single harsh
word against him. She could cry, though – and she'd done so much of that lately
that she was surprised she still had tears left – and as his assault rained
down on her body, she knew she had no other defense.
It seemed to amuse him for a time, causing him to hit her in a way that made
her cry out louder, trying to see if she would beg him to stop. Sansa couldn't
utter a word past her sobs, but soon the sound silenced everything else around
her, even the pain she felt as Joffrey hit her. It wasn't until a moment after
he pulled her to her feet by her hair that she realized that was because he'd
stopped.
"Get out," he sneered, hurling her towards the door. Past the blur of her
tears, she could see the obstruction plainly on her face. She hadn't given him
what he wanted, she hadn't begged him or bowed to him or submitted, whatever it
was he called her in there for, and he'd abandoned his beating in frustration.
"You're probably already ruined," he continued, a last vain effort to hurt her.
"You're pathetic, I could buy a better whore than you."
Sansa tried to muffle her weeping with a hand over her mouth, but it was almost
impossible to hide the trembling of her shoulders or the tears that streaked
down her face. Joffrey's words cut no deeper than his fists, the pain was all
superficial, and she knew when the wounds healed his words would slip into the
same place where she hid the horrible things people said about her father as
well. She was wise enough to know he was an angry little monster, and a liar,
but she still backed quickly towards the door.
"Out!" Joffrey hissed, reaching for the door and shoving Sansa into the
hallway.
She stumbled and fell back on her hands, the stone scraping her palms. She
quickly tugged her robe back around her body, pushing her hair from her face,
and curled her knees to her chest right there on the floor.
The Hound still hovered above her, one hand on the hilt of his sword at his
hip. He waited until her tears stopped running and her chest stopped heaving to
reach out a hand to her. Wiping her face on her sleeve, Sansa placed her hand
in his and let him pull her back to her feet, catching her foot in the end of
her robe and stumbling forward against him. With a gentle hand, he wiped the
last few tears from her cheek and tugged her robe tight across her chest. He
said nothing as he turned her, a hand at her shoulders, and led her back down
the hall again.
On the way back to her room, Sansa kept telling herself that it could have been
worse. He'd only hit her, and even then he hadn't hit her as hard as some of
the Kingsguard had. She could take a little from the fact that he got no
satisfaction from her in the end, but deep down she knew that it would only add
to his rage. He was nearly thwarted by her father, and Robb cut his armies off
at every turn, now not even Sansa could give him what he wanted.
Before they reached the corridor to her room, the Hound tightened his grip on
her shouldered and steered her in the opposite direction.
"Where are we going?" she asked, her voice still wet and uneven.
He didn't so much as look at her, "Hush, little bird."
Sansa frowned and clung to her clothes, wrapping her arms around her waist. The
light got dimmer as they walked, until the torches spaced so far apart that
they cast heavy shadows in the spaces between. He promised once that wouldn't
hurt her and since then he'd kept that promise even in the face of the king, so
she had no fear that he might be leading her towards some kind of danger now.
Instead, when he opened a door at the very end of the hall, she let him usher
her quickly inside.
The first thing Sansa noticed about the room was its two windows facing east
and north-east and pale cast of light that illuminated the room. The panes of
glass in the windows were mostly clear, patterned with curved steel that
reflected the light and made it shine brighter inside, so bright that it made a
fire unnecessary. Sansa glanced up at the Hound's face, at the matted, scarred
side of his face, and realized that this room belonged to him.
As he shed his sword and cloak and started pulling off his leather armor, Sansa
glanced around the room. It was unkempt, but not as bad as she expected – it
wasn't even as bad as the rooms Theon kept back in Winterfell. A large bed –
though it was probably much smaller with him in it – sat shoved against one
wall, while a table and a single chair sat near the north-east window. The only
other thing in the room that she immediately noticed was a rack with at least a
dozen swords and twice as many long, thick daggers hung on it. She stepped up
to one of them, Valyrian steel with a twisted dragon hilt, and canted her head
gently at it.
"Sit," he rasped, and Sansa startled.
She turned and nodded, moving across the small room to the chair and tucking
herself down into it. She watched him go to a trunk in the corner of the room
and pull out a buckskin flagon and a piece of linen, stalking back across the
room towards her with both in hand. Sansa recoiled slightly when he knelt in
front of her, but then he soaked the cloth in muddy red liquid from the skin
and reached out to clean her lip and the curve of her cheek.
"Why are you doing this?" Sansa asked, wetting her lips and tasting what she
recognized vaguely as thousand-leaf, honey, and wine. Her mother had used
something similar when Sansa got thrown from a horse years ago. Her gaze
softened, even before he answered, and she shifted forward so he didn't have to
reach so far.
"Didn't he say he could buy a whore?" he asked, voice impassive.
Sansa frowned, but let him push her hair out of the way to swipe the cloth
across a scrape on her temple. "He's the king, I'm sure he can buy whatever he
wants."
He lowered his head and hid a faint smile. "He isn't done with you, little
bird, but while he sits in his impotence, he won't be concerned for what he's
missing. Either of us."
The Hound rose to his feet, tucking the skin and cloth away again, and then
went to the bed. He leaned against the headboard, one leg outstretched in front
of him and the other bent, foot resting on the floor. He dwarfed even these
lofty beds, making them look like children's toys.
"Compose yourself," he said, "and I'll take you back to your room."
For a long while, Sansa just sat there watching him. He folded his arms across
his broad stomach and closed his eyes, but she could tell he was still
completely aware of every movement she made. Sansa didn't let that stop her
from standing and walking to one of the large windows, trying to catch her own
reflection in the strips of metal, but none of them were big enough to get even
a glance of her face, and she realized was probably intentional. But if she
stepped back far enough, she could see her torn, ruined, clothes, and futilely
tried to piece them together around her again.
"Who gave you this room?" she asked.
He didn't open his eyes when he answered her, and Sansa wondered if he was
trying to give her privacy. "King Robert, before King Joffrey was born."
"Did he have the windows made as well?"
The Hound hummed, "The queen was angry with him for a week."
A lot of things could be said about Robert, Sansa knew, but he was a good man
and he was good to those who served him.
Sansa pushed her hair out of her face and tried to fix it back into the piece
of ivory that held it back, only to find the pin in fractured pieces tangled in
her curls. She sighed and combed the piece out of her hair with her fingers,
piling them on the table next to her. Giving up on trying to make herself look
decent again, she started back towards the chair.
"Will you be here every time he does this?" he asked, glancing at the Hound
over her shoulder.
He nodded.
"But you'll still let him do it?"
He finally opened his eyes and looked back at her. "He's the king," the Hound
replied simply. "Any man who stands between the king and what he wants can
expect to have his head on display at the Keep by the next morning. As ugly as
it is, I'm very attached to my head and I'd like to keep on my shoulders where
it belongs."
Despite herself, that managed to bring a small smile to Sansa's face. "It's not
that ugly," she offered. "If you look at the correct side."
He returned her smile, half a twitch of the good side of his mouth, unfolding
his arms and dropping his other leg off the side of the bed. "Come here, little
bird," he pat the bed next to him.
Sansa hesitated, but after a moment she came forward and slid up on the edge of
the bed next to him. She wasn't afraid of him anymore, though he terrified her
at first, and she found that his words stuck with her almost as much as her own
father's words did. The thoughts and feelings she'd started to have for him
were not those of a daughter for her father at all, and she was almost relieved
to know she could tell the difference. After what Joffrey had done to her, she
felt torn between whether she wanted closer to him at all, though, or whether
she wanted to find a hole somewhere she could hide herself in. Wherever her
sister disappeared to, Sansa thought, she was the lucky one.
But Joffrey's beatings were no more violent, they were no more foul, than those
at the hands of his so-called knights, and after that she'd wanted nothing more
than to find someone who would hold her. The only difference was that Joffrey's
anger sparked images in her mind she'd do better to forget. The Hound and his
unfortunate face only made her think of the moment he swept her up off the
ground and carried her to safety. Each time he did that, the memory became
clearer in her mind and slowly started to edge out everything else. It would
never make the terrors disappear completely, she knew that, but maybe one day
it would push them so far to the edge that they no longer forced their way into
focus.
He reached out and brushed her hair off her shoulders, his fingers finding the
torn edge of her robe and easing it down off her shoulder. Sansa shivered, only
because of the brush of his hand against her neck, but the Hound pulled away
and leaned back against the head of his bed again.
"He didn't touch me," Sansa said, shrugging. "He did no worse than he's ordered
in front of the entire court. I think he meant to, but he couldn't."
She wasn't sure why she was telling him this, but maybe part of her felt
disappointed he'd pulled away. It wasn't necessarily that she wanted the Hound,
but he treated her gently and seemed to honestly care for her – as much as that
baffled her. It was his kindness that she responded to, that drew her closer to
him, that had her pushing her tattered robe off her shoulders and letting her
pool behind her. She tugged her gown up around her knees and scoot towards him,
resting her cheek against his shoulder and fitting her body against his chest.
He seemed startled by the closeness, but he wrapped his arms around her narrow
waist and pulled her gently into his lap. She huddled closer as he brought a
hand up to her hair, curling his fingers in the rust-colored strands.
"Would you take me if I asked you to?" Sansa asked softly against his shoulder.
The Hound grunted, his hand tightening in her hair. "Yes."
"And if I didn't ask you to?"
A long silence stretched between them, but it wasn't because he was trying to
find his words. Instead he seemed like he was trying to figure out why Sansa
was asking him this. "No," he finally said. "Not you, little bird."
"But you have?"
He nodded into her hair, inhaling softly.
Sansa tilted her head to look up at him, thankfully nuzzled against the
unscarred side of his face. She still wasn't sure that she wanted it, but the
one thing she knew was that she didn't want to remember her first experience at
the hands of Joffrey or one of his men, she wanted to know that whoever she
gave it to would be gentle with her while they did it. The more brutal Joffrey
got, the more she realized that she didn't want that memory piled on top of
everything else, every time any other man got close to her. If she had control
of only one thing in her whole life, she had control over this.
"Would you do it now?"
The Hound swallowed and tilted his gaze towards her. "If that's what you want."
Sansa leaned up and pressed her lips softly to the coarse hair on his jaw, the
tip of her nose brushing against his cheek before she pulled away. "I'd rather
it be you," she said. "And you know I'm ready."
He needed no more encouragement than that, and her reasoning was sound enough
for him to trust she wouldn't have regrets later. He hoped to see the king
thrust from his throne before the end of the war regardless, and whatever
conflict this might cause in the future he could easily see himself around.
Reaching out, he cupped her jaw in both large hands, sliding his fingers back
into her hair and gently gathering it behind her shoulders. Holding it with one
hand, he reached around and loosened the ties on the front of her gown – large,
loose ribbons down the front of the thin linen shift. Sansa's hands were still
braced against his chest, as she watched him slowly untie each ribbon, tugging
the ends of the bows and watching as the fabric fell apart, five in all from
her neck to her knees. Even with the fabric loosened, it still barely revealed
her skin.
He slid out from underneath her, gathering her in his arms again, and laid her
back across his bed, one knee on the outside of her leg and the other foot
still planted firmly on the floor. He hovered above her enough that she had
ample room to move under him, but she stayed still, clutching the fabric of her
gown around her at the hips. For the moment, he seemed uninterested in that,
and instead reached for one of her hands to draw it up towards his face. That
was what made Sansa tense, and she pulled her hand back somewhat, afraid to
touch him.
"If I'm going to kiss you, you're going to touch my face..." he murmured.
Sansa wasn't sure if that was a good bargain, but she slowly let him draw her
hand forward. Sansa's fingertips brushed over his cheekbone and, at first, she
recoiled abruptly again. But it didn't feel at all like she expected.
Truthfully, she had no idea what she actually expected it to feel like. She
inched her hand closer and brushed her fingers against the smooth, uneven skin,
finding it almost waxy in some places but thick and dry in others. Her hand
trailed down his cheek to his jaw, her thumb sliding over the edge of his lower
lip barely touched by the scar itself.
"See," he rasped, "I don't bite."
"I thought it would feel..." she pulled her hand back and rubbed her fingertips
together thoughtfully, "wetter."
He smirked but shook his head, drawing her hand up to his cheek again as he
leaned down and pressed his lips to her. His kiss wasn't entirely gentle, but
the roughness came from the touch of his skin and his ragged beard, not from
the press of his mouth against hers at all. It wasn't like any of the other
kisses she'd had either, instead she felt like he was trying to draw her into
him – or that she was trying to allow herself the same. One of his hands
slipped behind her neck to hold her in place, while the other slipped down the
front of her throat and between her collarbones, flicking the fabric of her
gown aside. Sansa shrugged her shoulders and the fabric pooled beneath her
enough that she could draw her arms out of the sleeves.
Her arms moved to wrap around his shoulders, but the Hound had already drawn
away from her mouth, his rough lips casting across her neck and the curve of
her collar instead. Sansa let her head fall back as his hand drew out from
under her neck, straining to watch him as he made his way down. He wasn't
exactly careless in his touches, but he was quick in them, like he wasn't sure
if she really wanted him to touch her or not. He didn't linger, he didn't spend
too much time in one place, but that only made her anticipation pull tight.
His calloused hands settled on her waist and he rest his good cheek against her
stomach for a moment, nuzzling the soft flesh there. For Sansa, it was strange
to have anyone show this much affection towards her after all she'd been
though, and to have it at the hands of a brute like the Hound came as more of a
surprise. She watched as he dropped down on his knees at the edge of the bed,
his hands sliding down her hips and slowly drawing apart the last few inches of
fabric covering her. Sansa blushed hot, fingers curling in her gown as he
tugged her forward to the edge of the bed and draped her legs over his broad
shoulders. She trembled slightly, eyes wide, though her hesitance stuttered to
a halt when his mouth came in contact with her body again.
She clamped her hand over her mouth to muffle the moan that answered him,
dropping back onto his bed. Her legs tensed around his shoulders, squirming
under him, but the more she squirmed, the tighter he held her and the more
intense it seemed to feel. It didn't take long before she abandoned her efforts
at silencing her moans to twist her other hand in the fabric beneath her
instead. He was as relentless here as he was passive elsewhere, and each
shudder of breath and stifled, desperate cry seemed to spur him on further.
Beyond her own noises, she heard the rustle of fabric, a clatter of metal, and
realized vaguely that he was only holding her down with one hand now. Sansa
drew her knees up slightly, her feet brushing against his bare back and another
tingle running down her spine where it seemed to flood straight into his warm
mouth. She heard him groan against her and press closer, which only drew
another excited shudder out of her.
Just as the tension started to get too much for her, he pulled back and slipped
her legs down off his shoulders, his lips scuffing against the smooth skin of
her inner thighs. He stood, bracing himself on the bed long enough to pull his
boots off and kick his trousers to the floor, and then drew up in front of her.
She wondered if he was trying to shock her, but she was too distracted from his
all his previous attention to notice anything except for the way his broad
shoulders led down to a muscular chest, then a cut, trim waist, all of it
littered with scars – some gnarled, some slashing. Her cheeks went warm again
before her eyes trailed any lower and Sansa gathered herself together on the
bed, propping up with her hands behind her and her knees drawn together.
"Oh..." she breathed, and his mouth twisted into a smirk.
"Not what you expected?"
Sansa shook her head, "No," she said, shoulders shrugging up, not even thinking
to cover herself now that he was bare in front of her as well. "You're not ugly
at all."
The Hound chuckled, the sound thick and dark, and scooped down to gather her in
his arms again. He picked her up and Sansa's legs instinctively slipped around
his waist, knees clenching in against his sides. He sat back on the bed,
pushing her robe and gown away, and settled himself against the head of the bed
again with her in his lap. She could feel him pressing against her and Sansa's
heart leaped into her throat when she realized just how close they were.
But he drew her against his chest with one strong arm, tipping his head so she
could rest her cheek against his good side while he pressed his lips to the
gentle curve of her neck. His other hand slid between them, and for a moment
Sansa's stomach twist into a tight knot, not sure if she was ready yet. But it
was his hand that slid between her legs, his palm rubbing up against her. Sansa
whimpered faintly into his hair, tightening her arms around his shoulders. She
pressed down against his hand, rocking her hips slightly.
"Good girl," he breathed, "there's no need to hold back with me."
She nodded, her grip on him tightening when she felt him curl a finger and
slowly slip it inside her. Sansa bit down on her lower lip, bracing herself for
it to hurt, but all she felt was a brief pressure that gave way with only the
faintest sting. She wondered if the thousand-leaf had gotten into her blood and
calmed her body, or if the horrible stories the women told her were only meant
to scare her out of doing this.
"Are you alright, little bird?" he breathed, and she nodded, her hands sliding
back down to his shoulders.
Sansa straightened up, meeting his gaze, as he continued to touch her and she
continued to move against his hand. Her breathing was heavy, but she found that
it was only when she stopped and tensed that she became aware of the slightest
hint of pain. The Hound twist his hand slightly, his thumb sliding up to rub
against her, rougher and more direct than his mouth had been. It still made a
rush of need twist downward, but it felt sharper than before. Feeling dizzy and
overwhelmed, she curled forward to rest her cheek against his shoulder; she
wasn't sure she could really look at him while they did this, the feel of his
gaze on her making her skin burn too-warm. A second finger pressed in next to
the first and Sansa whined, the Hound's free hand coming up to tangle in her
hair and hold her tight against him.
"Breathe," he whispered, "and try not to think about it."
Sansa tried doing as he told her, forcing herself to not hold her breath like
her body seemed to want. Instead, breathy whimpers slipped from her lips as he
pressed into her, his thumb still rubbing in narrow circles. It didn't hurt,
but at the same time she didn't have the words to explain what it did feel
like, she just knew that it was getting harder to even remember how to breathe,
much less to keep her breathing even and level.
Then just as abruptly as he pulled away from her the first time, he pulled away
again, his hand sliding lower between them. She felt him nudge up against her
and his hand moved down from her hair to the curve of her lower back. He drew
her hips forward, her back arching, and she felt him start to push inside her.
The brief pause he gave, she knew, was to give her time to reconsider, but
Sansa hadn't just asked for this on a whim, and her body was buzzing with all
the attention he'd already showed her. The moment passed, and he leaned back,
settling his hands on her hips, and looked at her expectantly. Sansa braced her
hands on his chest, slowly lowering herself on him. He didn't rush her, he just
watched, his hands gripping firmly enough to guide but not direct. Sansa
realized as she settled herself that he had passed over control to her, giving
her the power to choose how fast the rest of this went between them. She didn't
expect it from him, but he seemed intent to keep his word, and for a man who
wasn't a knight at all he seemed leagues more honorable than any of them.
Slowly, he started guiding her hips with the faintest pressure of his hands on
her, sliding her forward as he pressed up into her. Sansa wasn't entirely
confident about moving on her own yet, but his hands abandoned her hips and
started to move up her sides instead, leaving her moving on her own. It didn't
take long before she started to discover what felt best, and already deciding
there was no way she could accommodate all of him. He didn't seem to mind
though, between the faint growls that rumbled from his chest and the way his
hands made their way further up along her body.
He tugged her forward again, enough that he could lean in and press his lips to
the curve of her breast, working his way across the swell of flesh to sensitive
skin. Another breathy moan escaped her as his lips closed around her. That
thrill his mouth caused combined with the pressure between her legs was heady,
as dizzying as anything, but it wasn't until his teeth gently scored against
her breast that she felt the same surge of longing roll through her body as
before.
She slid her hands to the back of his neck, not sure whether to pull him closer
or push him away, but she felt like her entire body was straining up towards
his mouth and down against him at the same time. It hurt, yes, but not in a way
that made Sansa want to stop. The more she moved, the less she noticed the
twinge of pain anyhow. He didn't urge her to go faster or to take more than she
could, and in that concession, she found a sort of confidence she didn't even
know she had.
The Hound's beard scratched against her skin as he moved from one breast to the
other, paying the same attention there as he did before. At the same time, his
hand slid between them again and Sansa felt his fingertips press against her.
She bit back a hard moan, her grip on him tightening while her hips shuddered
forward towards his hand. But he didn't relent here either, his mouth on her
and his fingers drawing these rolling, warm shudders through her body. She felt
a moan catch in her throat, and reached down to push his hand away as she
trembled around him, the combined attention suddenly crashing over her,
overwhelming her, leaving her struggling to catch her breath again. He gripped
her hips tightly then, pushing harder into her while she was still reeling from
everything else. Sansa heard him growl, brutal and undone, against her ear a
moment later, and steadily he drew to a stop.
He rest his forehead against her shoulder, and Sansa could feel his chest
heaving with ragged breaths that matched her own. With an exhausted groan, she
slumped forward against him as well, her heart racing and her body feeling numb
in the most blissful way possible.
"I bet Joffrey can't do that," Sansa breathed against his ear, grinning when
the Hound started to laugh outright against her shoulder.
She'd never heard a sound like that, so heavy and happy, but she decided she
liked it almost as much as she liked the way his lips and fingers drew all
those tingles from her skin. She needed someone's laughter – their happiness –
and his seemed more genuine, and more strangely beautiful, than anyone else.
He shift under her again, lowering her down on her back next to him and drawing
slowly out of her. But she came right back to him, fitting herself against his
side with her head on his chest and her arm draped across him, instead. He
turned his head and buried his face against her hair again, drawing in a breath
of her.
"Are you happy, little bird?" he asked, and felt Sansa smile against him.
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