Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/899989.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      No_Archive_Warnings_Apply, Underage
  Category:
      Gen, F/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      Sandor_Clegane/Sansa_Stark
  Character:
      Sansa_Stark, Sandor_Clegane
  Series:
      Part 2 of The_Awakening
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-07-27 Words: 3618
****** Sour Wine and Honeyed Bruises ******
by TimmyJaybird
Summary
     The godswoods is a place for prayer, and for Sansa, a place to escape
     with her recent joy from her broken betrothal. But her joy coupled
     with wine and a certain haunting man may bring her to discover more
     than prayer within the trees.
She was free.
It still felt strange to think. Sansa sipped on a cup of honeyed wine, alone in
her chambers. She was free of Joffrey. The boy had broken their betrothal, had
taken Margery Tyrell instead of her. The idea alone made her giddy as a fool.
This was her second cup of wine though, and she was sure it was to blame as
well.
Sansa knew she was not free of the Lannisters. They held her still, and she did
not dare dream now that she would be freed. But she did not have to share
Joffrey’s bed. That was enough.
Downing the rest of her wine, she set her cup down and decided she needed some
air. The guards had lessened at her door now, and people seemed more likely to
ignore her now that that bit of status had been ripped from her. She pulled a
cloak over her shoulders and hair, and swept from her room, tempted to hum
tunelessly to herself.
The Godswoods was a good place for some air, to calm her heart. She did not
expect to see ser Dontos, nor did she truly want to. She just wanted the cool
autumn night air on her skin, to clear her head and her chest, to remind her
that she was not dreaming.
She sat in the godswoods, on a small stone bench, and bowed her head. She
didn’t pray, she just smiled and thought of how sweet it would be to watch
someone else wear Joffrey’s damned Lannister cloak at the wedding.
“What’s the little bird doing out of her cage?”
She turned with a start, not removing her hood. The Hound stood in the small
entrance to the godswoods, filling it, a wineskin in one hand. She could smell
the wine, and she assumed it was half empty. At least.
She found her heart racing further at his intrusion, and cursed herself. She
thought of him in her chambers, the night of Blackwater. Drunk and frantic,
telling her to sing, telling her he’d take her away. He smelled of blood then,
and Sansa wondered if he could smell her own moon’s blood through all that of
the men he’d murdered.
“Praying,” Sansa said, and he walked over. She pulled her hood down, letting
her auburn hair free. “How did you know it was me?”
“No one else visits bloody trees,” he said, taking a pull of his wine. Sansa
watched his throat move. It made her tingle. His lips were wet, she could see
it. She remembered them. He’d taken his song, even if it was only a hymn to the
mother, but he’d taken a kiss too. He’d pinned her to the wall and held her
firm as she felt his ruined lips tug at her own, as she squirmed and whimpered
at the heat in her chest and the fear in her mind. She’d thought he’d take
more, but he’d stormed out after, leaving his bloody white cloak behind.
She had thought he’d left for good, until she heard of the battles the next
day. He’d gone back, turned a mad, rabid dog, and slain more men then she dare
try to count. His brief disappearance had been forgotten.
“They’re sacred to some,” she pointed out, though Sansa wasn’t sure if they
were to her. Until now she had not had reason to thank the old gods or the
Seven, and now that finally her luck had turned, she wasn’t sure who had caused
it. Perhaps there was another god she had not met yet. The Hound just shrugged
a shoulder and looked at her, before taking a seat beside her. Sansa shifted
away to make more room, but even then she was forced into contact with him, her
leg resting against his. Her breath hitched when she realized the air was
instantly warmer with him there.
Gods be good, I must be drunk.
She watched him take another drink, and wondered why he was there. He wasn’t
speaking, he had no reason to be in the godswoods, and yet he had appeared,
like magic.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, and he leaned forward onto his elbows.
“Watching you.” It was so blunt that it took Sansa back. She stared at him, her
Tully blues wide.
“What?”
“Someone has to,” he pointed out, “Now that you don’t belong to the King,
someone might get a little drunk and decide you’re pretty enough to take.” He
took another drink, shook his head, even dared to laugh.
“You’re drunk, ser,” Sansa said, and the Hound just laughed more.
“What of it? A dog has the right to drink when he’s not needed.” He took
another drink, then held the skin out to Sansa. She hesitated, but took it
against her better judgement and took a drink. The wine was so strong it nearly
brought tears to her eyes, and she lost her breath. She passed it back and
coughed, and he smiled.
“Do you really think I’m not safe?” Sansa asked, and he shrugged a shoulder.
“Might be, could be. With how much the Tyrell men are drinking to their sweet
little Margery, they might forget themselves.”
The way he said her name made Sansa irritated. He called her sweet, she didn’t
like him going off and calling other girls sweet too. It was absurd, and she
had no reason for anger, but it was there.
“We’ll see how sweet she is once Joffrey has her for a bit.” The bitterness in
her voice made the Hound stare at her, and she took his wineskin from his hands
and drank again. If the men could be drunk, she may as well indulge more as
well. She had the right to celebrate her freedom.
She just wanted to forget that he said someone else’s name.
The wine is in my head, is all. In the morning I’ll see how foolish I’m being.
He watched her take another drink, before she handed it back to him. He
chuckled.
“The little bird is thirsty.”
“The little bird is happy,” Sansa said, though she didn’t sound it.
“If this is what you sound like happy, you’re the most boring bloody woman in
all the seven kingdoms.” She gawked at him, narrowed her eyes, and smacked his
arm. He wore only cloth, no mail or leather, but his arm was still hard under
her hand. He laughed at her childish slap, reached out and grabbed her wrist
before she could retreat. “What has you so upset, my lady?”
He’s mocking me!
“Don’t say her name,” Sansa said, the wine making her tongue lose. “I don’t
like hearing it.”
“Upset that the Tyrell bitch has taken your Lion?”
“No,” Sansa said, yanking her arm free, “I just don’t like hearing you call her
sweet.” The Hound laughed, letting the now empty wineskin fall to the ground.
“The little bird is jealous.” Sansa cried out in frustration and went to smack
him again, but he caught her arm, pulled her close. She sprawled forward,
leaning into his lap, staring up at him. “Did a kiss leave you so enthralled,
girl?”
“No!” she said as she squirmed, felt the muscles of his legs beneath her, the
heat of his body. She felt dizzy and hot, but yet his heat made her want to get
closer. She was out of her mind.
He chuckled and grabbed her waist, hoisting her over to him and onto his legs.
Her cloak caught on the bench and tore from it’s clasp, falling free and
leaving her in just dress. She squirmed more, but his arm curled tighter around
her waist, held her firm.
“Let me go!” she said, beating lightly on his chest with one hand. His chest
rumbled when he laughed, and she ceased her smacking to let her hand rest
there, to feel it. Her fingers splayed, she felt the vibrations cease, felt his
breathing grow just a bit more rapid. She shifted closer, dared to lean against
his chest. She giggled when she moved as he breathed, and felt his girp on her
loosen, his hand stroking along her side, the curve of her hip.
“You’re drunk, girl,” he said, and Sansa nodded, feeling the wine making her
head fuzzy, her body warm. The air was cool, and without her cloak, she found
she wanted to be closer to him. She closed her eyes, could smell the wine on
him, the wood around them, and something else distinct to him, and him alone.
It made her heart speed. “I should get you back inside.”
“I don’t want to,” Sansa said, clutching at his shirt. “I want to stay here.”
He sighed.
“You’re damned confusing, Sansa.” The mention of her name made her shiver, and
he felt it, but she didn’t know why. She felt him shift though, and was said
when he pulled her from his chest and forced her to sit upright. “You’re scared
of me, but you cuddle like a damned kitten.”
“You’re warm,” Sansa said, “that’s all. It’s cold. And I’m not scared of you.”
That made him laugh again.
“When did you stop?” She sat there, thinking about it. It was true, he wasn’t
as horrifying as she remembered him being. Truth be told, unless he was angry,
he was just a man. A big, hulking, solid, warm...
Stop it! Sansa wanted to smack herself.
“When you kissed me,” she said, realizing it to be true. He had poured
something of himself into her that night in her chambers, something that let
her see he wasn’t a beast. He just liked to pretend he was.
He didn’t speak, just stared at her. Then in one quick movement, he held her in
his iron grip and kissed her again. Sansa gasped, felt how his mouth slid
against hers in a delicious motion, one that sent her tummy to doing flips. His
hands on her waist tightened, the other wrapped around her and on her thigh,
stroking gently. Sansa squirmed, but she didn’t pull away. He tasted like wine,
and it made her thirsty.
Gods what am I doing? I’ll just pull away now, but all she did was lean closer,
grip at his shirt and open her mouth without him coaxing her. He seized the
moment, delved his tongue into her mouth, explored its softness, danced with
her tongue. She was whimpering and squirming more, making it hard for him to
focus, an ache growing in his groin.
When Sansa finally pulled back, she was panting lightly, her chest straining
against the tight lacing of her gown. She stared at him, blue eyes wild.
“What are you doing to me?” she asked so innocently that he laughed. He leaned
forward, nuzzled into her hair and neck, and she didn’t fight him.
“Exciting you, if your mouth tells me true.” He kissed her neck, felt her
shiver, a sweet feeling. “I’d almost think you want me, little bird.”
“No,” she breathed as he trailed kisses up her neck, nipped at her ear lobe.
She wound her arms around his neck and sank her finger tips into his hair, felt
his scars brushing against her skin.
“You’ll have to be more convincing girl.” His kisses trailed down one, one of
his hands tugging on her dress, pulling it lower to expose the swell of her
growing breasts. Just that extra expanse of milky pale skin sent a jolt of
arousal through the Hound, made him want to shove her down on the cold stone
and fuck Sansa until her screams woke the damned North.
But then, it didn’t take much to make him want to fuck Sansa Stark. The girl
was damned beauty incarnate, so young and unspoiled- something left to conquer.
Something left to ruin.
Sansa moaned softly as he nipped the tops of her breasts, writhed around on his
lap and felt the evidence of his own arousal. She should be horrified, she
should be screaming, but she was warm and fuzzy and lost in so many things. She
could taste the wine from his lips, and the taste that had already stained her
mouth. Maybe if she had another cup, she’d make her mind up one way or the
other on what he was doing to her. Not that she understood it, she only knew
she liked it.
She ached between her legs, a feeling she had not felt. She had belt
butterflies once for Joffrey, that shiver of something in her spine, and again
for ser Loras. But this ache was new.
“I hurt,” she said, holding onto his shoulder to steady herself. That stopped
him. He looked up at her, his dark eyes suddenly alert.
“Where girl?” Is he worried?
She hesitated, feeling so improper, but finally her hands ghosted down, rested
on her lap, and she blushed. He raised his one good eyebrow, then laughed,
bellowed into the night. In a quick movement he was pushing her dress up, one
hand heading for hers.
“You don’t hurt,” he said, “you just need something.” She tried to squirm away,
but he held her firm, his hand on her bare knee, then her thigh. With her heavy
skirts it was hard to get much further, and with her squirming. The Hound
frowned, grunted in frustration, and in a quick movement stood, lifting Sansa,
before setting her back on the stone bench. He knelt before her, spread her
legs and pressed between them. He gripped her chin with one hand, kissed her
again, his free hand grabbing one of her breasts. Sansa gasped and tried to
squirm away, but he held her still.
“No,” she gasped, “you can’t. It’s not proper.” He chuckled, shaking his head.
“Who’s going to know, girl? Don’t tell me no when it’s bloody obvious you’re
enjoying it.” Sansa hesitated. She should push him away, she should, but the
gods be damned the ache between her legs made her want to pull him closer, and
the wine in her head told her it was a good idea. Who would know? No one came
to the godswoods, except her. She would tell no one.
“I have to be a maiden,” she whined, “if I ever want to marry.”
“Aye, and you will be,” he said, a bit annoyed, “I never said I was going to
fuck you, girl. Do you know nothing?”
Sansa didn’t, but she didn’t want to show it. Still... “What would you do,
then?” She was curious, what else could he do aside of take her?
“You are a stupid little bird,” he said, slowly messaging her breast. She
fidgeted. “So damned stupid and glorious,” he leaned in, kissing her neck
again, biting the skin roughly, making her cry out in shock. She truly had no
clue about bedding, and it made the Hound all the harder inside his breeches.
He’d show her, then, what he could do to her and still let her keep the title
of pure.
He ripped her dress lower, tearing some of the lacing in the back, exposing her
breasts. He suckled on one nipple, making her chest heave in heavy breaths, his
hand kneading the other. Sansa let her head tip back, let her breaths rush in
and out of her. One of her hands tangled in his hair, and she felt giddy and
heavy all at once. The excitement that she simply should not be here with this
man only made her thighs wet, and she wanted to blush. This was not how a lady
acted, nor thought.
The Hound was running his hands up her legs now, pushing her skirts up, until
he reached their juncture. He stroked her sex through her small clothes, and
Sansa did blush then, a heavy pink color that spread down her neck and to the
tops of her breasts. He thought it made her look even more wanton.
She tensed as he began tugging on her smallclothes, he felt her muscles go
rigid. “Relax,” he rasped, kissing her mouth quickly. “It won’t hurt, little
bird.”
Had Sansa not had wine, she told herself she would have not allowed it. Had she
not been giddy with her presumed freedom, not had her honeyed wine, not drank
down his strong wine, she would have had her wits about her. But truth be told,
she knew in her core she wanted this, on some base level of need. Ever since he
had pinned her to the wall, had rasped of how he smelt her blood, and the look
in his eyes of wildfire. Since he had stolen that kiss from her, and he smelled
of murder. She had wanted something else from him, some sort of completion, an
act that would make her feel as if they had actually pursued something, so it
could be laid to rest.
She lifted her hips for him, and he tore her smallclothes away. Her sex lay
waiting for him, slick beneath auburn curls. He touched her, this time with no
cloth to interfere, and she squirmed, eye widening. The ache grew, transformed
into something so sweet and delicious that Sansa thought she would fall right
off the bench.
“See?” he rasped, leaning up to kiss her mouth again. “It doesn’t hurt.”
His fingers, though calloused, were oddly gentle with her. They stroked her
lips, circled and pressed to a nub she had not known was there. She felt like
there was fire in her blood, boiling up and threatening to turn her skin to
ash.
One of his hands had been gripping her thigh was gone. She glanced through her
lashes to see his shoulder moving, heard him groan as he bit her shoulder. He’s
touching himself she thought, before her mind left her and she shuddered, the
sensations in her growing.
“How does it feel?” he rasped in her ear, his scars pressing to her skin. Her
mouth moved, but no words came, her hips simply pushed closer to his hand. He
smirked, softening his touch, making her whimper. “Answer me, girl.”
“G-good,” she stammered, wishing he wouldn’t tease her like that. “Please ser,
don’t...don’t stop.”
“My name,” the Hound said, his fingers moving faster. “Say it.”
Sansa hesitated, but something was knotting in her belly, hot and tight, and
she couldn’t think. “Sandor,” she breathed, and with that one word he kissed
her with such a fervor she was sure he had sucked her life’s breath from her.
She clutched him, wrapped her arms around his shoulders, crying into his lips
when something exploded in her, and the ache between her legs was replaced with
waves of dizzying, tingling pleasure, from her toes to the ends of her feiry
hair. She clung tighter to him, rode each wave as his touches slowed, and she
felt the way he was rushing the touches on his own body. She grabbed his face,
kissed him hard, breathed his name against his lips again, and felt him shudder
and groan.
Sansa leaned back, breasts heaving with her breaths, staring at him. He had a
satisfied smirk on his face, one that part of Sansa wanted to kiss, and the
other wanted to smack. Gods, what had she done?
He stood a moment later, his breeches laced again, and leaned down, kissing her
one last time. Sansa shivered, realized how could she was, exposed in the night
air.
“Get back before you are missed,” he advised, and she nodded.
“What... what was that?” She asked, standing and pulling her gown up.
“You truly know nothing. That bloody well was the best feeling you’re ever
going to get.” He grabbed her cloak and tossed it to her, watched her drape it
over those pretty shoulders. The one he bit was already darkening, it would
showcase a pretty bruise come dawn.
“I liked it,” Sansa breathed, blushed. He smirked.
“Good. You’ll like it more the next time.”
Sansa clutched her cloak around her. “Next time?” Gods, could she let this
happen again? It was indecent, it wasn’t proper. She was a highborn lady, to
let herself touched so by him, it was not right. But he had been oddly gentle,
and Sansa had to wonder if perhaps he had been gentler than most would have
been.
“Don’t look so bloody horrified. You don’t need me to do it. Touch yourself
girl, and you’ll understand.” Frustrated now, he turned and left her at that,
storming into the night in search of more wine, and more relief. Her cries were
still fresh in his head, his name on her sweet lips, and just one toss off was
not going to be enough to ebb the need that had built.
Sansa walked briskly back towards her own chambers. Touch herself? Like he had
touched her? She wasn’t sure if she could, it was most like to be naught what a
highborn lady should be doing. There was certainly no way she could bring
herself back to that ache she felt with him, that odd need that had pushed her
forward, not with wine clouding her system. Yet, she felt she was thinking
clearly now, and even as she closed and latched her door and disrobed, to clean
herself up and get into a night gown, Sansa began to think the wine had little
to less to do with her actions that night.
She crawled into bed in the dark, her shoulder sore from his bight. She’d have
to cover the bruise, to be sure. She sighed and curled up, thinking of his
calloused hands between her thighs, his rough mouth, and told herself she could
never touch herself as he had touched her.
Could she?
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