Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1013208.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      Sandor_Clegane/Sansa_Stark, Sandor_Clegane_&_Sansa_Stark
  Character:
      Sandor_Clegane, Sansa_Stark
  Additional Tags:
      Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, silliness, AU, sassy!sansa, Teasing, PWP, like_maybe
      even_implausible_enough_2_b_veerin_into_crack_fic_terrain
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-10-21 Completed: 2013-12-02 Chapters: 10/10 Words: 18342
****** Subjects of Songs and Stories ******
by barbiehighheels
Summary
     She was pouting, and it was undignified, but she couldn't possibly
     care about that at the moment. He had left her so infuriated she
     could barely draw breath. He had always displayed little valor, and
     she knew him well enough to understand as much, but ever since being
     on the road together they had been snapping at each other non-stop.
     She heard the clinking of tins as the Hound unpacked his satchel. She
     silently fumed, hating him suddenly.
***** Chapter 1 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Sansa woke with a start when she felt the Hound’s hands choke up Stranger’s
reins. The snow was falling faster now, and the leaden sky foretold the gloomy
impending darkness. They would need to stop soon and make camp. Through the
snow and the small opening she left beneath her hood and scarves, she saw the
Hound point ahead of them and that’s when Sansa saw it, too- a covered cart,
abandoned. She didn’t want to think about what unfortunate circumstances led to
its current lonely station. They trotted up on Stranger, and the Hound
dismounted first. He motioned for Sansa to stay mounted, while he crept up to
the wagon, with his hand on the pommel of his sword. He drew back the flap, and
looked inside. It was empty save for a burlap sack in the corner with an
ominous dark red stain across the bottom of it. He turned back towards her and
nodded, so Sansa hopped off Stranger, and stretched. She didn’t care if it was
unladylike to stretch so- arching her back after the day’s ride felt wonderful.
She shook her arms out and blinked in the snow. They had only been a week gone
from the Vale, but the repetitive days blurred together and felt like much
longer time they had spent on the road together.
 
“Well, come on then, girl, leave your daydreams of handsome knights behind, get
our things, and let’s get inside before this snow takes us.” The Hound snapped.
 
Sansa, rolling her eyes, turned back towards Stranger and unfastened their
bedrolls, which plopped in the snow. She picked them up and tossed them into
the wagon after shaking the snow off them.
 
“Do you think we could use this cart and have Stranger tow us? It might be nice
to keep this shelter with us.” Sansa asked the Hound tentatively.
 
“He’s not built for this.” The Hound grunted back at her, as he unrolled his
bedroll closest to the cold entrance. “We’d need a plowhorse.” He tossed her
sack towards the other end of the wagon and pointed to her corner. Sansa eyed
the stained burlap sack tentatively.
 
“Shouldn’t I sleep nearer to you…in case of an emergency?” Sansa asked, her
eyes still on the burlap next to her things.
 
“I’m blocking the only entrance, little bird.” The Hound replied.
 
Sansa frowned at the sack. She nudged it with her foot and something clinked.
She kicked it again, and it toppled over. Green bottles rolled out, and one of
them into Sandor’s heel as he finished laying out his bedroll and bearskin
furs. He turned and picked one up.
 
“Well, look at that. The lady has made herself useful with a nice discovery at
long last.” The Hound sneered the word lady at her. Sansa, not feeling at all
like a lady, sneered right back at him.
 
“Wine, child. You’ve discovered a sour red.” He looked at the etching on the
green glass bottle. He pulled a cork out with one fist and took a hearty swig.
And smiled. He passed the bottle to Sansa, who, although dubious, accepted. She
sniffed it delicately before slowly raising it to her lips. She took just a
tentative sip, but it splashed out and dribbled down her chin regardless.
Affronted, she wiped her chin and passed the bottle back to the Hound, whose
eyes hinted at a smile the rest of his face did not betray.
 
“Are we going to build a fire?” Sansa asked.
 
“I don’t recall you asking so many bleeding questions at King’s Landing.
Perhaps it was the fear of the beatings you’d receive. Maybe I should threaten
you with the back of my hand as well, if that’s what it takes to get
some bloody peace and quiet.” The Hound snapped at her.
 
Sansa drew her lips into a tight line and turned her back to the Hound. If he
wanted quiet, fine. She’d give it to him. She stayed with her back to him for a
moment before turning around and snatching the bottle from him and taking a
long draw from it. She sputtered and choked on it when she lowered the bottle.
Once she finished coughing, she raised the bottle once more and took a slower
drink from it and swallowed. She sighed heavily.
 
“Careful, bird.”
 
She glared at the canvased wall in front of her and ignored him. She took
another hearty swig.
 
“I mean it. Careful. Men are oft froze to death because the drink lulls them
into a false warmth.”
 
Sansa turned around to face him in her exasperation. Her cheeks were flushed
and her eyes bright.
 
“What kind of man can threaten to beat me in one breath and then chide me as a
child in the next?” She spat at the Hound.
 
He smirked at her. “Not a man. A dog.”
 
Sansa turned her back on him again, and folded her arms. She was pouting, and
it was undignified, but she couldn’t possibly care about that at the moment.
The Hound had left her so infuriated she could barely draw breath. He had
always displayed little valor, she knew him well enough to understand, but ever
since being on the road together they had been snapping at each other non-stop.
She heard the clinking of tins as the Hound unpacked his satchel. She silently
fumed, hating him suddenly.
 
“We won’t be building a fire, as it is too wet outside for one to keep, and
we’re like to burn ourselves alive if we tried that in here. And I’ve no mind
for that as I’ve felt it before, little bird.” He said to her back. She didn’t
move.
 
The Hound continued, “I have some dried beef and pickled apples in here. Some
cheese and some hard black bread. Things we can eat with no fire.”
 
Sansa didn’t reply, but instead, with her back still to the Hound, she laid
down on her bedroll and pulled the covers over herself.
 
“Fine. Be that way,” she heard him say. “More for me.”
Chapter End Notes
     This was the first sansan I ever wrote. omg. It's pretty bad but I'm
     going to try and fix it up a bit. <3
***** Chapter 2 *****
The Hound bit down angrily on a heel of bread and tore off a chunk. He wasn’t
particularly hungry, in fact, he was more inclined to go to sleep, as the bird
had, but he knew that it was more tactful to eat. That they both should eat. He
slit his eyes at Sansa’s back, which rose slowly with her breath. He took
another bite and uncorked another bottle of wine, as the already opened one was
stationed next to Sansa and he felt not like reaching over to retrieve
it. Fine, he thought. Let her starve. Stupid bird. 
 
He hadn’t meant to snap at her. He hadn’t meant to behave so roughly since
they’d been on the road together. He was just unaccustomed to dealing with
women if it involved more talking than fucking, especially with a highborn
lady. His rough edges had been marks of strength and virility his whole life.
His unapologetic brutality brought him this far, won his battles, and secured
him as Joffrey’s sworn shield. But these traits were of no use when dealing
with his little bird.
 
His little bird? He scoffed inwardly. Delusional dog, he thought. Stolen
himself a pretty pet that hates him, more like.
 
On the other end of the wagon, he heard her sniff. He froze and listened.  Is
she crying?  He wondered, irritated at her. What purpose does that even serve
her?
 
She sniffed again, loudly, and it was clear at this point that she was crying
and trying to keep it quieted. The Hound grimaced. He listened to her cry for a
beat more before the guilt weighed his chest down.
 
“Little bird.” He rasped. She didn’t reply. He continued anyway.
 
“Little bird,” he repeated. “I did not mean to upset you. You know I have
promised to protect you. I would never raise a hand to you with ill intent.” He
finished. She had stopped sniffling, and her breath was steadier, but she still
didn’t turn to face him.
 
“I am sorry.” The Hound said simply. She didn’t move.
 
Bugger this, the Hound thought, and grabbed his bottle of wine. I am no
preening, keening septa begging for her lady’s good graces. He slipped out of
the wagon into the snow and stalked off.
________________________________________________________________________________________________
“I am sorry.” He said and Sansa froze, her hand still on her pillow. Had he
truly just apologized to her? The beastly Hound? She sat up and turned around.
 
“I am sorry as well.” She said to no one. Her heart thumped against her
chest. He’s left me, she thought wildly while grabbing her cloak and throwing
it over her shoulders. She left the wagon.
 
Outside, in the swirling snow, she stood next to Stranger who derisively huffed
out air at her in a white puff.
 
“I know,” she said to the horse. “I’m rude and a brat.”  No better behaved than
Arya, she thought to herself as she looked for the Hound’s footprints in the
snow to see where they led. He wouldn’t abandon me, would he? She thought. And
leave all of his clothes? She remembered that he carries his money pouch on his
belt. For all she knew, he had his sword and coin purse, and that’s all he
needed. Bugger that, Sansa thought. Bugger him. Bugger me. 
 
She squinted and spotted his large footprints in the snow. She placed her
smaller feet in them and began to follow them out. They went straight into the
dark woods. Sansa took a cursory glance at the sky, while struggling to keep
her eyes open in the flurry. Once night fell, she would have no way of seeing
where her feet were taking her, much less the Hound. Nonetheless, she walked
into the woods, terrified, and her hands clutching her cloak around her neck.
 
The woods were an eerie quiet. She could hear the whispering snow falling on
the tops of trees, and the branches cracking under the weight of the ice that
encapsulated them. Each loud snap made her shoulders twitch.
 
“Hound?” She called out to the quiet wood, still searching for his prints. She
followed them deeper. She turned, and made sure that she could see the path she
walked in on. Her small footprints were still there, leading the way back to
the wagon, which she could no longer see.
 
“Hound!” she yelled with more impertinence. “WHERE ARE YOU?” She cried out.
Suddenly, she heard a loud crack overhead and looked up just in time to see a
branch laden with heavy wet snow and ice snap off a tree and head towards her
upturned face.
 
Sansa gasped and stumbled backwards, falling into the snow. She sat there for a
moment while her heart stopped humming and she found her breath. She swallowed
and sat up. Oh no, she thought, when she looked at where the branch had fallen.
 
She bit her lip and told herself she had already cried enough tonight. The
felled branch obliterated the path of his footsteps she had been following. On
her hands and knees, Sansa turned around her to find where her own footsteps
would lead her back. Oh gods, she thought as she came full circle.

The snow had destroyed her path back. It had erased her. And now it would take
her.
Sansa couldn’t help it any longer. She started to cry.
***** Chapter 3 *****
The Hound ran a circle around the wagon once he returned, and was in shocked
disbelief when he still didn’t find her. Returning and finding the wagon empty
was one misfortune, but being unable to find the trail of her footsteps in the
snow was worse. He had no idea where she could be and he himself could barely
see one league in front of him between the darkness and the cursed, insistent
snow.
 
Returning to the wagon, he fumbled with an oil lamp in his pack. Maybe I
shouldn’t, he thought. There is not much oil left in here and it was meant for
a time of disaster. He paused in lighting it, considering, before another
nastier voice reminded him, And what do you think this is? He grit his teeth
when he thought the flint pieces wouldn’t light the damned rag, but finally it
caught and he exhaled shakily as he exited the wagon and set out again.
 
“LITTLE BIRD!” the Hound roared into the woods. The whistling wind was his only
mocking reply. The snow stung his eyes. He could feel it clinging to his
eyelashes.
 
He walked further into the woods, choosing the path he had first taken. He
hoped she had followed him into this woods. If I don’t find her, I will die
trying, he thought frantically. And then she will know. It won’t matter that I
never told her.
 
“LITTLE BIRD!” He bellowed into the darkness, with his lamp raised. The circle
of light cast by the lamp made the surrounding darkness feel like something
sinister and suffocating, closing in on him in the cold. He wondered again if
he’d chosen the right direction to look in. The snow was sweeping away his
footsteps as fast as he was leaving them. He strode deeper, and wished he’d
thought to tie a rope to his waist from the wagon so he might find his way
back. They might both die out here tonight.
In front of him, he could see a large tree branch in a small clearing, still
attached to the large oak it fell from by some wooden splintery sinew. It must
have recently fallen, judging by the new dusting of snow covering it. As he
drew nearer he saw an unnervingly placed lump on the other side of it and his
heart dropped to the pit of his stomach. He plodded through the snow as quickly
as he could, and once on the other side of the branch, he could see the little
bird’s cloak peeking out of the snow. “Oh, gods.” he moaned. Not her. I’ve
killed the little bird.
 
He knelt and set the lamp in the snow as he started to brush the snow from her
form. His hands finally reached her small form and he turned her over by
grasping her shoulder roughly. Her eyes were squeezed shut and her lips were an
alarming shade of lilac.
 
“Wake up, girl.” He held both of her upper arms. “You’ve got to look at me
now.” He pulled her upright by her shoulders, and when he did, her head lolled
to one side alarmingly. He grabbed one of her arms and slung her over his
shoulder, as light and as limp as a rag doll. He stood with her still over his
shoulder and reached down with his other hand to grasp for the lamp. He turned
around in the direction he came from and cursing, strode in a straight line
back to the damned cart. He reluctantly thanked the gods when he quickly found
it again. Upon reaching it, he gently laid Sansa down inside of it before
climbing in himself.
 
The oil lamp flickered against the heavy canvas walls around them. He glanced
at it to see how much was left in it. Not much. Not enough to make it through
the night, much less the next few minutes.
 
Ignoring his thoughts of how he would proceed once it was black dark, he bent
over her. His frozen fingers fumbled with her wet cloak and took it off her.
Her dress was still blessedly dry, as were her legs. Her riding boots were the
tall sort, with otter fur lining the tops of them around her knees. Her skin
felt so cold, but he could feel her breathing. He put his head to her chest and
listened for her heartbeat. Small, he thought once he’d found it and was
disappointed in its slow, ponderous thump. Small like her. Maybe small ones
have smaller heart beats, he wildly considered. He took her little, clammy
hands, and rubbed them warm between his enormous calloused ones. They stayed
warm when he put them back down, but she didn’t open her eyes.  He sat her
upright again, and unlaced the front of her dress slightly, just at the neck.
Once her collarbone was exposed, he placed his mouth in the hollow of her
throat and exhaled closely and deeply, his hands pressing firmly into her back.

It was a trick his mother had shown him during his first winter. The breath
could spread warmth, whenever she had done it to him. She would place a “summer
kiss” as she called it, between his shoulder blades and let out a breath close
to his skin, and the sudden warmth had made him thaw and giggle as a child.

The Hound turned Sansa around so that her back was to him, holding her against
his chest, with his legs open and propping her up on either side. He leaned her
forward and gave her a summer kiss on the nape of her neck, with one arm
encircling her shoulders and chest to hold her forward to him. When he had no
more breath left to give, he buried his face in the back of her neck and held
her to him still. When her small hand landed softly on the wrist he was using
to prop himself up on, he lifted his head.

The little bird was awake.
***** Chapter 4 *****
Sansa remembered falling asleep beside the fallen branch after she had
exhausted herself from crying in the heavy snow. It wasn’t unpleasant either.
She had felt the cold so long that it had begun to feel like a kind of
backwards warmth beckoning her. Her numbness lulled her to sleep, right there
in the snow. Which is not where she woke up.
 
She woke up with her back against the Hound’s massive chest, and one arm around
her shoulders, pinning her to him with his long legs on either side of her. 
She looked at his hand down beside her. So big, she thought, and placed her
hand on top of it to see if her own looked like a child’s in comparison. It
did, but it didn’t stay there long because he spun her around to face him with
his hands squeezing her shoulders uncomfortably. She was two inches from his
face and her legs were drawn up towards her chest. She felt so small in
comparison to him.  But at the same time, perhaps from the cold, her limbs felt
much too awkward and overgrown. Her head felt overlarge. Heavy. The Hound
stared at her.
 
“Idiot.” He snarled.

Sansa blinked dully at him.
 
“I went looking for you, ser.” She bit down on the word “ser” as if to cruelly
jape at him. “I was frightened when you left me alone, ser.”
 
The Hound squeezed her shoulders harder and Sansa dimly thought that if he
continued he would shatter her like glass. And she did feel like glass. She
felt heavy. She let her heavy face drop into the Hound’s chest, which smelled
like sweat and wood smoke. He put one large hand on the back of her head and
held her there. He exhaled in one rush of breath and wrapped his other arm
around her shoulders. Sansa let herself be held. It felt nice, after all. And
she wasn’t afraid of the Hound any more. He might be the only thing that made
her feel safe at this point. He had a knack for finding her in the right
moments of peril.
 
“You can’t go to sleep, little bird.” He rasped into her hair.
 
“But nothing sounds more wonderful.” She murmured into his chest.
 
The Hound lifted her off of him and held her upright by her upper arms. Sansa
looked at him through heavy lidded eyes.
 
“I am worried you will not wake up miraculously a second time. Please stay
awake for a little while longer until I know that you are alright.” He said to
her roughly.
 
“Others take me, Hound, did you just utter a ‘please’?” Sansa smiled thinly at
him. “You have masked your manners up until now quite well. So well that I
thought you none.” He did not laugh at her joke.
 
“Sansa.” He said.
 
My name, she absurdly thought. What a strange thing to see on his lips.
 
“Yes, Hound, I will stay awake. If you keep me entertained. Do you know any
songs?”
 
He growled at her. She reached for the wine and took a swallow and passed it to
him. He kept his eyes on her while he did the same. She was still nearly in his
lap, with his outstretched legs around her.
 
“Fine. No songs.” Sansa said. “How else do you propose we keep each other
awake?”

________________________________________________________________________________________________
 
The Hound thought he imagined the look in her eyes. It couldn’t be possible.
This was Sansa Stark, a highborn lady, not some brazen wench. He must have
imagined the glint. It was wishful thinking.
 
“Why don’t you tell me one of your stories, little bird? Of knights and singers
and true love and whatever drabble nonsense your lady mother conjured to keep
you quiet.” He said.
 
The little bird nodded. “I do have a story. It’s about a knight who wasn't a
knight. And this knight saved a maiden’s life not once, not twice, but three
times.”
 
The Hound narrowed his eyes at her. “Little bird.” He growled. It was her name,
but it was a warning.
 
“No, shush, listen. He saved her life three separate times. The first time from
a mad mob that was dragging her under in the chaos. He chopped off a man’s arm
when the bad man tried to drag the maiden to his depths. Slice!” Sansa’s arm
chopped the air with her noise. She paused to drink the wine before continuing.

“And the second was when the knight left hiding to whisk her away from an evil
captor” Sansa wiggled her fingers to emphasize ‘evil’, “who kept the maiden
locked in a tower. The evil captor would not bed the girl because she was worth
more coin with her maidenhood intact, but he would still force her to perform
other unsavory acts. The knight showed up, slew her captor, and saved her.
Again.” Sansa paused and stared at him. The sleepiness had left her eyes and
she looked, alert and awake now. The Hound had tried to arrange his face in a
placid facial expression to not betray his heart pounding at what she was
saying, but he knew his face felt more like a frown.
 
“And the third time was when the knight woke her from a deep, magicked snow
sleep. A sleep that claims many victims of the north. And do you know how he
magically woke her up?” Sansa asked.
 
He stared at her.
 
“With a kiss.” Sansa answered, before bringing her face closer to his, so that
her lips were nearly touching his. “He woke her with a kiss that melted the ice
from her bones.” He could feel the breath from her mouth on his and desperately
hoped that his heart thumping wasn’t visible to her in his throat. Sansa
continued, with her lips achingly close to his, “And it was the third time that
the maiden at long last loved her valiant not-a-knight.”
***** Chapter 5 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
“And it was the third time that the maiden at long last loved her valiant not-
a-knight.” Sansa breathed into the Hound’s mouth before kissing him softly. She
was kneeling between his legs, with her hands on either side of her own knees.
She had expected much more of a reaction from him, so she pulled back to look
at him. She was nearly shaking with nerves from being so brazen, and yet she
felt strangely emboldened by her near-death experience this evening. And the
wine. She bit her lip and waited for him to say something.  He stared dumbly
back at her.
 
“I was anticipating anything save for docility, Hound, this is hardly the-“ her
rushed words broke off when his mouth crushed hers and his hands were on her
hips and pulling her tightly against him.
 
This is one way to keep awake, Sansa absurdly thought as she wrapped her legs
around his waist and kissed the Hound deeply in return, drawing her arms about
his neck.
 
He tasted like fire. Sansa wasn’t even sure what that meant; she just knew that
the fire that had taken half of this man’s face had somehow stained him for
life. It was in his breath that he gave to her to wake her up from the snow
sleep, and it was in his kiss that seared, and left a fire from her stomach to
groin.
 
She whimpered into his mouth as he grabbed her bottom and hitched her up onto
his lap. She had gone from two extremes tonight; the invasive cold to this
pervasive heat, this heat that was leaving her breathless.
 
A man had never kissed her such as this. The Hound was rough with his touch,
but his tongue parted her lips in such a way that she desired even more of the
ferocity he had to offer. He rewarded her subconscious want by grabbing a
handful of her hair and pulling her head back to expose her neck, which made
Sansa gasp. He trailed his lips lightly down from behind her ear, down her
neck, to where her collarbone met at the hollow of her throat. He kissed her
hungrily there, and his other hand slid up her stomach to her breast.
 
“Oh,” Sansa breathed as his hand cupped her breast through the bodice. He
released one hand from the back of her head and brought it around to the front
of her dress while Sansa lowered her face again to look on him. Her dress was
partially undone already from when he gave her the summer kiss at her throat.
Her lips were parted and she stared at him. He stared back at her with his hard
grey eyes and began to unlace the front of her dress without letting his eyes
leave her face. When his hand would brush against the side of her breast as he
undid her dress, she felt her breath catch in her throat. What kind of madness
is this? She wondered. I am highborn.
 
He began to push her dress off her shoulders when their canvased wagon suddenly
became significantly dimmer, before becoming completely dark and engulfed in
shadow.

__________________________________________

The Hound felt her little shoulders stiffen under his large hands when the oil
lamp went out and she tensed up.
 
“It’s just the lamp. The lamp went out. It had too little oil in it.” He
quietly rasped and was rewarded when he heard her sigh and felt her shoulders
relax some in his hands. She reached out and put her small hands on his chest,
and leaned in to kiss him once more. His lips found hers in the dark. His hands
remained on her shoulders, although he was keenly aware of her bare breasts
pressing against his shirt and longed to run his rough hands over them. But his
hands stayed put.
 
He knew that he wanted any stolen kisses with her to be well-lit. He wanted to
devour with his eyes, his mouth, all he had to offer. He wanted the memories to
warm him long after she’d been returned north to another highborn husband. He
wanted to see her. He kissed her softly and squeezed her shoulders. He wouldn’t
take her like this, in darkness and snow, under duress, with nothing but wine
in her belly. He suddenly remembered the amount of wine she’d had and pulled
away from her. Sansa dropped her hands from his chest.
 
“What’s the matter?” she whispered in the dark, although she had no reason to.
The wind howling outside would cover even the loudest screams. Seven hells, he
thought. Now I’m thinking about what noises she would make…
 
He shifted uncomfortably to hide his hardness from her.
 
“The light went out.” He rasped.
 
“So?” She replied. “It was my understanding that most of these things are to be
done in darkness. It doesn’t bother me. I like it.” She leaned in to kiss him
again.
 
The Hound caught her wrists in one hand and pulled back. “You prefer the
darkness?” He sneered. “A better cover for this ruined face, girl? And here I
thought you admitting your maiden’s love for me means you’d be able to finally
look on my face without disgust.” He dropped her wrists and moved backwards,
away from her.
 
He wasn’t expecting the stinging slap that landed on his burned cheek. He was,
however, expecting the second slap, and caught her small wrist despite the
darkness.
 
“Little bird,” he growled through gritted teeth while squeezing her wrist, “Is
this any way to treat your beloved, heroic, knight?”
 
“You are vile.” He heard her whisper out of the darkness. He could also hear
the tears in her voice.
 
“Yes. And it’s about time you realized it.” He grunted, dropping her wrist.
 
“Well, I suppose it’s safe enough to sleep now.” She choked out. He heard her
crawl away from him towards her end of the wagon and settle in her blankets,
fumbling with them. “Even if I don’t wake up this time.” She added petulantly.
 
He grit his teeth to keep from snapping at her, and turned his back. He pulled
the blankets over him and lay down to beckon an elusive sleep.
 
__________________________________________
 
She had truly wanted to fall asleep and never wake to spite him. Then he’ll be
sorry. She thought spitefully, but she then remembered the look on his face
when she woke up from her sleep in the snow. The look on his face as he had
then kissed her, felt her through her dress-
 
Sansa buried her face in her hands. Even in the dark she felt the need to cover
her face’s blushing embarrassment. She suddenly understood.
 
He doesn’t want me, she thought, mortified. I threw myself at him like some
tavern wench. He felt sorry for me because I admitted my feelings.
 
She’d be stone tomorrow. No, even better, she’d be a Stark. Cold and dignified.
He’ll regret being mean to her.
 
But I want him to love me back, an insistent voice reminded her. Sansa buried
her face in her pillow and stifled a groan. Out of all the men in the Seven
Kingdoms, this is the one that finally brought her heart to flutter?
 
She had, in truth, known it the moment they left the Vale. She had known
throughout their stoic or bitter silences the past week, through the campfires,
through his outstretched hand as he helped her onto Stranger, and even through
the bickering as a result of his oft-foul temperament. She loved him. She felt
the blush creeping up over her neck as she remembered what they had just done.
What they had almost done, as well.
 
Sansa attempted to let her thoughts run astray so she wouldn’t lay there losing
sleep over the man dozing at the other end of the wagon cart. Her thoughts kept
circling back, however, and she’d feel the hot shame rise up in her all over
again. This cycle kept at her until exhaustion took her unwillingly, eyelids
fighting the fretful sleep laden with bad dreams.
 
She woke because an empty wine bottle bumped into her head. She looked at it
touching her forehead, unsure of what it was, before pushing it away. It rolled
out the other end of the wagon and landed with a crash. She didn’t see where
the green glass landed, but after a moment she saw the shards in the mud. “The
ground is moving.” She muttered to herself and rolled over.
 
After a moment of chasing down sleep, she realized with a jolt that it
was she who was moving and not the ground. She sat up suddenly and looked at
the wagon. The Hound was gone.
 
I’ve been kidnapped, they’ve killed the Hound, and I’m being taken back to
King’s Landing, she frantically thought.How could I sleep through such an
event? 
 
She gathered her wits enough to crawl to the edge of the wagon, where she
warily peeked through the closed canvas flap. No guards behind them. She opened
it, and holding one edge of the wagon, leaned out. She still saw no one. She
then held onto the floorboards of the wagon and leaned out to peer under it.
Her long red hair brushed against the ground. She saw Stranger’s hooves
languidly trotting, and a large pair of booted feet walking in pace next to
them. The Hound’s boots.
 
Sansa pulled her head back up and inside of the wagon. Now what? She thought as
she looked around her. She was unsure of how long she’d be kept in the wagon
while they were moving. She sighed and began rolling up her blankets.
Chapter End Notes
     I was going to wait to post this tonight when I WASN'T at work, but
     what the hell! I'm all moonbrained today anyway.
***** Chapter 6 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Stranger was walking at a slower pace due to the wagon he was harnessed to, but
the Hound was walking at much brisker pace to keep up with him still. He didn’t
want to ride in the saddle or in the back to add to the weight. They should
have just left the wagon there, but the Hound couldn’t bring himself to wake
Sansa.
 
Or couldn’t bring yourself to speak to the poor girl, the Hound thought to
himself scornfully. She looked peaceful, and her eyelids were still rimmed red,
as if she had fallen asleep crying. He grit his teeth as the guilt washed over
him. Save a girl and she thinks she has to love you, he thought. No matter how
foul you are, her affection is indebted. You took advantage of her. No one
could love a dog like you with a ruined face.
 
Her affection had bewildered him at first when she kissed him gently on the
lips that first time. He had imagined kissing her many nights, but it was never
like that. Never was she the one to take a kiss from him. It outshined his best
fantasies. And the way she’d reacted to his touch after that, and her hips
grinding into him as she sat atop his legs, with hers wrapped around him…Gods,
where did she even learn that? He wondered and swallowed hard. Thank the Seven
that there would be an inn to stay at tonight, with separate rooms for the both
of them. It was a small, lowborn inn, but that was all they could afford with
limited coin, and it was less likely that peasants would recognize either of
their faces. They might be able to trade the cart in for a night’s sleep, as
well. They were making much worse time with it attached, but on horseback it
would have only been a half a day’s ride to the inn regardless.
 
And you couldn’t stand to have her so near to you today, he reminded himself
angrily.
 
He had been so near to taking her, maidenhood be damned. She said it, right?
Save a little bird thrice, and the third time you receive a gift befitted for a
knight. No matter how ugly he is.
 
The Hound snorted out loud. Stranger replied with a similar huff. The Hound
decided to peek in on Sansa, so he slowed his pace and let the wagon pass. He
walked to the end of the wagon and opened it, while walking to keep up with the
moving wagon.
 
Sansa was sitting in a corner, with her knees drawn up to her chest. She pulled
her head up when the sunlight hit her face. She had tidied the wagon and the
Hound saw that both of their bedrolls had been packed, plus the stained burlap
of the Dornish wine had been tied to his sack as well.  Sansa stared at him
blankly.
 
“Good morning.” She politely chirped. The Hound frowned at her normal behavior.
He was expecting her to pout or act childishly.
 
“Morning.” He gruffly replied. “We’re going to stay at an inn tonight. We are
about two hours out.”
 
“What’s our story?” She asked him.
 
“What?”
 
“Am I…your ward?” She continued. “Your wife? Am I a septa?”
 
The Hound laughed his rasping elemental laugh, sounding of steel on stone.
 
“This isn’t the type of establishment to ask many questions, little bird.” He
remarked. “No more a question than, ‘Do you have sufficient coin?” He let the
flap close and jogged to the front of the wagon, leaving her alone in her
little birdcage.
 
He ruefully thought of her stricken face once he reached the front of the
wagon. She probably thought he was bringing her to a downtrodden establishment
of ill repute now. He knew, though, that she’d be fine once she got there and
was placated with a hot bath in a clean room with a bed, a fireplace, and fresh
rushes. Better than sleeping on the ground, as they had been. Better than this
damned wagon.
 
After about two and a half more hours of walking, the Hound could feel the old
wound in his thigh aching. It was long healed, but repetitive motions on it
such as today’s journey made it ache dully. And he had been walking for nearly
a day. Finally, he and the wagon crested over a hill and he spotted the
ramshackle, if cheery, inn. The snow had melted away from the small building as
if retreating in surrender from the warmth it wielded. Although now that he was
considering it, the purported inn was more overgrown cottage than anything
else. No matter. He led them past the gate, unhitching Stranger from the wagon.
He turned to retrieve Sansa, but was startled when he saw she was already
standing behind him. She must have jumped out as soon as the cart stopped. She
smiled kindly at him. The Hound scowled at her and stalked off.
 
__________________________________________
 
Sansa frowned once the Hound had turned his back on her, and followed him up
the dirt path to the inn door. She was attempting to act a perfect lady, as she
had when she first met the Hound as Joffrey’s betrothed. She thought that
perhaps it would remind him of what he liked about her in the first place. He
must’ve liked me once to ask me to come with him, she reasoned. To swear to
protect me.
 
Once they crossed the threshold of the small inn, the warmth blasted her in the
face. The corner of her mouth involuntarily lifted into a small smile and Sansa
looked around at her surroundings. This was not the outlaw-laden establishment
she had pictured from the Hound’s japes earlier. The inn was so warm, so
innocent, and so inviting.
 
There was a fire burning in the hearth, and heat emanating from the kitchen.
Sansa smelled freshly baked bread and her mouth watered. She removed her sable
lined gloves and shoved them into the pockets of her simple dress before
holding a hand above her growling stomach. She looked over and saw the old
innkeeper hobble with his gnarled wooden cane towards them. He grinned
toothlessly at them and Sansa couldn’t help but smile back at him.
 
“Two rooms.” The Hound barked at the innkeeper. “Two hot meals. Two fires going
in our rooms. And first, two hot baths.” He dropped a few silvers into the
man’s outstretched hands.
 
“Certainly, ser.”
 
Sansa glanced at the Hound’s face to see his reaction at the title, but if he
was annoyed, he did not betray it on his face.
 
Two maids came from the kitchen, as well as the cook, wiping her floured hands
on her apron, surveying the new guests. She balked at the Hound and immediately
retreated to the kitchen where she loudly exclaimed, “Lordy, did you see the
size ‘a that one? All the bread in Westeros won’t be too much!” while the two
maids led Sansa up the stairs to her room, giving her just enough time to look
back at the Hound downstairs who was looking at her with a peculiar expression
on his face.
 
The two maids fussed over Sansa once in her room. They carried in a large
copper tub and began filling it with steaming water. They added what looked to
be milk to the water, which Sansa frowned at.
 
“Trust me, little one.” One of the maids said when she caught her expression.
“Your skin has roughened from the cold, but this will give you the skin of a
newly born babe. Your mister paid extra for it.”
 
“Is this some sort of backwoods sorcery?” Sansa asked. The maid laughed at her
and up-ended the last bucket of water.
 
“No, milady.” She said to Sansa “Just how country folk have learned to help
battle the harshness of winter.”
 
They undressed Sansa and carefully folded her garments and set them on the bed.
Sansa gingerly stepped into the tub and hissed as the water scalded her. She
slowly sat down and the maids began to scrub her scalp with an oatmeal lavender
bar soap. One of them roughly rubbed her fingers through Sansa’s hair, and
Sansa saw the grit coming down and the grime lifting off of her skin. She was
embarrassed at how dirty she had permitted herself to become. Never again, she
vowed to herself. Even if I have to bathe with snow, I will not become this
dirty again. No wonder the Hound didn’t want me.
 
After they had scrubbed her within an inch of her life and left her pink and
steamed from the hot water, they refilled the tub with fresh water and again
more milk. She dismissed them after graciously thanking them, and insisted she
wanted to remain in the tub during supper. She wanted to remain in this heat
for as long as she could, until the water ran cold. She would sup after, and
hopefully by then she wouldn’t have to sit across from the Hound for a sullen,
silent, shared meal.
Chapter End Notes
     updating from work again whoops
***** Chapter 7 *****
Chapter Notes
     so, uh, collar tug, FUNNY STORY..things are going to start getting
     very ~adult themed~?? and i am sooooo bashful and embarrassed about
     how I wrote this a couple years ago. but i'm already committed to
     reposting, so...yeah! friendly warning! E-rating smut, let's do this
     shit. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
“She’s not coming down?” The Hound grunted at one of the poor maids.
 
“No, milord.” The maid nervously tittered. “She wishes to remain in the bath.”
 
The Hound stared at the maid. He had spent so much time with Sansa, who had
long ceased wincing and averting her eyes at his scars, that he had almost
forgotten the effect his appearance had on most people. The ever-present fear
in their eyes, typically laced with revulsion. He had bitterly accused Sansa of
disgust in the cart the previous evening, but in truth he wondered when Sansa
had stopped being afraid of him and all fearful scars marring his face.
 
The Hound looked down at her place setting across from his, with her food
already growing cold. He begrudgingly ignored his aching hunger, and stood up
to ascend the worn stairs, brushing past the terrified maid as he left.
 
He knocked twice sharply when he reached her door, pounding with the side of
his fist.
 
“Yes?” He heard her reply.
 
“It’s me.” He barked.
 
“Come in.” Sansa said.
 
He pushed open the door, assuming that since she invited him in, he was to
expect to see her dressed.
 
She wasn’t.
 
She was still in the tub, just as the maid had said. The water was clouded and
milky, so all he could see was the tops of her shoulders, and her knees
sticking out of the water.
 
He quickly shut the door behind him, fuming.
 
“What are you doing, girl?” He asked her angrily, though he couldn't seem to
force his eyes away.
 
“Taking a bath.” She shyly granted him a sly smile. “Look, I’m all wrinkled. I
was beginning to think I’d never experience a bath long or lovely enough ever
again for this to happen.”
 
She held out her hand to show him her pruned fingers and his anger softened a
bit. Still an innocent, he thought. She probably has no idea that the very tops
of her teats are now above the water.
 
“Best get out of there before you shrivel up completely and disappear.” He
rasped, more sharply than he intended.
 
“Do you know what the crannogmen say about this?” She waggled her fingers for
emphasis, ignoring his words.
 
“No, little bird. What do they say?” He sat on her bed, and she turned in the
tub to face him. She put her hands on the edge of the tub and leaned her face
on it.
 
“It’s not shriveling up in a sickly manner. Your body adapts to the water for
better grip on the slippery stones. You evolve into a sea creature. You start
to turn into a bog creature after long enough. That’s why your fingers shrivel
up in the tub.” She told him matter-of-factly. 
 
“I would't much care to travel with a bog beast.” He joked, nearly gently.
“Come to supper.”
 
“Why are your affections so fickle?” She asked him. The Hound stared at her
without answering. She clicked her tongue and continued, “You…spurn me last
night and say cruel things, and yet here you are. Sweet as honey. I can’t keep
up with your pace. I can never tell if you care for me or if you hate me.” She
finished, deeply contrite, with her blue eyes downcast and a pretty blush high
in her cheeks. Her eyelashes were still wet and slicked to points. He wanted to
kiss them.
 
“You do not have to give yourself to me as payment for saving your life.” He
huffed after a moment’s pause. Her eyes shot up to his face and she steadily
held his brutal glare.
 
“I admit to loving you, and you don’t accept it because you dismiss it
as payment?” She shot back.
 
“When did you get so lively?” He asked her in return. She pursed her lips in a
small frown.
 
“When I was held captive for two years and occasionally beaten or tortured.”
She replied. “Many instances of which you were present for.”
 
He didn’t need reminding and felt defensive immediately. He stood and stared
down at her in the tub. She was hiding in the water now, cowering just enough
to be covered by the milky water obscuring her body. Hiding from his gaze and
drawing her knees to her chest.
“I have now devoted my life to protecting you. I have asked you to come with me
not once, but twice.” He said through his gritted teeth.
 
“And I have come.” She said simply to him.
 
He wordlessly fumed and stared down at her beautiful upturned face, wanting to
kiss her. Wanting to pull her from the tub, dripping wet, and take her to bed.
 
“Why did you push me away last night?” She asked. “I know that it wasn’t
because you believed I didn’t want to look upon you, which was a poor excuse.
Do I disgust you so?” She unabashedly sat a little straighter in the tub and it
was clear to him then that Sansa was verily aware of herself in that she could
never be considered disgusting to any eyes. He felt a little smaller with this
realization, that the girl had come to understand her power as a woman- and she
was now holding it over him.
 
The Hound’s face twisted with obvious incredulity at the absurdity of her
question. He leered at her before he spoke through a his rough chuckle, “Half-
witted little bird.”
 
“Then what?”
 
He didn’t want to answer. He didn’t want to admit his worship of her, but
couldn’t figure out what held him back. He felt an enormous discomfort in
revealing his feelings. He glowered down at her and crossed to the door, as if
to leave. His hand hesitated on the doorknob. He spoke to the door.
 
“I couldn’t believe your attention. I thought it was the wine. I thought you
were making a mistake. And then, I wanted to see you as fully as you were
willing for the first time in the light, little bird. I wanted to remember
exactly how you looked.” He jeered now, at himself, at the ridiculous notion,
and he began to pull the door open.
 
“Sandor.”
 
Hearing his name stilled him and had his hand freeze on the handle. He turned
to face her. Gods, he swore to himself. She was standing, the water dripping
down her. She shivered a little and he saw the gooseflesh raise on her arms. He
stared at her, riveted and stunned into silence.
__________________________________________

Sansa shrank under his gaze. It was what he wanted of her, she knew now. She
wasn’t sure why, but the way he was looking at her now made her skin feel
heated despite her shivering in her wetness as the bathwater dripped off her
body. She felt simply powerful. 
 
“You look almost a woman,” he had told her once and nearly frightened her half
to death. That night had scant years between it and this night, but maybe she
was truly a woman now, even if she didn’t feel as such. His hand fell from the
door and rested in his swordbelt at the front of his pants. She could see the
raised bulge of his want. She trembled again but did not otherwise move.
 
“Sandor?” She said again, this time as a question.
He answered. He crossed the room in two long strides, and scooped her easily
into his arms. He dropped her onto the bed, and towered over her. She lay now,
still victim to his piercing gaze, watching him from the bed, as he unbuckled
his swordbelt, which dropped to the floor with a loud clank. Sansa could feel
her heart leap into her throat at the manner of his stare. He regarded her with
something steely and merciless blazing in his grey eyes, and she saw his jaw
tense as he grit his teeth. He climbed on top of the bed to hold himself above
her, with his tunic and pants still on. Sansa smelled the soap in his newly
washed hair as his mouth descended on her nipple. Oh, she thought as her back
arched involuntarily, pushing her breast into his mouth. A rough hand covered
her breast and squeezed as his lips moved upwards to hers. He moved his massive
hand to her throat to lay there lightly and Sansa briefly wondered if he could
snap a grown man’s neck, if not hers, which his hand nearly enclosed around. He
kissed her, softly, but Sansa wanted the fierce intimacy she'd garnered last
night. His touch was much too light. She bit his bottom lip and licked it while
she held it in her teeth. He growled into her mouth and moved his hand to take
a fistful of her hair at the back of her head, which he then pulled to make her
look at him.
 
“Wolf” he told her, before releasing her and sliding his hands down her hips,
over her bottom. Sansa blushed under his touch, blossoming and demure as well
as endlessly thrilled.  He moved a knee between her legs and used it to nudge
her thighs apart. Sansa covered her face, although she wasn’t sure why.
Something about the Hound, Sandor Clegane, seeing her most secret part made her
feel truly exposed. He pulled her hands from her flushed face. Sansa glanced up
at him, smiling until she noticed the stern expression on his face.
 
“I won’t bed you, girl.” He told her.
 
Sansa’s mouth gaped scarcely and she looked at him askance in her disbelief.
 
“I mean, I’ll not take your maidenhead.” He clarified.  Sansa glanced off to
the side before extracting herself from his arms. Her expression was
unreadable.
 
“You don’t want me.” She told him before drawing her knees up to her chest and
resting her hands there. The Hound seized a hand from her knee and placed it
squarely atop his overlarge and hardened manhood.
 
“Here is your proof of my want, girl.” He growled at her. Sansa's lips parted
for some unspoken sound, and she timidly let her hand trail down, tracing the
length of him. His eyes fluttered shut at her delicate touch and Sansa savored
seeing his jaw clench and tense. She withdrew her hand and he focused his stare
down at her, breathing heavily. He, glowering, reached behind her head and
grabbed a blanket which he threw around her shoulders, covering her. He
smoothed her hair, and placed his hands on either side of her face, as tenderly
as she had ever imagined he would.
 
“You deserve to be wed, child.” Sandor scowled, seemingly furious with himself.
 
“I’m already  wed,” Sansa scornfully responded.
 
“You are widowed.” He curtly reminded her.
 
Sansa’s head snapped up and she jutted her chin out.
 
“So you’d rather see me sold to a new husband? You’d have my maidenhood taken
from me unwillingly rather than it given to a man of my choosing?” She demanded
venomously.
 
“I’d rather you were wed.” Sandor emphasized. “Think about your future, little
bird.” It’s not with me, he could have added.
 
Sansa clambered off the bed ungainfully, while using both hands to keep the
blanket wrapped around her. She stood in front of Sandor, who was still seated
at the bed, and stared at him coolly.
 
“You’d rather see me wed.” Sansa repeated.

Sandor, stone-faced and jaw set, nodded. Sansa suspected she saw a sudden
lament befog his eyes.
 
“Fine,” Sansa said. “Wed me.”
***** Chapter 8 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Sandor’s eyes grew wide. What did she just say? Is she with fever? The little
bird has mislayed her delicate sensibilities at long last.
 
“Have you lost your mind, girl?” he demanded gruffly. “Did you abandon your
senses as well as your clothes this evening?”
 
Sansa’s mouth downturned. “No. I am sick of my own life not being my own. I’m
overtired of being a ward, or a pet, or a wife, and having my decisions made
for me. I am not chattel, “ she hissed, still standing in front of him with the
dark grey blanket she held around her shoulders, like some sort of woolen cape.
“You have freed me Petyr, Sandor, and I thank you for that, but I will not have
you become my next slave trader eager to sell me on to a new lord. I’d like to
make my own choices, now." She jutted her chin out and straightened her
posture. "I’ll take you as my husband.” She finished boldly.
 
Sandor gaped at her. Never had he imagined such words from her, or such
brashness coming from his little bird. His heart ached when he briefly
considered the unfortunate events that had breathed this new fire into her, but
he loved her all the more for it. Tragedy can harden or become cruel the best
of men, he wryly thought, considering his own personal tragedies, but it only
makes this woman magnificent.
 
“And besides,” Sansa artfully added. “You have promised to protect me. What
better way than as my husband?”
 
Sandor kept staring at her. Quick, before she changes her mind, a voice told
him. Sandor frowned.
 
“And you’ve made up your mind with this?” Sandor asked her. 

Sansa nodded fervently. 

Sandor exhaled. “Alright, little bird. I’ll wed you.” He muttered, his mind
reeling. 

He looked up. “We’ll find a sept on the morrow and make it so, but I’ll have
you know, I won’t be some simpering husband who comes with lands or wealth. Nor
a true knight as in your songs,” he added, pointing his index finger towards
her while his other hand splayed across his thigh. He smiled slightly, if the
wry twitch of the burned side of his mouth could be considered a smile, “This
is it, child. Just me.”
 
Sansa grinned at him, and threw her arms around his neck, discarding the
blanket covering her in the process. She kissed his temples; both burned and
unburned, and nuzzled her face into his neck as she turned her legs to one side
and gracefully sat in his lap.
 
Once again, she was naked and in his arms. Sandor, carefully arranging her on
his lap, smoothed her hair. He placed one large hand on the small of her back.
She smelled of lavender and her skin was impossibly soft. He let a hand drift
from her hair, down her shoulder blades, to her waist. My betrothed, he tested
the term in his disbelief. Gods, he swore. Sandor lifted her chin, and kissed
her softly on the lips. She sighed into him. Sandor kissed her cheek, her chin,
the delicate line of her throat, and passed his hand lightly over her chest.
She writhed a little at that, wanting more. Sandor smirked wickedly, looking
down at the span of his hand across her chest. He stood, holding her tightly to
him with one hand, and split her legs with his other so that when he sat back
down on the edge of the bed, she was straddling him. She looked at him
quizzically, a blush creeping up her neck. Sansa placed her arms around his
neck, and he relished feeling her hands lock together behind his head. He ran
his hands up her thighs astride his hips and over her bottom, where he clutched
suddenly and earned a sharp gasp from her. His touch wandered up her sides,
over her breasts. She sighed softly, her face upturned and eyes closed
dreamily. 
He trailed his thick fingers through the damp ends of her hair, feeling like a
spellbound and brutish oaf. His rough hands returned to her breasts, ghosting
lightly across them. His hand lingered over her heart and when he cupped the
side of her neck next he felt her pulse flutter beneath his palm. When he
looked into her lovely eyes, he saw a tenderness there that nearly and
inexplicably infuriated him. He grasped her arse suddenly, yanking her forwards
by her bottom. He held her there. His other hand made a leisurely descent down
her neck and over her stomach, down to the delicate dusting of dark red hair
between her thighs. He saw Sansa swallow hard as she stared at him. He wondered
if she could feel how sweaty his palms had become. He brought her bottom
forward a little, and pushed her shoulders back, so that she was caused to
display the prize between her legs to his hungry gaze. It was the most
beautiful sight he had ever beheld. He slid his hand there to cup her, and
Sansa whimpered, pulling her knees up slightly. He felt her hands tangle in his
hair with her wrists still behind his neck.
 
She was wet. Impossibly so. Sandor incredulously trailed his fingers lightly
through her slickness, watching her face carefully. Her lips were parted in a
silent gasp and her eyes were closed. His touch stilled and she opened her
eyes, only to blush and drop her gaze once she’d met his intense stare. He
began teasing her entrance with his fingertips brushing against it before
bringing his middle finger up to the sensitive nub of flesh that he deftly
circled with a surprisingly gentle touch. Sansa squeaked and looked up at him,
bewildered. He smiled reassuringly at her. I bet her buggering septas never
explained this part to her.
 
He withdrew his hand and looked at her, as if to survey her facial expression.
Her face was reddening pleasantly and she bit her lip, suddenly shy. Sandor
brought his fingertips to her lips and waited. He smirked when her eyes
widened.
“Go on, girl.” He murmured in a low rumble to her. Her lips parted and she
tasted herself from his middle finger. Sandor thought he’d burst at the sight
of her lips closing around his finger and the way her tongue felt against it.
Her cheeks were so pink. She was so beautiful, and so sweet.
He stood abruptly, sweeping Sansa up to standing and unceremoniously depositing
her on her feet. He kissed her on the cheek and started for the door.
 
“Get dressed and come to supper.” He commanded brusquely. He turned to look at
her before he closed the door. She was standing and staring at him in utter
disbelief, her hair having dried into messy tangled waves. He permitted himself
one more lecherous gaze across her naked form, his goddess girl, and clenched
his fist at her lush loveliness. When his eyes finally raised to hers, he found
them glinting in nothing short of fury. He raised his eyebrow at her and when
he closed the door, he heard Sansa stomp her foot in exasperation.
 
He was still smirking by the time she sat down across from him at the table,
glaring in his direction. Their food had gotten cold, but they were each poured
a glass of wine and the fire still blazed in the hearth. The lit tapers down
the center of the table had burned low, until they were waxen stumps, but the
flames flickered cheerfully against the walls. They were now the only
individuals in the little dining room although Sandor had first spotted the
same terrified scullery maid peeking in on them from the kitchen, before he
shot her a dark look and she scampered away with a squeak.
 
Sansa hadn’t bothered to brush her hair, but instead swept it to the side over
her shoulder in a loose, thick braid.  Wisps of her coppery hair, looking even
redder in the firelight, curled around her face. Sandor thought, if such were
possible, that she somehow had become even more beautiful now that she was very
cross with him. She began to eat, ignoring him, and looking all the image of a
perfect lady as she delicately sipped her soup. She pursed her lips and looked
at up him finally, exasperated with the silence and his lack of apology or
explanation.
 
Sandor had his head propped up on one hand, sitting on the wooden bench with
his long legs sprawled open under the table. He was still smiling at her.
Sansa scowled.
 
“Cad.” She told him, before taking a sip of wine. Sandor smiled wider.
 
“You are so lovely when you’re angry.” He answered, leaning closer. “I find
myself enchanted with this face you wear now and I want to see it more. Still
want to wed?”
 
“Too late to back out now, Hound.” She said. “You are a man of your word.” She
raised her cup of wine, teasing him. Sandor scowled.
 
“You haven’t touched your wine.” Sansa pointed out.
 
Sandor didn’t want to chance his own lowered inhibitions with the girl
tonight.  He also wanted the memory of this evening to remain crisp in his mind
for as long as his days continued.
 
He left his wine untouched and continued staring at Sansa, who leaned across
the table in response to his gaze, staring back at him. She narrowed her eyes
at him, but he could see the hint of a smile touching the corners of her mouth.
 
 It took all of Sandor’s will not to blatantly stare at her bosom straining out
of her bodice. The poor girl had outgrown her clothes and he would need to buy
her new dresses soon. He had noticed that her garments had become tight enough
that she looked at times as if it were hard to breathe, but, to be frank, he
had enjoyed the sight so much he had neglected a helpful suggestion of her
needing new garments. But as her husband, he thought, now I would take heed
that no other man enjoyed that sight as I have. I will need to take care of her
needs. 
As much as she’ll accept, he added, remembering her emboldened outburst earlier
and chuckling.
 
 
   ________________________________________________________________________
                                        

“What’s so funny?” Sansa said after Sandor snorted at some thought he didn't
express out loud. She was frustrated with him from his display earlier in her
bedchamber. He had touched her, in the most intimate way she had ever been
touched, he had lit a strange new fire in her- only to exit the room grinning
like a daft fool, while Sansa stood naked as her nameday, smoldering. 

Furthermore, the same silly grin had barely left his face but for a moment
during their evening meal and he was staring at her, bemused, as if she had
said something entertaining. She was cross with him. She had felt embarrassment
and anger about earlier, but that wasn’t enough to dampen her fluttered
thoughts about her wedding the next day.
She looked at her betrothed, hulking across the table, and suddenly felt more
nerves than anything else. He was a massive man. The way he had touched her
before made her realize how little she knew about the practices of husband and
wife. She worried that she wouldn’t know how to please him, although just her
nakedness had seemed to please him enough earlier, and her septa had always
told her that she was a clever girl and a quick study…
 
“Lost in thought, little bird?” Sandor interrupted her worried thoughts.
 
She blushed.
 
Sandor chuckled. “Oh, little bird, what have I done to you?” He asked. “Your
thoughts have taken a naughty turn, haven’t they?” He sat back, smug. His
arrogance annoyed her even further.
“Hard to act a lady with the dampness between your thighs distracting you from
your perfect courtesies?” He sneered, with all the pomp of a high lord.
 
Sansa felt certain that she’d had enough of his teasing this evening. She
stood, with her hands resting on the edge of the table.
 
The fire had begun to die down, and the hall was infiltrated with a deliberate
quiet. Perhaps it was the late hour of the evening, or perhaps that the inn
staff had retired for the night, but Sansa thought it more truthful that they
were giving a wide berth of herself and her frightening soon-to-be husband.
They were utterly alone in the dining hall, save the cheerful sounds of the
dying fire.
 
“I think I’ll sleep now. I’m very tired.” Sansa told him.
 
Her hands reached up and she stretched, arching her back with her arms over her
head. She yawned falsely and curled her small hands into fists. It was
unladylike, but there was no one around except Sandor to see her behave this
way and she expected it to thrill him. She saw that Sandor’s eyes were locked
onto her bosom, and she walked around the table. He swung one long leg over the
bench and swiveled around to face her as she neared. She stood between his
opened legs where he sat on the bench and he put his hands on the backs her
thighs, resting just below her bottom. He gazed up at her as if she were a
goddess.
 
Sansa bent over to give him a view over her full chest. She kissed him sweetly
on the lips, before moving her mouth to his neck, as he had done to her
earlier. She kissed his pulse, of which her doing made quicken under her lips.
She put her hand behind his head and grabbed a fistful of his hair, pulling it
back. I can learn, she thought, remembering as he had done this to her. A quick
study, septa said. Sansa looked in his eyes, hard and grey, and flashing with
anger and something unrecognizable as she held his head back. She smiled down
at him.
 
“Yes, Sandor, what have you done to me?” She asked him. He didn’t answer but
for a growl of a reply, and to put his hands on her legs and give a hard pull.
Her legs buckled and she fell onto his lap, squealing. Sandor put his hands
around her tiny waist as she straddled him. Sansa noticed that his hands nearly
circled her middle section completely.  She put her hand on the side of his
neck, just under the ruin of his burned ear. She could feel his hardness
underneath her. She squirmed in his lap, and he groaned softly as his eyes
shut. Perfect.
 
“Goodnight.” She kissed him lightly on his cheek and dismounted quickly. She
walked away from the table, stealing a glance at Sandor as he sat there. He
looked infuriated and glowered, his hands covering the bulge in his pants.
Sansa smiled to herself and rushed to the stairs with her skirts in hand as she
ran them up two at a time.
 
She breathlessly entered her room and neglected to bar the door behind her,
because she felt as though she didn’t need to. She felt utterly safe. She was
exhilarated with her display in the dining hall, and not at all tired. She
understood now, what Cersei had said to her that night long ago about a woman’s
weapons, but she somehow felt she wielded hers differently than Cersei had.
Sansa disrobed and slid into her bed, still musing. A weapon can be wielded in
malice or justice, she reasoned. Cruelty or retributively.
 
Tears had been the first one, Sansa remembered, thinking on that conversation
with the Queen. Although Sansa had shed plenty of tears over the devastation
she had encountered and loss of loved ones, she had never felt as if she was
brandishing a weapon during those evenings spent weeping, remembering her
brothers, her mother, or her father’s head thudding, bloodied, to the stone
sept floor. Your sister, she reminded herself.
 
Her sister.
 
Suddenly Sansa released her hold on the ephemeral happiness she’d constructed
anew with Sandor and began to feel overwhelmingly guilty. Arya had been lost to
them forever, and probably ended up in a pot shop in King’s Landing. How dare
Sansa forget the unjust deaths of her kin? She had tried to avoid learning,
when she asked Tyrion not to tell her how her mother and Robb perished. Sansa
Stark had been protected from knowing. But Alayne Stone had heard the horrified
kitchen whispers at the Vale regarding the Red Wedding and how Lady Catelyn had
clawed her face to ribbons as she saw Robb murdered in front of her. The cooks
had discussed in hushed, shocked tones the nature of Robb’s death and the
desecration of his remains with his poor direwolf’s severed head. Sansa inhaled
sharply, a quick gasp, but felt the traitorous tears start to fall from the
corners of her eyes anyway. A useless weapon, she thought contemptuously.
 
She stared at the rafters, tinged blue in the silky moonlight. The North
remembers, she thought. And winter is coming, her father’s voice added.
 
Sleep ignored her, and instead her heart beat tediously as her mind cruelly
dragged her to the things she never said to the ones she loved. She settled
uncomfortably beneath the tightness in her chest.
Chapter End Notes
     (/∇＼*)｡o○♡
***** Chapter 9 *****
Sandor woke before the dawn did.
He had always theorized that he could smell the dawn coming and had trained his
mind to wake and ready himself under the cover of the last of the night’s
darkness. Maybe it was something he had learned during his prime fighting
years. Maybe you preferred the cloak of predawn dark to hide your beastly face,
he mulled, while lacing his boots and thinking of dark mornings when he’d
frightened bleary-eyed early-rising onlookers at every camp’s edge. Give them a
frightening jolt awake, he thought and smiled, remembering their faces
betraying disgust, revulsion and aye, terror at his burns. He’d relished
slaughtering them.
 
Ever since his extended time in Sansa’s company, his scars had ceased being his
chain leash to malice or his barbarous fetter to cruelty. He hadn’t noticed
when he’d stopped acting so hateful towards everyone.  
Going soft, he scoffed, and stood upright to grope for his shirt in the
darkness. He slung his pack over his shoulder and went into the hallway,
towards Sansa’s room. He tested the door and noticed it unbarred. Silly girl,
he thought, and frowned. What if some blasted base-court inn’s tenant or poxy
craven stablehand decided he’d have her tonight? She should be more careful.
 
He opened the creaking door slowly, and set his pack down carefully inside. The
dawn had crept closer, and the room was beginning to fill with the soft, grey,
clean morning light reflected off the snow outside. He walked softly to her
bed, where Sansa still slept, her hair loosened from her braid and an arm slung
above her head. Her mouth was slightly parted. She hasn’t slept well, he
thought, when noticing the faint but finite dark circles under her eyes. He sat
on the bed next to her and his added weight woke her. She squinted at him, and
blearily rubbed her eyes.
 
“Morning.” He rasped. She closed her eyes and turned, groaning into the pillow.
Sandor put a hand on her shoulder. “Wake up, girl. It’s our wedding day, you
know.” He saw her smile into her pillow but couldn’t quite make out what she
murmured into it, although it sounded something like “more sleep.”
 
“Conversing with your bedding now, little bird?”
 
“Only when the curtains are angry at me.” She jested.
 
She rolled back over and looked up at him from her head still on the pillow.
“It’s too early. Let’s sleep more.” She said, and outstretched her arms, like a
child seeking a hug. Sandor sighed, but consented. He kicked off his boots and
lay down in the bed with her, wrapping his huge arm around her and pulling her
into him. Sansa sighed contentedly and went back to sleep again, snuggling into
his broad chest. Sandor didn’t fall asleep, but he was appeased to hold her
close and wait for the sun to finish its ascent.
            ______________________________________________________

Sansa woke up in a vice grip and with sunlight warm on her face. She squinted
into the light, wondered briefly how late into the morning it was, and tried to
wriggle free from Sandor’s heavy arm that was hot on her torso. He growled and
pulled her closer. Sansa giggled girlishly and tried to squirm free, but it was
an act of futility. He wrapped both strong arms around her, and held her to his
chest. He put his face in the crook of her neck and kissed her softly, his lips
trailing up to her jaw, before releasing her. She abruptly sat up in the bed,
the sunlight streaming in behind her, illuminating dust motes in the air and
her mussed red hair forming a warm halo around her pretty face.
 
Sandor regarded her with a softness she'd never seen before and a tenderness
she longed to explore.
“You always smell sweetly.” He suddenly told her, causing Sansa to blush
unwittingly.
“Thank you.” She answered shyly. There was a lush pause while they stared at
each other.
“Did you dream?” He asked her while folding his arms behind his head. Sansa
admired the movement in the thick ropes of muscles in his arms as he did so,
before returning her gaze to his face, and shook her head no.
 
“I had a bit of a fitful sleep.” She admitted.
 
Sandor’s expression darkened considerably. “If you don’t wish to go through
with this, then we’ll pack our bags and continue,” he said, “and pretend none
of this had ever happened.” He finished, almost meanly.
 
“No, not at all,” She interjected quickly, “It’s quite the opposite.” She
grasped one of his hands. “I’ve begun to feel this deplorable guilt for…for
being happy. For wanting to wed you and thinking of myself ahead of my family.
For forgetting Winterfell.” She finished in a whisper, as if speaking the name
of her home would bring them ill luck. Sandor sat up and held her face, kissing
her mouth lightly. She imagined she could taste his hesitance. He touched his
forehead to hers.
 
“Well, then, our future is clear, isn’t it?” He asked her.
 
“Future?” She asked.
 
“Stupid bird. Stop repeating.” He joked. She swatted him, her pursed lips
hiding a smile. She admired the fiery expression in his eyes and the way his
jaw was set- this she knew, this expression was not new. It was a familiar
ferocity she loved, she thought as she waited for him to continue.
 
“Little bird,” he explained, “Today, we wed. Tonight, we bed," He smiled slyly
and raised his eyebrow. "And tomorrow we begin to gather the heirs to
Winterfell. And following that, we return, and we rebuild.”
 
“Heirs to Winterfell?” Sansa asked, before realizing she had repeated him
again, and quickly amended, “I am the only one.”
 
Sandor paused and seemed to collect his words carefully before he displayed
them to her.
 
“No, girl, you aren’t. Arya might still be alive.” 

Sansa’s face paled and her breath escaped in a rushed exhale.
 
“Arya?” Sansa whispered, uncaring that she was repeating again.
 
“She left me for dead at the banks of the Trident. We had just fought together.
If they’d not been stolen from me, I’d bet my remaining tourney winnings that
your wolf-bitch sister is still alive.”
***** Chapter 10 *****
Chapter Notes
     sorry this took so long..i've been digging my heels in abt posting
     bc, u kno, bb's first lemon etc etc etc. thank you all so much for
     reading and commenting!
     (trigger warning for some mildish dub-con and sort of awkward,
     painful 1st time sex)
See the end of the chapter for more notes
They were both riding atop Stranger beneath the flimsy dusting of light
snowfall. The sounds of hooves clomping in the cold, icy mud were muted under
the louder whirl of wind whipping Sansa’s hair out from under her hood, and her
hands were resting on her thighs as Sandor held the reins around her. They sat
in silence, although Sansa didn’t suspect that they would try and speak above
the snow even so.
 
They were wed.
 
Sansa had dutifully dressed and readied that morning after finding out about
Arya, and they rode to the sept just as planned and used Sandor’s former
Kingsguard cloak that she had kept for their ceremony. They kissed once,
chastely, and the Hound had gently tipped her chin up to him as he bent over to
softly kiss her raised face.
And then it was done.
 
This time yesterday, Sansa would have been aglow with the excitement of this
morning’s events. But now…
 
She had cried when Sandor told her the news of Arya, partially of happiness and
partially from something akin to betrayal.
 
“When were you going to tell me this?” she’d asked of him, dismayed.
 
“I’m telling you now, girl.” He’d growled. She’d felt like hitting him, then.
 
How could he have known and not told me? She was painfully aware that the
absence of a truth was not much the same as an outright lie, but somehow the
betrayal and Sandor’s sin of omission cut her deeper than she would have
anticipated. She felt like she was looking at an unfamiliar man again. What
else could he have been hiding from her?
 
Sansa wished her husband’s minor betrayal had been the only unpleasant thought
that was plaguing her and keeping her lips tightly set.
 
Once Sandor had introduced the possibility of winning Winterfell back, she’d
begun to regret asking Sandor to wed her. She had thought of wedding him,
herself as Alayne, the bastard girl. Moreso as a girl who’d lost everything,
and had only to gain. Alayne had no family, lands, birthright, or nobility…but
that wasn’t the girl whom Sandor wed. He married Sansa Stark, highborn, of
Winterfell. That was who he wanted, and she’d known it for true once he
suggested winning Winterfell back.
 
And that girl should have married Willas Tyrell, she bleakly thought, or some
other man with footsoldiers and lands. I now have but one man to win back
Winterfell. 
 
She looked down at his large hands holding the reins in front of her. Such
strong hands, yes, and this man was no doubt one of the finest warriors in the
lands, if not the most feared- but he was of lower birth and wielded far too
little power in the Seven Kingdoms. The reality of this had sunk in.
 
Stupid girl, she chided herself silently.
 
If he sensed her dark thoughts he didn’t expose her, and chose instead to
ignore her silence after their wedding. Sansa hoped that he attributed it to
nerves regarding their bedding. Tonight, Sansa thought, grimacing. She loved
him, and this she knew, but sometimes love isn’t enough to make a winning move
in the game of thrones. Sansa felt as though she had already lost.
 
Sansa stared ahead at the path misted with snow, and considered where it was
leading.
                      ___________________________________
Over breakfast, Sandor had told her they’d set sail for Braavos. They had
enough coin to ride them both there, where they'd begin to search for Arya.
Sandor had said that after Arya left him for dead, he had tracked her for some
time after in order to recapture her as a hostage, but the path ended at the
shipyards. After convincing some deckhands to give him some information, with a
sword, Sandor thought silently but didn't tell Sansa, he’d discovered that a
scrawny boy with a tiny sword had sailed to Braavos using naught but an iron
coin and magic words.

That part neither of them understood, but they both agreed it must be Arya and
that they were to set sail. They would reach the shipyards during the early
evening of the next day. Tonight they were to make camp, as soon enough all
their remaining coin would go towards the ship fare. Some honeymoon, he
bitterly thought. Proving unfit already.

Sandor felt the girl stir in front of him and noticed she had crossed her arms.
He didn’t want to acknowledge her pouting and give her the satisfaction of
asking her what was wrong, although he felt he’d erred somehow. He spurred
Stranger onward.
 
His little bird had been quiet all morning, even after their wedding. Not just
quiet, but...compliant, which is a quality that worried him more. Once he’d
explained to her about Arya’s potential whereabouts, is as if a fire went out
and the girl had visibly paled, losing the color in her cheeks. It hadn’t
returned.
 
He’d tried to kiss the look off her face, grabbing a fistful of her hair to
rouse her and bring her back to him in the sunny inn room, but she returned his
affection dispassionately and removed herself from his grip to dress. She’d
made him leave her bedchamber while she did so, which may have stung him more
than her previous display of lusterless lust.
 
Worse still, the walk to the sept had felt more funereal than matrimonial. Even
as she was standing there, pale and quiet with her lovely red hair gathered
loosely off her neck and pinned atop her head messily, she was still the most
beautiful creature he’d ever seen. He’d kissed her gently, hoping to remind her
of the love she'd expressed to him.
 
She was still silent once they’d begun their ride, as Sandor explained his
intent to journey as far as they could in order to make it to the shipyards the
next day. She’d nodded and swung herself onto Stranger using no assistance from
him. She’s getting better, Sandor had thought as he mounted behind her. Sandor
silently prayed to find some sort of shelter this evening. He wished that he
could give the little bird another night in an inn for their wedding night, a
featherbed and a bath at the very least, hells, even a barn would have shielded
them from the cold a might better than a campsite that night, but the coin was
needed to make it to Braavos. And they had a mission.

Sandor had vowed to return the frosty lands of Winterfell to his little bird.
 
Your wife, he reminded himself. He moved the reins to one hand, and laid his
other hand on his wife’s small thigh. After a beat, she laid hers on
top. Always remembering her courtesies, he thought cheerlessly and dug his heel
into Stranger, who broke into a canter.
 
The faster we stop, Sandor dismally thought, the faster the little bird will be
able to get away from the sorry likes of me. 

Something about her stony silence while she rode nearly atop his lap made
things much more difficult than suffering her deliberate quiet from afar.
                       ___________________________________

Sansa hadn’t any say in where they stopped, not that she would have raised her
objection anyway. Sandor had ridden them to an abandoned farm he'd found by
chance, and they'd both wearily trudged closer, plainly relieved at the bleak
skeleton of an unfortunate family’s former home blackened by a long-dead fire.

Outlaws, she bitterly thought, kicking a charred ceiling rafter out of the way
of the entrance to the homestead. Savages.
The foreboding atmosphere was acceptable, Sansa thought, as long as she could
get out of the cold. They’d avoided the master bedroom and chose instead to
make camp in the parlor, which was the room with the most intact roof and a
functioning hearth.
 
Sansa watched the Hound lay out their bedrolls, one pushed next to the other,
and then lay down the blankets and bear furs they had been using. He motioned
for her to sit, and she consented. My marriage bed, she realized, and watched
him build a fire. He winced when the flint lit and Sansa’s heart ached briefly
for his phantom pain.
 
Somehow he had acquired hard, crusty rosemary bread and soft, salty cheeses
that were hardened in the cold. He set them near the fire to warm them. Next he
pulled out crisp, shiny red apples and deep purple currants. He brought out
salted beef strips last, and he put them on the bread, toasting it with the
cheese on top.
 
He put together the entire spread in a deliberate, eerie silence that would
have been rendered unduly more disquieting if not for the cheerful sounds of
the fire crackling. He brought the foods over to where Sansa was seated on
their blankets, and finally sat down with an uncorked bottle of the red wine
that they had kept with them. Only one, though, since the rest of the Dornish
sour they were saving to trade when they reached Braavos.
 
They ate unspeaking.

Sansa thought that this food was the best she had eaten in a considerably long
time. Better than the soup she’d eaten last night at the inn. Last night, had
it truly been so soon? She thought. The night before, even this very morning,
had been full of kisses and laughter and the promise of heated touches. But now
she looked at her husband and couldn’t find anything to say. She cleared her
throat and tried anyway.
 
“This is the best food I’ve tasted in so long.” She told him, as he’d taken a
large bite of an apple. He chewed and swallowed before answering her.
 
“I bought it from the inn for our wedding night.” He answered sardonically.
 
“Thank you.” She spoke politely.
 
Sandor grunted and tore off another hunk of his apple. He was leaning on his
hip, one his head propped in one hand and his legs stretched out before him,
with his toes nearly reaching the fire. Sansa watched the firelight glint off
his burn scars and delicately picked at the currants before her.
 
This will be the last of the season that was temperate enough to grow
these, she thought darkly as she ate them. She wouldn’t see them for another
eight years or so. Sansa glumly stared down at the offending fruit and started
to list the other things she’d miss during Winter. These currants must have
cost Sandor a great deal. She peered at him from under her lashes discretely,
but he was staring into the fire. Why am I punishing him? She asked
herself. For holding Arya hostage? For not telling me? For not being good
enough to win back Winterfell? For having secrets?
 
You have secrets, too, an unpleasant voice reminded her.
 
“I’m going to miss currants.” Sansa blurted out, before feeling her face
redden.
 
Sandor glanced at her. “What’s that?”
 
“I was just thinking…” Sansa looked at the currents she’d nearly finished. “I
was thinking about all the things I’ll miss during winter. Currants. Grapes.
Oranges! I’d never had a fresh orange before I set foot in King’s Landing.” She
told him.
 
“Did you ever have a blood orange?” He asked.
 
Sansa’s eyes widened, as she pictured some sort of barbaric dish prepared with
human blood and sorcery. “No.” she said icily.
 
“It’s a specific type of orange that the Dornish brought with them from the
south.” Sandor clarified. “It looks of a normal orange from the outside, but
once you cut into it, it bleeds like a stuck pig, rich and red. Tastes
sweeter.”
 
“That sounds unpleasant.” Sansa said dubiously.
 
“Most of the court agreed with you, little bird, and refused to eat it.” He
said. “More for me.” He smirked.
 
“Tomatoes!” Sansa suddenly exclaimed, which garnered a laugh from Sandor.
 
“Apricots.” He told her, smiling.
 
“Blackberries.” Sansa stated, thinking of the thorny wild thickets near the
godswood in Winterfell. Would those still be there?
 
“Mangoes.” He told her.
 
“What?” Sansa asked.
 
“Another Dornish fruit which can only grow in hot climates. The flesh is slick
and impossibly sweet on the inside.” He explained.
 
Sansa blushed.
 
She looked up to see if he’d noticed, but Sandor had already rolled onto his
back with the rasping laughter that was shaking him. Sansa frowned.
 
“Seven hells, girl, you’ve a dirtier mind than me.” He told her once his
laughter subsided. He looked at her, smiling slightly. In his eyes she could
see a small reflection of the fire’s cheery flicker.
 
Sansa quickly regretted the direction the conversation was about to take. She
had wanted him for some time, but now that the moment was upon them and he had
a right as her husband to take what he was owed from her, she was more fearful.
Sansa shivered. He saw.
 
“I won’t make you do anything you have want to do, girl.” He said bluntly. “I’m
not a monster.”
 
Sansa felt relieved. “Maybe…we could just sleep tonight?” She squeaked.
 
His grey eyes glinted like a flash of steel and he nodded, a funny smile
tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Fine.”
Sansa sighed in relief.
 
Sandor’s small smile remained as he turned from her and began rummaging in his
pack. When he turned back around, he thrust a clumsily wrapped gift at her.
 
It had been hastily wrapped, Sansa noticed, and it was covered with one of her
scarves. She unwound it carefully and when she saw what it was, her mouth
dropped a little.
“Happy wedding, little wife.” He rasped quietly.
 
It was a silver and ivory comb, fit for royalty, she imagined in wonderment as
she trailed her fingers over it an intricately carved illustration of a howling
direwolf in the ivory. She touched the shining silver of where the comb’s wide
paddle narrowed to the delicately curved handle. Her finger left a slight
smudge, which she polished off with her sleeve. The weight of it felt solid and
heavy, which was somehow deeply comforting. It had been a very long time since
Sansa had owned a nice thing, and this comb, it was a very beautiful thing too.
 
Over the past few weeks, Sansa had done her best to comb her hair with her
fingers while they had been on the road, and kept it braided to avoid snags.
Despite all this, when the maids had combed her hair at the inn, it’d felt like
the most beautiful, bittersweet pain whenever the comb hit a snarl in her hair
and tugged. She held the heavy object in her hand and looked up at him, awed.
 
“Sandor, this is absolutely gorgeous.” She told him. “Thank you.”
 
“I noticed you struggling with your hair and I’d hoped you might keep it
attached to your head and have no motive to hack it off out of frustration as
I’m rather partial to it…” he trailed off, muttering, and looked away from her.
He was bashful.
 
Sansa nearly felt tears well up in her eyes. This man is my husband, she
thought before flinging herself across the blanket at him, over their food
discards. And he is kind to me as no one else as been in so long.
                  ____________________________________________

Well, at least she’s back in my arms, he thought dryly, and pulled her closer.
Even if it was because of a bloody expensive comb.
He sat her upright after a moment's brief enjoyment, and set the comb aside. He
grasped her chin in his hand, and lifted her face to look him in the eye.
 
“Are you done punishing me, little bird?” he demanded. She nodded meekly.
“Good,” he told her. “Let’s get out of these clothes.”
 
Sansa’s eyes widened in shock.
 
“Relax, girl, I meant what I said.” He rasped. “I won’t take what’s not
offered. I mean, your cloak and dress are soaking wet and should dry by the
fire tonight. Let’s leave the wet clothes to dry and we’ll get some sleep.” He
saw her swallow nervously, but she still removed her cloak, and sat on her
knees to begin unlacing her gown. He watched her struggle with pulling it over
herself before he intervened and lifted it easily off her. She thanked him
quietly and then reached for her new comb.
 
“Let me.” Sandor ordered. “Sit.” She crawled on her hands and knees across the
blankets and sat in front of him, legs crossed like a child’s and facing the
fire. She’s so small, he thought for the hundredth time. No wonder she’s
terrified to be taken to bed. 
 
He began by pulling the pins out of her hair, which she had probably been
traveling with and saving for such an occasion that required elegance. Always a
lady, he thought, even when the rest of the world has gone wild. He laid the
pins next to her on the furs carefully. As he set one down, she would reach for
it and hold it in her palm.
He loosened the bun atop her head and urged the hair to fall with his fingers,
gently tugging her hair free. It tumbled loose and held the curl from what
she’d styled it in. He held a hank of hair and reached for the comb, working a
knot out. He unhurriedly began to pull the comb through her long hair. When he
hit a snag, he heard Sansa peep a little dismay, but she never complained. Her
hands were folded in her lap the entire time, holding the pins. After he’d
brushed through her hair half a hundred times, he set the comb down and lifted
his hands to rest on her small shoulders.
 
He admired the line of her delicate neck and where it met her shoulders, and
where his big rough hands sat on them looking absurdly oafish and out of place.
Seeing his massive hands on her diminutive shoulders, he took them away. Sansa,
still seated with her back to him, craned her head behind to look up at him.
She gazed at Sandor, staring back at him for half a heartbeat.
 
“Your turn.” She said quickly, turning around to reach for the comb. Sandor saw
the movement and grasped her wrists.
 
“Little bird,” he murmured low in her ear, leaning over her where she knelt in
front of him. “The comb will serve two purposes, both of which I intend for use
on you.”
 
Sansa tilted her head and looked at him curiously.
 
“For use on your lovely hair,” Sandor smirked, “Or when you’ve been bad and
need a spank across that bewitching backside.”
 
Sansa scowled and sat up on her knees to move away from him. Sandor grabbed her
by the waist and sat her down again. Sansa exhaled angrily, which only made him
smile. She reached up to his hair and used her hand to brush it out of his
face. She ran her fingers through it to the ends. She lifted it off and away
from his burned face.
 
Feeling her little fingers on his scalp was so wonderful that he felt like he
wanted to yell, howl, and rage that he had only felt such a simple kindness at
this late point in his life, already a man. Instead he sat frozen, letting the
girl touch him. She trailed her fingers along his jaw and ghosted across his
lips. He kissed the pads of her fingers and the inside of her wrist. She let
her hand rest on his face, her cool hand atop his burns. She stared at him, the
jubilant fire still crackling enthusiastically and casting such light it turned
her hair a more vibrant and vivid red. She chewed the inside of her lip and
stared at him.
 
Sandor felt he knew that look and responded accordingly. He reached a hand up
to her face, and brought it closer to his. He kissed her fiercely. His little
bird. His wife. He moved his hands to her hips where she knelt before him, and
pulled her to sit between his crossed legs. She put her arms around his neck,
and sighed sweetly when his hand set down atop her thigh and squeezed; and his
other arm tightened around her back, supporting her. He parted her lips with
his tongue, wanting to taste her. His cock was beginning to harden
uncomfortably beneath his breeches, but they had all the time in the world and
he didn’t care one wit about taking his pleasure if the little bird felt
pressured into it.

His hand ran up her thigh and over her backside, clutching. She whimpered into
his mouth and he grabbed her harder, using his other hand to open her legs to
him so that she was straddling him with his considerable hardness pressing
against the crux of her thighs. She gasped and looked at him in wonder. He
lifted her shift over her head so that her naked breasts were directly in front
of him. They were high and pert, tipped with rose, and more than a handful.
Such curves, he thought rapturously. He felt struck dumb. He left one hand on
her waist and softly rubbed her perfect nipple with his thumb to watch it
harden. He saw Sansa’s eyes flutter shut at his touch and felt encouraged by
her response.
 
She leaned into him and kissed him softly, and smiling shyly, licked his bottom
lip. She moved her head down below his face and nipped him under the chin
lightly.
 
“Wolf.” He quietly rumbled to her once again, his eyes warm. He grabbed her
one-armed around the waist and lifted her, setting her down on her back in the
blankets. He loomed over her. Sansa reached for the hem of his tunic, and
pulled it out from his breeches.
 
Sandor knelt for a moment to lift the shirt off over his head. Sansa’s small
hands went to his chest and as he kissed her, he could feel her fingertips
trail down his chest, tracing the scars that covered him and mapping the
topography of his past pains.
 
He kissed her neck and suckled her briefly before moving to her breast and
taking a nipple in his mouth. He caught it between his teeth lightly and
licked. He looked up at Sansa’s face and noted her tightly shut eyes and parted
lips. She was clutching the blankets beneath her and writhed under Sandor.
Wherever his mouth landed, his rough hands followed soon after, and he trailed
heated kisses down her body, over her stomach, down to…
 
Sansa started to clamp her legs together and she lifted her head to look down
at him near her hip. She smiled shyly and pushed her knees together playfully.

“Trust me, little bird.” He muttered hoarsely, and gently pried her legs apart.
He spread them far back, noting how lithe and flexible she was. Her knees
nearly reached her shoulders once he pushed them back. He knelt between her
legs with his breeches still on.
 
Sansa reached hesitantly for the laces of his pants, but he swatted her hands
away.
 
“Not yet.” He told her, before running his hands up the insides of her white
thighs. She trembled slightly as his hands neared her core, which Sandor was
grateful to see was completely slicked over with her want.

Sandor dropped his head between her thighs and next he heard the sweetest sound
of her little moan.
                  ____________________________________________
Sandor’s tongue, she thought wildly, uncomprehending. Sandor’s tongue. She
arched her back and gasped, and tried to draw her legs inward to shut them, but
Sandor held them firmly apart and down.
 
She reached her hand down to where his hand pinioned her thigh down. She
grasped it, clawing at the back of it, and he responded by overturning her hand
and clasping hers. She only held onto three or four of his fingers in her small
grip, but she squeezed them as hard as she might. If he felt pain, he didn’t
let on.
 
She felt his tongue flick lightly against her before delving deeper inside her.
 
“Sandor,” she gasped. He responded by flattening his tongue and using it to rub
against a part of her so sensitive that her toes curled and her legs jerked
involuntarily. He moved one hand to her lower stomach and he held her down as
she writhed. She dimly felt him remove his hand from her grasp and move his
hand to her private parts, stroking her with his fingertips, coaxing wetness
from her as his tongue still indelicately teased her most sensitive spot.
 
He pushed his middle finger into her and she cried out. She felt stretched
around the invasion as he started slowly moving his finger in and out while he
licked her. Her hips bucked, but his other hand on her stomach firmly pinned
her down. She’d never felt anything so sweet or sinful.
 
Sansa felt an internal unfulfilled ache between thighs now. She didn’t
understand her need, her want, or what was happening to her, but it was
alright, it was all so right. She knew she just needed Sandor and he would know
how to make her feel completed. He quickened his pace and Sansa whimpered,
driving her woman's place upwards into his mouth. He removed his finger from
her and while sucking slightly, and licking her, he reached his hands up and
roughly grasped her breasts. One hand returned to her wetness and stroked her,
and it was then that Sansa came undone.
                  ____________________________________________
Sandor felt her jerk beneath his hand and he looked up to see the glorious
expression cross her face just in time. Eyes screwed shut, mouth open in a
silent gasp, hips bucking and her back arching, reaching for his hand. Wanting.
He sat up and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

He moved up her lithe little body, saw her mouth open and panting, and Sandor
leaned down to kiss her, unheeding Sansa tasting herself on his lips. Sweetest
pink I’ve ever tasted, he thought and pushed his tongue into her mouth. She
hummed a small noise in the back of her throat and wrapped a leg around him,
pulling herself into him more so that she was rubbing herself agasinst his
hardness. She reached a hand down to his breeches for the second time, and this
time Sandor let her unlace him. He felt abuzz and nearly frenzied by her. She
freed his manhood from his pants, which he quickly discarded thereafter. Sandor
leaned over her, his huge arms supporting his weight on either side of her, and
his erection hung heavy over Sansa, touching her stomach lightly.
 
He felt her hands tentatively reach for his hardened cock between them. She
gripped him and he inhaled sharply and looked down at her little hand, which
couldn’t quite encircle him. He looked back at her face to find her eyes
widened in shock and staring at his manhood, and he kissed her hungrily,
thrusting slightly into her hand.
 
The fire was naught but glowing embers but neither seemed to notice and a light
sheen of sweat seemed to shine from them both.
 
Sandor knelt between her open thighs and held himself above her by supporting
his weight on a strong forearm beside her head. He took himself in hand and
rubbed against her wet entrance.
 
Sansa looked at him. “Yes,” she breathed.
“Little bird, are you sure?” He quietly murmured.
“Yes,” she repeated. She nodded, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Yes,
please, Sandor.”  
He moved his hips slightly into her, entering her slowly, and he saw her
grimace immediately. She’s too damned tight, he swore, and raised his hand to
lick his fingertips to ease the entrance. He circled the head of his cock,
wetting the tip and rubbing through her slickness, before he pushed in again
slightly. He saw her grit her teeth and her eyes remained closed.
 
“Look at me.” He said, and she did briefly, but when he pushed a little further
inside her, she shut them again, wincing. He paused.
 
“Look at me.” He said more forcefully. She obliged him and stared into his
eyes, her mouth open slightly and sweat beading on her upper lip. She held his
gaze, and when he continued steadily driving his length into her, she cried out
in pain again with their eyes still locked. She was so tight that she felt
restricting, and Sandor could feel her pulsing taut around his cock. He let
them stay there for a moment, her adjusting to his size, and him restraining
himself from losing control and finishing right there, just the head of his
cock inside his wife for the first time.
 
He inhaled a ragged breath and withdrew slowly, and pushed back in slightly,
making only shallow thrusts with just the tip because the girl was still
gritting her teeth. He moved his hands to Sansa’s breasts and tugged on her
nipples, as she had liked that before. He sat up and ran his calloused hands
over her breasts and down her stomach. He rubbed her clit as he resumed his
shallow thrusts. Her expression softened and a gasp came as her moans grew
louder, so he slowly increased his depth until he was fully sheathed.

To the hilt, he thought in wonderment and looked at her beautiful face, which
was gazing back at him, dazed. He closed his hand around one delicate ankle and
pulled her leg up over his shoulder as he began to increase the speed his
thrusts, and she rewarded this act with small gasps. He leaned down to kiss her
and as he did, her legs wrapped around his hips and her hands came to his
shoulders, clawing at him. That will leave a mark, he thought, feeling her
nails drag down his back. Good.
                  ____________________________________________
When he first entered her, Sansa felt as if she wanted to curse him, buck him
off, and swear off their entire matrimony. It hurt. But he’d made her look at
him and entered slowly and stroked her…
 
And now her body rocked with his thrusts, and she gasped. She felt herself
stretched around him, but lifted her hips to meet his thrusts. She felt raw but
she wanted more. She reached up and clutched at his back, feeling her nails dig
into his skin.
 
More, she thought.
 
“Sandor,” she breathed.
 
He thrust into her with a renewed ferocity that she heard him grunt on impact,
and she wondered if she might bruise where his hipbone was banging into hers.
Sansa wrapped her arms around his neck tightly. He thrust into her again and
again, while the pad of his thumb still worked at her sensitive nub, and
suddenly Sansa forgot any pain she had ever felt in her entire lifetime, much
less on this evening with her husband.
 
Sandor sat up and moved one of her legs wider, pressing it down. Kneeling
upright, he began to move in and out of her while she was on her back and her
other leg wrapped around his waist. Sansa admired the wide breadth of his
shoulders before his hand moved down again and she arched her back, forgetting
all semblance of rational thought as he plunged into her again and again with
an increasing speed. He drove into her as he rubbed her and then it was all too
much again; her toes were curling and heat rushed down her body in a tidal wave
and she gasped his name and he heard, eyes shutting tightly with a low swear
and he slammed into her one final time; roaring, before slumping, shuddering
and still on his knees, his arms draped on top of her, hands still on her
breasts; as if to worship at the altar of Sansa; her pleasure his sacrament. He
breathed heavily, but so did she.
 
Sansa let her head fall backwards and lay splayed upon the blankets. She panted
slightly, feeling like her limbs were too heavy to move them. She couldn’t even
bring herself to wiggle a toe in protest. Sandor moved beside her and dropped
heavily, exhausted. He turned Sansa to face him and carefully gathered her into
his arms. Sandor smiled a little at her in the dim glow of the dying fire.
 
“Hello,” Sansa whispered.
 
Sandor snorted and pulled her tighter into his arms, burying his face in her
neck.
“Ah, little bird.” He croaked. “Little bird.”
 
The world had enclosed on them in the night, imploding into one immaculately
crystalline moment. It had been perfect despite when it wasn’t, and she wished
to be captured in suspended amber with him like this before their lives
delivered new complications arising from every dark corner to ensnare their
attentions. She drowsily chided herself for worrying about the future at such a
moment, while embraced in her husband and lover’s arms. She fell asleep
entwined in his arms, the promise of morning still on her softly smiling lips.
Chapter End Notes
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