This is just a bloody dream. I will wake up any moment and find myself in bed, holding my cock and drooling on my pillow.
Sandor was in the baths, soaking himself in a big tub filled to the brim. He was alone, thankfully, as in his current state he couldn’t have put up with anyone staring at him, asking stupid questions or even breathing in his presence. He needed to be by himself.
He sank slowly under the surface, floating weightlessly in the warm water. He stayed submerged as long as he could, until his lungs started to protest and he shot up gasping for breath.
The little bird wants me. Me!
He had returned from the Godswood as if in a dream, sleepwalked to his room, and with an unexpected flash of common sense, to the bathhouse. He had to wash the sweat and grime away, he owed Sansa that much.
He scrubbed himself with a simple brush and tallow-soap, observing his body with disdain as he did so. His hands were big and calloused, his thick forearms latticed with a network of prominent veins and ribbed scars, his every limb big and bulky. As if that was not enough, he was for the most part covered in dark hair, most notably on the chest and groin. The signs of many past hurts didn’t improve his overall appearance, he was sure. The gnarled indented tissue on his thigh, the burned skin on his shield arm and countless other cuts and wounds, some old, some new… Not to mention his face. At least Sansa had already become accustomed to that, he brooded. The hideousness of the rest of him would be new to her. Suddenly Sandor felt discomfited by the notion of exposing himself to Sansa, who was so delicate, beautiful and flawless.
He wasn’t used to judging himself this way. The only thing that had mattered was how well his body functioned. And it did all he asked of it, was strong and fit and capable. He could lift heavier loads than any man in the keep, could outrun and outfight all the men-at-arms, could face ten opponents in a row in the practice yard without his stamina or skills diminishing. He lifted his arms and stared at the bulging muscles. Gods, will I hurt her?
If they even got that far. Hells, he knew little and less about courting high-born ladies or what a man was supposed to do with them. Behaving as he did with whores or wenches was out of the bloody question, even he understood that much.
The little bird wants…me?
He submerged himself in the water once more, rinsing his long hair and wishing he could wash his old self away and miraculously transform into one of those sodding handsome knights, as that was what Sansa deserved.
Back in his room Sandor fucked himself into his hand, wanting to release the pressure that had been building ever since Sansa had come to him in the Godswood. For once he didn’t have to resort only to his imagination, the press of her body against his still fresh in his mind. He had kissed her and she had kissed him back. Chagrined, he remembered how he had grabbed her tighter than he had intended, allowing his broiling emotions to get the better of him. In the end Sansa had cried out, because he had been a fucking monster and nearly squeezed the life out of her. Sandor cursed and swore never to lose control with her again. Whatever happened this evening, he would hold himself in check. Yet she hadn’t resisted, at least at first. Even now he savoured her lingering sweet taste, felt the ghost of her tongue, first shy and probing, then more daring… Fuck! Sandor grunted, welcome release overtaking him.
Afterwards he wiped himself clean and allowed his thoughts to drift to the planned assignation once more. He hoped like hells that he would have a chance to hold her again. He had dreamed of her for so long, hoped against hope, and just a thought of tasting her for true fired him up again.
In truth, Sandor didn’t expect too much. She was a lady after all, and although she was not a maiden, she might as well be one. They had never discussed in depth what she had endured at the hands of Littlefinger, but he remembered how averse to any kind of closeness she had been at the beginning of their journey. No matter how inadvertent a passing contact had been, she had startled and shifted away in a way she hadn’t done even in King’s Landing, where she had been a maid beyond a doubt. As so many times before, Sandor felt his blood boil. He wanted that pile of shit mockingbird dead, clear and simple. If there hadn’t been tasks more important for him to do for Sansa, he would have already left Winterfell on a mission with one aim, and one aim alone: to kill the bastard.
Sandor entered the Great Hall and only then realised how ravenous he was, not having eaten the whole day. He deliberately sat far away from Sansa, only glancing at her hungrily every so often when he thought he could get away with it. She sat on the dais, eating daintily, cocking her head towards the Dustin whelp beside her. Sandor contemplated him and the other lordlings and knights across the room, pouring silent scorn on them and their notions of gallantry. He gained grim satisfaction from the knowledge that he, not them, had kissed their lady this day; that she had invited him, not any of the other men, to her rooms. He demolished his meal quickly but held his wine. Not tonight. Don’t fuck this up, dog.
By the time Sandor finally tapped on Sansa’s door, he had decided he wouldn’t enter if he could detect even a hint of hesitation on her face. She might already regret the things she had said and done. Should it be so, he would retreat. Just the knowledge that she considered him worthy of her affections was enough for him. For now, at least.
However, the sight of her as she opened her door for him stopped him: his little bird, her luscious hair cascading freely down her shoulders, a shy smile spreading across her face. Her eyes sparkled like clear blue diamonds, and she was looking at him!
For a moment Sandor just stood there, stunned, before she beckoned and he stepped over the threshold.
With Sandor’s arrival Sansa felt her nervousness return. He was looming over her in the doorway and she felt so small, so unprepared. Oh, she knew what could happen physically, but she still had difficulties in reconciling her memories of the repulsive and disagreeable act she had been subjected to, with the dizzying sensations Sandor had awakened in her.
In order to gain some time she offered him wine, turning to the side-table to pour strong red liquid into the goblets. She more sensed than saw Sandor move to stand right behind her. He didn’t say anything, didn’t touch her, but simply his presence made her heart pound in her chest so hard she was sure he could hear it. When she turned around, he was standing so close that she bumped the other goblet against his taut stomach, spilling wine on his tunic.
Sandor reached to take the drink, curling his large hand over hers, covering it completely. For a moment they stood as they were, looking at each other. Then Sansa cleared her throat.
“I am…sorry about last night. The way I behaved was not proper.”
Sandor stared at her as if not believing his ears. Then he cursed.
“Buggering hells! Why are you chirping apologies when I am the bloody beast who nearly bit your head off! You didn’t deserve that.” His voice trailed off and Sansa realised that was as close to an apology as she could get – and more than he probably had ever uttered.
Sansa released her hand and gestured him towards the couch. As they settled down, her discomfort increased. Once again she chastised herself. If Randa was here, she would know what to do, instead of just sitting there. Sandor didn’t seem to want to take the lead, only leaning back and watching her. His face had lost its usual scowl but his eyes were unreadable as he scrutinised her.
Suddenly Sansa realised he was probably as uneasy as she was, and the awareness soothed her. She also had a flash of insight; how unfamiliar the experience must be to him. His previous encounters with women had probably been much…simpler.
Sansa wondered if she should take the initiative. Could the most feared warrior in Westeros, the famed Hound, really be waiting for her move? She recognised with relief how important it was for her not to be rushed or made to feel powerless, as she had been so many times before. A feeling of immense tenderness flooded over her. He is waiting for my signal. He is ready to do that for me.
She extended her arm to Sandor, cupping his good cheek with her hand. He closed his eyes and Sansa rubbed her thumb against his beard, watching in fascination how his features relaxed, detecting how heavily he rested his head on her hand. Then he opened his eyes and looked straight at her, the intensity of his grey eyes taking Sansa’s breath away. Apparently taking her gesture, and what he saw in her eyes, as the sign he needed, Sandor leaned towards her.
The next thing Sansa knew she was yanked towards him. Sandor’s large hands gripped her shoulders and pulled her closer, straight onto his lap. Unlike in the Godswood, he initiated the kiss, searching her mouth with his own. This time it was gentler and Sansa experienced a completely new range of sensations; instead of being devoured, she was being relished, their kiss being one of sharing, tasting, giving and receiving. She drank from his lips but wasn’t sated, wanting more.
Sansa hooked her arms around his neck, wanting to bury herself in his embrace. As Sandor’s grip tightened, their kiss intensified, Sansa’s tongue yielding under the invasion of his. She could feel his manhood stirring, and it roused in her wanton desires she had only secretly conjured up before.
Eventually Sansa ran out of breath and she had to withdraw, dizzy and heaving. She rested her head against his Sandor’s broad chest, too shy to look him in the eye. She could hear his ragged breath and feel how his muscles tensed, and the fast beat of his heart against her cheek. The knowledge that Sandor couldn’t control his any better than she could her own reassured her.
“Little bird,” Sandor whispered hoarsely. His hand moved from her waist almost of its own accord, gliding across her hips and down her thigh. Sansa’s dress had hitched up to her calf, and slowly, ever so slowly, he made his way to the hem, stroking and caressing. He scrunched the fabric for a moment before slipping his hand under it. Sansa held her breath, concentrating on the graze of his fingers travelling back up again, only the thin weave of her stockings separating his calloused fingertips from her bare skin. She felt heat pooling in her belly, and without realising, she gripped her arms tighter around Sandor’s neck and sighed.
Sandor’s mouth curled into a twisted smile and his movements became bolder. His strokes became increasingly confident, climbing higher and higher until he reached the top of her stocking and her bare flesh. Sansa jolted at the sensation. A fleeting moment of anxiety washed over her, turning into a thrill when once again she reminded herself that she was being touched so intimately by the man who had occupied her thoughts for so many weeks.
Sansa wriggled on his lap, causing Sandor to curse softly as her bottom rubbed against his groin. Abruptly he freed his hand from under her skirts and stood up, still clutching her in his arms.
“Others take me! Do you know what you are doing to me, girl?” he growled and carried her towards her bedchamber. Sansa’s head swirled and she held on to him for dear life. Am I ready? Will he stop if I am not?
Sandor laid her down on her bed, a huge monstrosity that had belonged to her parents, and before that to Lord Rickard Stark and his wife, and before that to who knew how many generations of lords and ladies of Winterfell. He was surprisingly gentle, but when Sansa lay on her back, half-expecting him to lie next to her, still trying to decide if she was ready for that, he only knelt on the floor next to her.
Sansa shivered and closed her eyes. He is going to touch me again… Relief that Sandor was not rushing things was soon replaced by anticipation of his hands on her skin. Yet nothing happened. She peeked at him from under her eyelashes and saw him watching her intently. His grey eyes were stark with desire, but he seemed to hold himself in check.
Sansa scrutinized him, a bit unsure. Doesn’t he want me after all? Should I say something? Do I want his hands on me? Even while contemplating those thoughts, the fire he had awakened in her consumed her, and she knew she wanted more.
She rose on her elbows and whispered softly, “Sandor…please…” She couldn’t specify what she wanted – all she knew was that she didn’t want him to stop.
“Might be I would like to take now what was offered before,” Sandor said in a hushed voice, bending over her and reclaiming her mouth again. As his lips travelled lower along her jawline towards the crook of her neck, Sansa realised there was something else she wanted to say.
“Sandor,” she breathed, “you know I am no maiden. Yet it feels like the first time for me, for all intents and purposes.” Please don’t hurt me.
Sandor stopped, his lips pressing against her collarbone. He raised his head and seemingly understood her meaning immediately, showing it in the way he looked deep into her eyes and nodded slightly. “Sansa, I have done… things before, I can’t claim otherwise. Yet all this is as new to me as it is to you.” The burned corner of his mouth twitched. “I have no knowledge of maidens but I know you have suffered. If you wish me to stop, just utter the word and I will, you have my oath,” he rumbled in a voice so low she could hardly hear him.
“I trust you – as I have always done,” Sansa whispered, relieved, and pressed his head back against her. Sandor inhaled sharply and continued traveling down her body with his lips; between her breasts to her stomach, then across her hips until he halted on the top of her thigh. She could feel his hot breath through the fabric of dress, and it made her dizzy. Sandor hitched the hem of her dress up to reveal the tops of her stockings, making quick work of their ribbons, his rough thumbs brushing against her thighs. A rush of wetness between her legs made Sansa squirm.
The next thing she felt was Sandor lifting her knees and peeling the stockings away with his long fingers, turning the fabric slowly and carefully around itself until they were pooled down around her ankles. As he removed them, he placed a soft kiss on her bare calves.
Sansa’s chest heaved up and down as she trembled under his gentle assault, feeling so bare and vulnerable and aroused. Many nights of feverish dreams and imagined encounters, getting bolder and bolder as time went by, caught up with her and she felt herself burning. I want him. I want to see him – as in the Godswood, but all of him.
She became aware of how she didn’t want to be only a passive recipient of his desire, no matter how kind and gentle he would be. No, she wanted to touch him, see him, satisfy her curiosity and longing.
Sansa raised herself up so suddenly that Sandor startled, dropping his arms. She turned towards him and reached for his clothes.
“I want to see you, Sandor. Let me undress you,” she whispered.
Sandor stilled and stopped her hand with his own. “Are you sure, little bird?”
“I am sure,” Sansa breathed, tugging at the hem of his tunic again. Sandor stared at her for a moment and ignoring her feeble attempts, lifted his arms and tore his tunic away. He wore nothing underneath and once again she almost choked at the sight of his bare upper body, and the strength and power that emanated from him.
He stood up then, towering over her for a moment before bending down to remove his boots, kicking them to the other side of the room. As he straightened, Sansa could see a prominent bulge in the front of his breeches. She bit her lip, wondering what she should do next. Sandor solved her dilemma by pulling Sansa to her feet.
“My turn, girl,” he growled, reaching for the front of her morning dress. Sansa tried to help him unlace it, their fingers competing with each other, clumsily pulling and tugging the same ribbons. As her dress fell apart, suddenly Sandor grasped her and turned her around so that her back was against him. Sansa gasped as he pressed her hard against him. The contours of his body against hers felt at the same time familiar and strange. His manhood pushed against the small of her back and she was both thrilled and alarmed by it.
Sandor murmured into her ear, “Do you know how many nights I laid next to you in agony? I wanted you so bad…knowing I would never have you.”
Sansa turned her head to look at him over her shoulder, panting, her hair framing her face. “I know – I could feel it. Many mornings I was lying against you and felt it, pretending I didn’t.”
Sandor let out a strangled sound and pressed his lips to her bare shoulders, moving his mouth across her neck and lower back. Sansa groaned and rotated her hips against his hardness. All those times she had been frozen on the spot, not wanting to move away lest it indicated to him that she had noticed, much less being able to push against him… She could do that now and she did, with abandon, enjoying Sandor’s low grumbling as he continued kissing her.
As abruptly as before, he turned her around again and Sansa found herself facing him. At the sight of her nightshift she saw his expression change; he stared at it with wonderment and brushed his fingers against its sheer creases. He only halted for a moment, soon pulling the thin shift above Sansa’s head. All she had on were her smallclothes, the last defence of her decency being conquered by the snapping of delicate lacing in Sandor’s impatient fingers. She was now as naked as on her nameday, and despite the fire in the hearth, she felt her skin rising in goosebumps.
Sansa was conscious of his gaze on her body, but her mind was occupied by her desire to see him as he was seeing her. She reached for the laces of his breeches and Sandor let her, but when she glanced up she saw him stare ahead unflinchingly, grinding his teeth together. Her hands were unsteady and she felt a deep blush on her face, but she was determined. With one final tug she pulled his breeches and smallclothes down, and finally he was fully naked in front of her. His manhood jutted proudly out of the dark hair in his groin, free of its restraint, making Sansa gulp. It is so big!
She wanted to touch it, but couldn’t move. They just stood there, taking each other in, letting their eyes rake across each other’s bodies. Sansa was conscious of Sandor’s eyes flickering over her breasts, her hips, the triangle of auburn hair between her long legs, then returning to her face. She almost felt as if he had fondled her, so intense was the feeling.
She allowed herself a similar examination, past his broad chest with its dark hair trailing towards his erect member, his abdomen with its distinct musculature, his powerful legs and back to his strong shoulders and finally, to his face. Sandor shifted under her scrutiny and Sansa marvelled at how the contours of his body changed. His thighs were thick as tree trunks, flexing and relaxing.
“You are beautiful,” they said almost at the same time. Then smiled. Even Sandor didn’t protest against her words, seemingly accepting that whatever madness had possessed her, she could not be persuaded from it.
Then Sandor lifted her into his arms and carried her towards the bed.