Notes: We've finally reached that M rating kids. Respect it!
When Sansa and her guard rode into the gates of Winterfell, a happy cry went up from the people present. The folk that worked and lived in the keep proper as well as visitors called out their blessings and thanks to the gods, old and new, that she was returned alive and well. She nodded and called out her our own replies, sitting safe and sound in front of her loyal Hound. The whole ride, one of his heavily-muscled arms rested placidly along her waist, hidden by their cloaks, holding her tight to his body. Protected. That was how she rode through the gates of Winterfell, and it allowed her to dissipate the anxiety of explaining to Bran about her careless ride into the wood.
Sandor dismounted and took her by the waist to ease her off the saddle and to the ground. "Ready, Little Bird?" He asked, a smirk in his tone.
"Always." Her reply a murmur for Sandor's ears only, flashing him a quick smile before donning her Lady of Winterfell face.
The courtyard bustled with activity, irregardless of the cold of winter. Winterfell was responsible for many lives, and as such there was much business to be done near constantly. As a consequence of the bustle word spread quickly that the Lady of Winterfell returned safely on the horse of the Commander of the Guard and Master-at-Arms.
Sandor called out commands as they strode towards the entrance of the keep proper, close behind and to the right of his Little Bird. Servants and guards alike watched them pass by, but they all had enough common sense to wait until a corner was turned or a doorway close behind before they whispered about it. Many things could happen to a noble lady left alone in a wood, especially that of the Wolfswood when there were outlaws becoming bolder by the day.
At the closed door to the King in the North's study, two men stood guard. The Hound growled and jutted his chin down the corridor.
"Get out of here. The Lady doesn't want any eavesdroppers." He growled, watching as the guardsmen shared a look then slowly marched in the direction their Commander ordered them to. They stopped within sight of the door, but far enough away as to not be able to hear any spoken words once they were within the study.
"Thank you Sandor." Sansa quietly remarked, absently smoothing her travel-strained dress. She peeked up at him through her eyelashes.
He nodded, glancing down at her, the burned corner of is lips twitching in a facsimile of a smile. One of his large hands came up and gently cupped her bent elbow, thumb brushing the skin of her arm ever so softly. Her eyes darted to the guards down the way, but the great size of her Hound blocked any view of his touch from them. She tipped her face up to him and stared as she brought her left hand over and brushed his fingers with her own. They would have held hands if it were not for her arm in the way.
"He may be the King, but he's still just a wolf cub." He muttered.
Taking a deep cleansing sigh she replied, "And yet, wolf cub's have teeth."
He chuckled, the sound grating to many a persons ears but her own. With a last stroke on his fingers, she raised her hand and knocked brusquely on the heavy door in front of her.
-Game of Thrones-
Sandor could not help but admire his Little Bird as she stood and listened to the rather rambling lecture from her much younger brother. The boy may have taken to Kingship almost as well as a fish to water, yet he had lived in the wild for a few years with nothing but a his half-wild little brother, two direwolves, a wildling, and an idiot. That made an indelible impression on a person, which for Bran, meant that he could not make a speech even if it lay written before him. He kept dropping a thought only to pick up the thread of another and wove a great deal of spoken nonsense, hands waving as if to help prove his point but really looking like confused fluttering birds.
Glancing down, the large direwolf to the side of the desk huffed near silently. Sandor thought even Summer knew that Bran made no more sense than a chicken in a throne room.
"Your Grace," He interrupted, tiring of, what amounted to him, as useless noise, "I think my Lady understands and she won't do it again for a good long while. She's had a hard evening, I'm sure she would like a bath and change of clothes."
Visibly gathering himself, Bran returned to being the King of Winterfell, sitting straighter in his chair and face arranging into a more poised expression. He folded his hands on top of the desk and the very way that he stared made him appear to look down his nose at the both of them.
"I'm sure she won't. However, she is going to have to learn to make better decisions. I'll have to think up some sort of punishment..." He trailed off, looking a little uncertain at the thought of punishing his sister like their parents had done to them. "I'll let you know when I've made up my mind Sansa." With that final sentence he dismissed them, turning to a large book that sat open to one side.
Sandor nodded while Sansa dropped a short curtsey and then they left. Waving at the guards still posted at the far end of the corridor to return to their post. As he followed behind the Lady of Winterfell, he heard the jangle of armor as the Kings guards hurried back into place.
"My brother is growing to be quite the king." Sansa commented as they traversed the passages to her quarters.
He grunted his agreement, letting his watchfulness relax just the slightest bit from its hair-trigger readiness. She was away from direct danger, there were no strange men dragging her through the snow to... And there his brain stopped, unwilling to even think of other men putting their hands on her again. The Hound mentally snarled at himself for his cowardice years ago at Kings Landing. Yet that was old territory that he refused to walk again; those memories were much too well worn for his liking when the real thing lived before his very eyes.
She stepped into her room and without a second thought he stepped in behind her, eyes scanning the room for threats and servants. Neither were present. He looked behind to where Sansa had stopped just inside the door; she was quite used to his habits.
At his nod she waited to see if he would leave, and when he did not, she closed the door behind her and stepped further into the room.
Moving into her space, Sandor put his wide palms on her shoulders and let his head tip forward to rest on top of hers.
"How in hells do you get into trouble so often Little Bird? Even in the winter..." He sighed, recalling a time at the height of Winter where Sansa had been caught out in a fierce blizzard. No one believed she would live, except her Hound, who saddled up and left the safety of the keep to search for her, if only to carry back her frozen corpse. "I will put a dammed bell on you, so that no matter where you go I can find you."
He could hear the smile in her voice as she replied, "No bell is necessary, Commander. You've always been able to find me without one."
Sandor growled deep in his chest, wanting to rant at her for the ridiculousness of the past two days. All for a jaunt in the woods.
Picking his head up, he brusquely removed her furs and under cloak. "Best you take a long hot bath, Little Bird. Winter may be in your veins, but it won't prevent a fever. I'll send for your maids." Dropping the furs on a chair by the hearth, he stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him. Finding a serving wench not far away he sent her off to track down the maids and send them to Sansa's rooms, making sure that she would then send a basin of hot water to his own quarters when she finished that task.
In his own rooms, not far from Her Ladyship's, he kicked the door closed and began to strip off his gear. His saddlebags had been placed on the floor by his small table; strangely enough, there sat a note on the table. Deciding that if it was anything terribly important someone would come find him, he decided to leave the note for later. Furs and cloak were slung across the back of a wooden chair, sword belt hung on a hook. He settled his armor on the stand by his window, plate and chainmail getting settled piece by piece. The dirty surcoat and linen shirt were dumped in a corner, his boots kicked off next to them. Bare waist up and ankle down, he reached his hands over his head and stretched his body from toe to finger, feeling his spine crackle and goosebumps race across his skin in the chilly air.
Just as he decided to set about making a fire, someone knocked.
One of the cleaning maids stepped in, a large jug of something steaming and a basin in her hands, a couple of cloths thrown over her shoulder. She crossed the room to set her burden on the table, deftly maneuvering everything without spilling a drop and managing to avoid covering the folded note. She folded the towels neatly next to the basin and drew a bar of soap out from the depths of her apron.
"A fire too." He grunted at her, picking up the note that sat on the cusp of falling off the table. He heard her mess with the kindling and wood by his hearth, and opened the note.
In a not very practiced hand, someone had written: Done by supper. Will send to room. K. He crumpled the note in his hand and tossed it into the now brightly-burning fire.
"Anything else m'lord?" The maid questioned, eyeing his bare torso. Sandor found it amusing that most of the wenches in Winterfell did not seem to care about the state of his face, only for what his large body could do to theirs. Living in the North was much different than living in the South.
"That's it, off with you."
With a quick curtsey and a last look at his chest, she left, closing the door behind her. He laughed softly to himself and turned to the table, stripping his breeches and small clothes off to wash away the grime.
-Game of Thrones-
Sansa rose from her immersion, water streaming from her face and hair and down to where her breasts bobbed in the water. After rinsing her hair for the second time she felt completely clean of her misadventure from the day before. She lay back in the giant tub and stared out the window across from her spot, only able to see the greying sky and the points of a couple of the towers. Absently, she traced the bruised flesh of her jaw, the swelling having subsided but the colors bursting into a dark plum on the paleness of her skin.
Everything could have gone so much differently, she thought to herself, her free arm draped over the side of the tub as she relaxed. Sandor. Sandor Sandor Sandor Sandor...
She heaved a rather world-weary sigh and stood, stepping delicately out of the slippery tub onto the rug in front of the roaring hearth. She gathered up the towel that lay nearby across the back of a chair, warming as she bathed, and rubbed her body dry. She laid it aside to dress in the clothes that had also been set out to soak in the heat of the fire, and then set to drying the mass of her dark red hair. Once upon a time, she had relished the attention that maids, her septa, and her mother would lavish on her locks, but those days had passed a long time ago. She had learned independence, and the freedom as well as the hard work that it meant. Hard lessons they had been.
Sansa finished plaiting her hair and opened the door, allowing the waiting servants to clear out the tub and bathing detritus. Thanking them quietly, she moved off to the hall for supper. Usually, her Hound would be nearby to escort her; yet he did not appear in sight. She supposed he had duties to attend to, being kept from them while he undertook her rescue. Subtly checking her appearance with hands brushed across clothes and hair, as if brushing off specks of dirt, her shoulders went back a little further as her spine straightened just that much to make her seem more regal and commanding.
That is how the Lady of Winterfell stepped through the side door of the dining hall; tall, proud, untouched by her misadventure of the day before except for her bruise. Various subjects of the keep greeted her as she passed, wishing her well, admiring their Lady and the visual reminder of her courage. One of King Bran's guards courteously pulled out her seat to the left of her brother, wishing her a good eve, before stepping back into place. Her eyes slowly wandered the hall, looking for but not spying her favored companion, as she served herself meat and vegetable. Rickon sat on the other side of Bran, still wild in his own way, talking to Shaggydog as much as he spoke to other people. Bran conversed with her little, caught up in some discussion with their Maester concerning the coming Spring.
An hour passed, with a second rapidly closing. Disappointed that Sandor did not show and take up his customary seat beside her, she wiped her mouth and politely excused herself. Halfway to her rooms a maid joined her to prepare her and her rooms for the evening. Sensing her Lady's contemplative mood, the older women kept silent and went about her duties as Sansa sat in a chair by the fire.
Bed turned down and nightgown laid out, the maid left to empty the chamber pot and promised to return with some mulled wine. It had become habit for Sansa to drink a little wine in the evenings with Sandor and discuss their responsibilities to Winterfell. While duty at times prevented such conversations, that did not negate that she treasured the habit that they had fallen into.
Quietly returning, the maid replaced the chamber pot and set a steaming jug on a table at her Lady's elbow, pulling a cup from her apron. Feeling stung at the sight of only one, Sansa rather briskly dismissed the woman and poured her own cup of wine, neglecting to blow on the liquid and she took a rather hasty gulp. Grimacing at her rashness, she set the cup back down and curled into the large padded chair. Sitting sideways, knees under her chin and arms embracing her legs, she pressed her face into the embroidered back and let her eyes wander over the scarred mantel.
What would I have done? she thought miserably. Without him... without him there is no safety in this world.
Feeling warm and rather melancholic, she dozed in her chair. The sound of her door creaking open woke her, making her jerk up in her seat and turn to face the person that dared not to knock.
-Game of Thrones-
Sandor held the dagger in his hand, weighing it, contemplating whether or not it would be light enough for his Little Bird to wield without sacrificing durability.
"It'll hold up," The blacksmith commented, as if continuing a conversation. "I've made plenty for ladies, light but strong." He nodded in agreement with himself.
Grunting, Sandor flipped it in the air, catching it delicately by the blade. He seemed to think about it for a while longer, then re-sheathed it into its simply decorated scabbard. "Good enough work."
Without any further words he left the warm building, walking right into a light snowfall. Another sure sign of Winter's end.
Stowing the weapon in his belt he made his way for the dining hall. Men and women alike were scattered amongst the benches and tables, enjoying the communal time to relax and trade conversation with each other. He ignored them all for the table set upon a dais at the front of the hall. The king and his younger brother sat, their direwolves close by, the Maester, and various other important folk of the keep; yet the one that he searched for did not occupy her chair.
My duties have kept me from her. It was possible she would already be abed, especially after the hard ride. He ascended the levels and stopped in front of Sansa's door, second-guessing himself for just a moment. Then he shook it aside and opened the door as quietly as possible in case she was already asleep. Of course, that meant the solid wood creaked on its hinges, incredibly loud in the stillness of the corridor and her room. He scowled at the offensive material and stepped through, closing it behind him.
Scanning the room, he spied his Lady's head peeking around a large upholstered chair. She blinked at him, looking somewhat befuddled, strands of her fire-branded hair haloing her face.
Sandor hung his heavy furs next to hers by the door and ran a hand through his dark hair, neatening it and getting rid of what snow was left. Sansa smiled at him and gestured at the chair across from hers, similar in build and decoration. He crossed the room and took the offered seat, eyeing the jug of wine nearby.
"Started without me I see."
For an instant Sansa's face imitated the petulance that she often felt when her sister Arya would get away with one of her many unladylike mannerisms. Then it smoothed into a more adult visage of disapproval.
"You are late."
Sandor smirked, the burnt corner of his mouth twitching violently, and reached one of his long arms out to fill the empty cup and drink out of it. He turned it up, quickly emptying it. "I have something that will make you forgive me." He replied, setting the vessel back down.
Straightening in her chair, Sansa resumed a more ladylike position with her feet on the floor and dress smoothed over her legs. Her pale hands gripped her knees through the material and she leaned forward in excitement. The Hound felt his chest warm at this show of emotion; so rarely did his Little Bird feel free enough to express such a simple thing. He guarded every moment like this one jealously.
"Show me!" She demanded, eyes wide and lips parted in suspense. "Oh Sandor, you can't tell me something like that and then sit there just so!"
He laughed; he sat the way he always did, no different from any other time in his life. "Careful Little Bird. You'll fall right out of your seat."
In a smooth motion that no one would guess such a large man could achieve, he slid out of his chair into a kneeling position in front of the Lady of Winterfell. More surprise darted across her face, and she watched him carefully. One knee to the ground, the other leg bent to keep him steady, he reached behind him and grasped the handle and sheath of his present. He paused, thought for a moment, then said, "Close your eyes." Sansa pouted, opened her mouth to protest, then snapped it back shut and closed her eyes with a huff.
Little Bird, Little Bird, how spoiled you are with me.
Slowly, quietly, he pulled the gift from his belt and held it in front of her in the palms of his hands.
"Open," The Hound whispered, anxious for her reaction.
Three seconds passed, then seven, and Sansa's eyes fluttered open, the delicate lashes brushing her cheek before raising to greet her brows. She gazed into his slate grey eyes, stretching the suspenseful moment, and then looked down to his open hands. Her bright blue eyes widened, taking in the gift presented for her acceptance or rejection; one of her hands raised up from their position on her knees. Their fingertips touched, Sandor nearly vibrated with the contact, and she slid her hand along his until it touched the handle of the dagger and wrapped around it. She tugged, and he held the sheathe still as the blade came free. Her eyes traced the naked steel, each side honed to a keen edge, and lingered on the hilt and crossguard. Black leather wrapped around the handle, the butt shaped into a snarling direwolf with chips of sapphire for its eyes. The crossguard had simple knot designs, echoes of surviving works of the First Men. Her empty hand reached out and traced the design on the black sheath; a thrush, mouth open, poised to sing, done in silver.
Sandor watched her explore his gift with eyes and hand, taking in every single detail. Then, with great care, she returned the blade to the sheathe still in his hand. His eyes went to her face, which had remained fairly neutral as she investigated his present. Would she be pleased? Upset? Indifferent?
Sansa plucked it from his hands, setting it next to her on the chair. For a second his worry greatly rose, the anxiety boiling in his guts. Then his beautiful, kind, Lady dove off her seat and into his still outstretched arms. The full weight of her slammed into his torso, though he barely moved because of it. Her arms wrapped tightly around his neck, straddling his thigh. Startled, he arranged them so that he sat on the floor with his Little Bird cradled sitting sideways on his lap. Her head lay on his large shoulder, his hair brushing over her cheeks. Sandor held her close, one large hand gently pressing into her back between her shoulder blades, his other arm resting across her lap and steadying her position. He felt a warmth in his chest expand through his veins like wine, only more intoxicating.
"The world is not a fair place. I won't always be close. This will keep you safe when I'm not there to."
-Game of Thrones-
Sansa tightened her arms around her Hound's neck, tucking her face under his chin as best she could and pressing her slim body closer to his much larger one. He gave me a present. A present for the times when he won't be near. I don't want that to ever happen though. Yet she had learned this hard lesson many times before; there would not always be someone to keep her safe. Sansa needed to look out for Sansa.
Still, it did not prevent her from wanting Sandor to always be there for her, through the hard times as well as the easy.
She sat up on his lap, legs coming around to rest on either side of his hips as her bottom sat firmly on his thighs. His arms rested loosely about her body, allowing her to move within them and preventing an unfortunate slip. Her own arms still clung around his neck, helping her remain balanced as well as keeping her close to the comfort of his body.
"You must promise me something Sandor," Sansa demanded, only to flinch immediately after as she realized the weight of her words. "I mean to say, promise me something only if you truly wish it." She peered up through her lashes at his face, embarrassed for the unintentional forcefulness of her words. "Don't ever leave, please. Not again. I couldn't bear it this time, knowing what I would lose."
She felt more than heard his deep sigh, and dared to look him full in the face. Despite the sudden heaviness of the conversation, he appeared more relaxed than he ever did among other people. The constant tension in his face and shoulders were lax, easing the unconscious tics that would frequent the heavily scarred side of his face. Instead, there existed the hint of a smile about the corners of his mouth and his slate grey eyes gently watched her.
"I promise." He whispered, head bowing so that their heads touched. "Not the Others, or dragons, or death shall part us." His breath blew gently across her face, somewhat warmer than the air around them. She closed her eyes and let her weight press her even further into him, relaxing wholly in his lap and arms. "Never doubt it Sansa, I will always come for you. Come dragon fire," His chapped lips pressed against her temple, dry and comforting, "Come the wights," Those very same lips rubbed against the downy softness of her cheek, another kiss pressed softly into the skin there. "And should the Stranger himself try to drag me away, I would cut off his hand and feed it to the wolves." Sansa inhaled shakily and closed her eyes, her Hound's mouth pressing on hers barely there in pressure, yet intense in feeling.
Time seemed to stutter to a halt for Sansa; in the arms of her best protector and closest friend since Jeyne Poole a lifetime ago, their mouths pressed together ever so carefully, melting into one another. Her heart beat, time reformed, and she exhaled slowly through her nose, tilting her head up and chastely deepening the kiss.
From there, the moment snapped. Her hands grasped his neck, thumbs rubbing his beard on one side and the slick scarring on the other side. His arms tightened around her, pressing their bodies tightly together, as a groan welled up from deep in his chest and vibrated in their connected mouths. He licked her lips, tasting the old wine on them, and she opened for him, tongues tangling together. Moans spilled from Sansa's mouth as their kisses grew in passion and she touched his bare neck and face, stroking his hair back and digging her fingernails into the nape of his neck. Why haven't I done this sooner? One large hand planted in the small of her back kept her pressed tightly to him while the other followed the line of her leg down to the hem of her dress and smoothed back up, bunching the heavy fabric with it and baring a slim leg as pale as the rest of her. So glad I took my hose off, his hand feels so - so -! He stopped near the top of her thigh and clutched at the back of her knee, thumb rubbing over the ball as fingers teased at the sensitive crease.
And yet, Sansa yearned to be even closer. The thickness of cloth and leather was too much separation, it needed to be gotten rid of. Her hands abandoned his face and neck for the laces of his leather and wool vest, their mouths only parting for rushed gulps of air before reuniting. The hand at her back grasped at the fabric of her dress, wanting to rip it from her body. Instead, he jerked back and pulled the loosened vest from his torso, then pressed forward into his Lady. Her axis tipped, and then her back met the woven rug on the floor of her chambers. A whine pushed it's way out of her throat as the weight of his body forced her down, yet did not crush or compress in such a way that she felt trapped. Instead, she felt secure, safe, and brazenly aroused by everything that Sandor was and did.
His mouth finally travelled away from hers and traced along the fineness of her jawline, gentling as it ghosted over her bruise, and ending behind her ear where he inhaled the fragrance of her recently washed hair. His hands spanned her torso, rubbing over stomach and ribs in an almost massage.
"Little Bird.." He muttered into her hair, breathing heavily. "Don't do this because you feel you have to." Steadying his upper body weight on his elbows, he stroked her arms from where they grasped the front of his woolen shirt. "I will not take anything that isn't freely given."
Sansa licked her lips, tasting the remnants of their kiss, and turned her face into Sandor's. "Everything that I have is yours, everything is freely given." Her lips trembled with emotion, tasting the bittersweet truth of them.
For a moment, his grip on her arms became painful as his whole body seized up in reaction. With a sound close to a sob he let go and his mouth blindly found hers again, his large hands sliding up to her shoulders and then down her sides, to cup under the fullness of her teats. He licked down her chin and neck to where they swelled over the neckline of her clothing and buried his nose in the valley between them. His hands stroked up to the peaks, fondling their firmness, igniting a fire within Sansa as she squirmed and moaned under him. Her legs curled around the back of his thighs, trying to pull him closer and urge him on while she plucked uselessly at the long sleeves of his shirt and dug her fingers into his bulging biceps. He pulled back and watched her; eyes blinking sightlessly as she concentrated on the feelings he elicited in her body, mouth parted for her breathy moans and sighs to escape.
She felt his hands leave her teats, and exhaled heavily at the loss. Then inhaled sharply as she felt him tug blindly at the laces on the back of her dress, hands struggling to undo the knots and loosen it. She sat up on her elbows so he would be able to move more freely, and he kissed her in apparent thanks as he glanced over her shoulder to check his progress. Thankfully, her choice sped up the process and soon enough he had her arms out of the sleeves and slid the fabric all the way down to her waist. Her Hound's breath fell hot across her chest as he nuzzled through her small clothes and continued to shift the heavy weight of her dress down her legs and off her body, managing to move her in such a way that he didn't get tangled in the skirts. While the linen of her small clothes was rather thick, it was sheer enough that the pink of her nipples showed through and it clung to her body, leaving very little to Sandor's imagination. His dark eyes gleamed as they caressed her form, taking in the cream of her skin and burning blue eyes.
Sansa's breath heaved in and out of her lungs, making her chest rise and fall quickly, giving the impression that her breasts were waves on a raging sea. Only the wetness lay between her legs, and certainly not of a comparable amount with one of the great seas, but hopefully enough to drown her Hound in pleasure. She squirmed on the floor, thighs rubbing together to ease the ache at their apex, staring up at him in a mute plea.
-Game of Thrones-
Staring down at his Little Bird, Sandor's whole body pulsed with a need and want that he only ever came close to after battle when his blood was up. Only this... this was so much sweeter than any killing he had ever done. Her taste, her smell, her skin against his - oh, there's so much more skin she could bare before me and I will touch it all, every last bit.
He sat up a bit, loosened the laces of his shirt, and removed the leather bracers at his wrists. One hand grabbed at the grey fabric in between his shoulder blades and pulled it off his body in one swift pull. His skin had paled some in the dark of winter, yet still clung to its southern tan. He moved back over her, the firelight throwing half of his torso in shadow. Even so, it could not conceal that he would never be mistaken for Loras Tyrell, beloved knight of all women in Westeros. His broad shoulders led down to bulging muscle, veins straining at his skin in some areas, dark hair covering his forearms, and ending in calloused hands with blunt fingers. His torso had a much thicker covering of the same black hair, from collarbone to waist, though it did little to hide scars of battles past. Most of them were faded white lines, some thicker than others, while a few were pink or white stars from arrow or spear. Beyond them were the delineations of his musculature, pectorals and abdomen defined from years of fighting and, more recently, hard labor and lack of alcoholic excess.
No, no one could ever mistake the Hound of Winterfell for the Rose of Highgarden. And he liked it that way.
He watched Sansa watch him, her eyes traveling up and down his bared torso. Her hands had fallen to the side as he'd undressed for her, but now they slowly explored his revealed skin. Soft fingertips ran over his ribcage, tracing scars, and running through chest hair. The touch was just too light for him, too teasing, so he pressed one of her hands more firmly to his body and returned to kissing her, trapping their hands between them. At first he tried not to press down into her, to not rub his groin against her thigh, but he couldn't hold back anymore so he did both those things and more. His breeches felt much too tight, irritating him, and he wanted to rip them off so he could press his bare body to Sansa and have her look at him the way she always did, only more so. He wanted the fire in her eyes to swallow him whole, the only inferno he could ever let consume him.
"Little Bird," He gasped helplessly, pressing his lips to her throat and tasting the sweat that collected in the hollow there. Her hands clenched against the hardness of his stomach, sharp fingernails digging in almost to the point of drawing blood.
"Please, please." She whimpered in reply, legs finally wrapping around his waist and pulling him even closer. His manhood jutted against her woman's place and he felt her groan resonate within his own chest. And just like that, the wait became too much for him.
Sandor pushed up on one elbow and took the hem of her small clothes in his other hand, pulling the thin linen up and off her body. The firelight flickered over her lovingly, highlighting the curves and planes of her body and dancing along the roundness of her teats. Yet it left the spot he wanted to bury himself in shadow while the hair on her mound blazed in a dark red glory. He had to bury himself there, absolutely had to no matter what protected it, unless she asked him not to. He could never go against her wishes.
"You want this," He murmured, hands tracing her flesh and teasing with the promise of touching the core of her. "If you didn't, I would not be here." The words were more a reminder to himself, confirming that he was fulfilling both their desires. Sliding down her body, he placed kisses down the valley of her breasts and over the plains of her ribs and stomach. His tongue briefly dipped into Sansa's navel, making the muscles of her abdomen clench in reaction, and Sandor continued lower. Curling his body up, kneeling between her spread legs, he inhaled the scent of her arousal and buried his nose there. Sansa gasped at the sensations, her hands grasping at the corded strength of his shoulders and nails drawing blood as they peeled at his skin. He grinned into her folds, tongue already darting out once again to inexpertly taste her. Lapping at her flesh like his old namesake led to her gifting him with more of her moans and sighs.
Pulling back from her center, he licked his lips and sighed in pleasure; Sandor knew that nothing else in the world would taste as fine after this. Her hands trailed from his shoulders down his chest and she tugged at the knots in his laces. Not expecting that move, his body shuddered from the pleasure of her fingers rubbing against his manhood. The trembling of her digits made for very slow work, yet he enjoyed watching her struggle to reach him. It just reinforced that the desire ran both ways and, for this moment at least, she wanted him as desperately as he wanted her.
At last she peeled the fabric away and pushed his breeches off his hips. She made short work of his smalls (worn more for warmth than anything else) and pushed those down as well to bunch against his breeches. Sansa let out a small sound, part squeak and part whimper, that Sandor didn't know how to interpret. The firelight was unforgiving in highlighting his size and girth; of course he was larger than most men in every respect. Would it scare her? She wasn't as maidenly as all those years ago in Kings Landing, but she was still untouched.
Sandor traced his fingertips down her arms to where her hands rested on the fabric clumped around his thighs and held them.
-Game of Thrones-
Sansa felt herself make a strange noise when Sandor's manhood pulled free and bared itself to her sight. She froze, her fingers grasping at the fabric that she had tangled as she'd pulled it down. She felt his fingers trail down her arms and grasp her hands, but ignored it in favor of studying his display.
She had heard much about men's "swords" and "spears" as some women laughingly called them. Once upon a time, when she had been able to speak freely with others, there was many a conversation that she had listened in on of women comparing the skill and size of their lovers and/or husbands. It had all been very enlightening to Sansa, who had missed out on a mothers education of such things and had only seen with her own eyes her false husbands dwarf manhood.
Sandor's could only be described, in her mind, as resembling the man himself. It curved upwards, veins visible along the protruding member, and darkly colored with a thick bush of hair as black as the ones on his head. Feeling curious, she used her legs' position over his thighs to pull herself to a sitting position and scoot closer to his lap. She heard his breath catch as she loosed one hand from his and explored the newly bared territory. She learned that his... could she call it a cock in the privacy of her own thoughts? cock throbbed to the beat of his heart and wept a semi-clear and sticky fluid from the tip.
Peering up into his face, she was pleased to note how his eyes were half-closed. Feeling bolder and much more confident in their nudity, Sansa wrapped her hand as firmly as she could around his cock and rubbed. He rewarded her with a sub-audible growl and slung his arms around her waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh at her hips.
"Please," Sandor husked, his voice raw with a passion that she swore she would never forget. "Please, Little Bird. Let me have you, let me truly have you." He ducked his head even further and kissed her as sweetly as he knew how.
The fire in her veins and loins burned higher at his words and touch and all she wanted was to make it so. She'd never experienced a physical relationship like this, but heard enough stories to be able to guess at what she should do.
"You can, you can," She whispered back, moving to straddle his lap, her hands rising to his shoulders so she could balance herself. Feeling at once shy and powerful in her nakedness, she tossed her mussed hair back and took pride in the way he devoured her with his eyes and touched her so reverently with his hands. One helped her balance at her waist while the other stroked her breasts and pinched her nipples into an aching hardness. She kissed him, their tongues reaching out to taste each other and she pressed tightly against him.
Aligned somewhat chest-to-chest and belly-to-belly Sansa reached around behind her and gripped his cock, lowering herself and carefully guiding his tip to her soaking core. Slowly, carefully, she lowered herself onto him far enough that he needed no more guiding and her now free hand dug into his bicep as he growled and gasped. His hips made small jerking motions and she was sure that he was attempting to keep from plunging right into her. The stretch as she lowered herself felt strange and uncomfortable. There were moments when she had to pause, thinking that I just can't go any farther! Then her body would adjust, just a little bit more of Sandor would slip into her, and finally, finally, she was seated fully upon him.
She gasped in and out, acclimating herself to the fullness of Sandor inside of her body. His body within hers, her womanly place embracing his manhood so securely, I can never let go of him, never and then she felt him lift her and withdraw slightly before sliding back home.
Involuntarily, Sansa cried out. Sandor shuddered beneath her, sweat forming and sliding down his face and body.
"Gods," She exhaled, sliding back and forth, testing the boundaries of her pleasure and pain. "Again, again!"
More than ready, Sandor got a firmer grip on a thigh and her waist and repeated his shallow thrusts and buried his face in her neck. He licked at the sweat that accumulated there and marked her with sucking kisses as she began to moan and cry out. This only urged him on and he leaned forward and pressed her into the rug, her legs tightening around his waist to hold him close. Lost in the sensations, Sansa's hands roamed his back, buttocks, and thighs; her nails dug into his flesh and urged him on while occasionally leaving red marks or scratches to later remind of their passage.
Sansa felt like she was on the edge of something marvelous, and with every wet smack of their bodies striving together it brought her closer to that marvelous something. She wanted to share it with Sandor, wanted him to feel as she felt, and never let this feeling end.
"Sandor, can you feel it?" She gasped out, hands pulling his hair out of his face as she kissed and licked at his scruffy jaw. Her muscles twitched under his hands as he stroked her body, his own short nails briefly digging her when a particularly sharp sensation would run through him.
"Aye, I can, I'll take you there."
One of his hands wormed between them and explored where they were joined. His thrusts came more slowly and went deeper than the fast, harsh ones that he had graduated to. It was equally as satisfying, though in a whole other way, and Sansa began to move more in sync with him, like in a dance. She felt him trace where they were connected, his thick fingers spreading her moisture and knuckles brushing her thighs and lower belly. They travelled up, back towards her torso, and then brushed something that made stars dance in her arms and jolt throughout her veins.
"Again, more, please Sandor, right there!"
His wet fingers toyed with the smooth nub of flesh that hid above her core and all she could do was moan continuously, crying out for him to never stop, don't ever stop, Sandor!
-Game of Thrones-
He knew she would be close. He'd brought very few women to their peaks, and all of those had never been by his design. Mostly he'd just been incidental.
Now though, now he knew that Sansa was about to break apart because of him and he desperately wanted to get her there. The sweat ran in his eyes and down his back, stinging in the wounds she had opened up on his body and he loved her for that. The only problem was, he knew he was dancing on the edge of oblivion himself, and if he didn't have her die the little death soon, he would be gone and virtually useless. He wouldn't leave her wanting, so he buckled down on his trembling muscles and kept up his slow pace while stroking that small bit of flesh faster.
Leaning over her, he mouthed the tits that he'd always ogled as secretly as possible and growled into her flesh, praying that she'd make it there soon. Her cries were near constant, and the way she bit at his shoulders and called his name he knew she'd either come soon or the whole damn keep would trample into the room!
Just like that Sansa's whole body seized and she let out one last, gasping wail. Her cunt squeezed him so tightly that he could barely move, giving only the shallowest of thrusts and she tensed and relaxed under him, her fingers digging into his chest as she stared unseeing and gasping. As soon as she relaxed enough in his embrace he let go and snapped his hips into her with a vicious force that would have previously been painful against the tautness of her core. It didn't take long, with the pleasure of her aftershocks occasionally tightening against him and the sensual noises that escaped her throat, for him to reach the pinnacle as well.
His arms wrapped around her body and pulled her into his chest as his hips continued to jerk and he pumped his seed into her. He rolled to his side and held her as he let his peak roll through him, stroking her hair back and mouthing along her pale shoulder as he let his muscles spasm and eventually relax into a languidness that he'd never felt to this depth before. He felt Sansa start to stroke his own hair and her legs tightened and continued to cradle his pelvis. Feeling his hip digging into her thigh under him, her turned once again so that he lay on his back and she on his chest. Somehow, she still managed to stay seated on his slowly softening cock, and sat up on her elbows to stare down at him.
There was a looseness about her, the kind that only came after a good fuck. Her eyes shined with the new knowledge of the evening and her skin and hair glowed in the flicker of the fire. She had fresh bruises from his mouth ringing her neck like jewelry, and a happy little smile on her face. Sansa looked nothing short of magnificent to him, a true Queen of Beauty.
"Sandor." She said, licking her swollen lips. "Why have we never done that before?"
He snorted and ran a hand down the smooth lines of her back. "Seven hells, because your brothers would hang me. And that's if their wolves didn't eat me alive first!"
She made a show of looking around at the room that was empty of all but her furniture and them.
"They're nowhere to be found, and it's none of their business. Rickon is the heir, if Bran continues to be... impotent." She lay flat on his body and their faces were now inches apart. He could pick out the swirls of blue in her eyes and the light dusting of freckles across her nose. "Besides, you're family. Remember?" His mind recalled a flowery speech years ago when he'd helped return Rickon and the Wildling woman to Winterfell. "You're a wolf. Even more so now."
A faint grin tugged at his lips and made the scars on his cheek twitch. He noted that, as usual, her eyes were not drawn to stare at his defects.
"Wolves mate for life, girl. You don't want to be saying things like that to this old dog."
He didn't anticipate the slap that she gave to his shoulder, but it only stung slightly. "You're not an old dog!" Her face flushed with the heat of vehemence. "You're a wolf, and you're mine, and I refuse to let anyone say otherwise!"
That warm throb in his chest started up again and the grin spread across his face. "Is that so?"
He watched the embarrassment crawl across her face, then been replaced by determination. Her chin raised and she stared him down. "Yes, it is."
"Fuck me, Little Bird. You'll be the death of me for sure."
She sniffed delicately and burrowed into his chest, her arms under her body. They both shivered as he finally slipped out of her, and he noticed the goosebumps rise across her arms and back. Taking a glance around, he pulled his shirt over her and tucked it in. He turned them to their sides with his back to the room and her body to the fire. He'd have to move her to the bed soon enough, but for just a few more moments he wanted to hold her like this. And while he intended to stay at Winterfell, with her, for the rest of his days, Sandor hoped that just maybe, maybe they'd be able to have this again. The quiet, the fire, and their bodies pressed against each other.
Note: So sorry about the ridiculous amount of time it took for me to put this out! I've been moving cross country, attempting to get into grad school, and a whole other slew of things that refuse to cooperate. Between all of that, my muse had fled, but I think I've managed to entice it back!
Thanks for reading, let me know what y'all think about it. If it wasn't worth the wait, I hope it was at least good.