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Sansa closed the bedchamber door behind her and leaned against it, basking in the momentary solitude. She looked around the room, satisfied that her maids had carried out their orders so efficiently. A bath was ready, steaming hot in front of the blazing fireplace. She walked over to the big copper tub, enchanted by the heady scent of rose-petals rising from the water. It was still too hot for the time being, but that was just as she’d wished. It would be the perfect temperature by the time her husband came in to join her.
She could still hear the revelers carrying on downstairs, boisterously celebrating even as the evening grew late; she herself had remained at the banquet a little longer than she had expected. Her Lord husband had kept giving her secret, hungry glances over the banquet table. When at last she had been sure no one was looking, she had leaned over to him and licked her lips. From his gaze, she had imagined for an instant that Lord Sandor Clegane might stand up right then and there, take her in his arms and carry her upstairs and ravish her; but at that moment, his attention was called away by one of his men-at-arms, clamoring for him to recount another war story. Her husband took another draught from his goblet, his eyes never leaving hers, before he finally turned back to his men.
Sansa felt a strange mixture of pride and frustration. Tonight, she’d had a special reason to crave her husband’s attention; yet he was doing his best as host to his guests. It was the anniversary of Queen Daenerys’s ascension to the Iron Throne, which had come to be known as “Queen Dany’s Day” throughout the land: a time to celebrate peace, and also the coming of Spring. Here in Winterfell, in the newly rebuilt halls of Sansa’s childhood home, removed though it was from the capitol, there was a particular eagerness for any celebration to be had after the harsh Winter. Sandor had complained about the festival during the month of planning that had lead up to it, but Sansa knew her husband to be a gregarious man, in truth; now, surrounded by those who would call him friend, she could see he was enjoying himself.
She did not really mean to drag him away from the festivities, so she retired to their chambers on her own. She judged she wouldn’t be on her own for very long, anyway; those looks he had given her told her of his own impatience for her company. She began to hum a little, smiling to herself. She would use this time to get everything ready.
She undressed quickly, and let her hair down. Briefly, she thought of lying languorously across the bed, completely naked - she felt the heat rising in her, imagining Sandor finding her in that state. Then in the next moment, she had an even better idea, and went to her cedar chest.
There, hidden under her best silks, Sansa kept a diaphanous gown that none but her husband had ever seen her wear. It was gossamer-thin and hugged her figure just so . She had worn it for him for the first time a month or so after their wedding night. Sansa felt a flush of pleasure when she recalled Sandor’s face the first time he’d seen her in it; she could still hear his low voice growl, “Little bird, if you want to save that gown, you’d best remove it before I tear it off you.” The gown had, indeed, been saved, and their lovemaking had been fiercely passionate that night - and the many nights that followed. . .
They had been married now for just a little under a year. In that time, Sandor Clegane had become a noble Lord of Winterfell, fulfilling his duties with a serious solemnity that occasionally surprised his young wife. He was still gruff and sometimes crude in his mannerisms, but he inspired loyalty among his bannermen, and was generally liked by the household staff as an honest and fair master. It had taken Sansa some time to realize that, in all his actions, he was striving to be worthy of her. Sansa found herself more deeply in love with her husband than she had ever dreamed she could be. She longed to show him that love she felt, every night. . . and every morning, and sometimes in the afternoon, and. . . thinking about it still made her blush, but Sansa had every reason to be happy in her marriage. Even more, now. . .
She glanced toward the door of the bedchamber as she slid into the delicate fabric of the gown. How long had it been since she had come upstairs now? Ten minutes? A quarter of an hour? Surely Sandor was making his excuses now to his comrades, and would be only moments away. Sansa threw herself onto the bed, arranging herself as attractively as she could. He would come in, see her there, he would know she had been waiting for him, and take her into his arms, and. . . and! And then afterwards, they would bathe together, and she would cuddle against him and tell him the secret she’d been yearning to tell him for, oh, hours and hours. . .
Sansa entertained these thoughts cheerfully for a time, spread across the bed. Then she got up, went to the bath - yes, the water was still hot, it would be all right - and stoked the fire in the fireplace. It was still burning merrily away. She watched the flames, let them warm her skin until she began to perspire. Then she moved away. There were candles, lit in various places around the room; she snuffed a few out, thinking the dim light might be more romantic. Then she thought again, after all, he does like to see me , and she re-lit the candles.
She could still hear voices raised in raucous laughter from downstairs. She contemplated getting dressed again and encouraging Sandor to hasten upstairs, but no, she told herself, it was better not to be too impatient. Besides, he would probably walk into the room just as she had put her clothes back on, and that would be no fun at all. No, it was much better to wait. It couldn’t be long now. She made her way back to the bed.
Lying down, she turned onto her side, facing the door. She propped herself up on one elbow, and draped her other hand low over her hip. She tossed her hair over her shoulder. Yes, this was a flattering position. The thought of him coming in, and finding her like this - ! She could almost see the look of surprise he would give her - almost feel the intensity of his stare on her - and then his arousal, as he dropped to his knees before the bed. . . Sansa felt herself aquiver again. Oh, let him come soon !
. . .
Some time later, Sansa awoke, not realizing she’d dozed off. She’d heard the door open, and there was Sandor, finally shuffling into the room. She blinked at him drowsily. How much time had passed? It must have been at least an hour, since the candles were burning low and she was sure she’d been dreaming.
It had been another dream where she was running through the woods at night. In these dreams, she could never tell if she was being hunted, or if she was the one doing the hunting, but she always felt a strange exhilaration, either way. She opened her mouth to tell her husband something about the dream, when suddenly his lips were upon hers, and his weight pressing her to the bed.
She felt herself respond to his kiss at first, but then found she was having trouble breathing. He tasted deeply of Dornish red, so heady it made her dizzy. He also smelled terrible , worse than just too much wine. She tried to pull her face away from him, but he was heavy on top of her, forcing her legs apart now with his knees.
“Little bird. . . my pretty Sansa. . .” he was murmuring in husky, gravelly tones. There was an untamed ferocity in him, in his actions, though his words were sweet. He was kissing her all over her face and neck now, as he was trying to undress himself, but his movements were clumsy. She could feel his erection, thick and throbbing against her hip, and she remembered at once how she was dressed, and how she must have looked to him.
“Sandor, wait, I’m not -” but he stopped her protestations with another long kiss, pressing his tongue against hers, the sour flavor of the wine filling her mouth.
Her husband did not drink now nearly as much as when she had first known him. In fact, since their wedding, she couldn’t remember having seen him drunk but once or twice. But now he was, well and truly, drunk . And on this night, of all nights! She would have been annoyed if it hadn’t been so overwhelming .
She tried moving away again, but it was like pushing against a solid wall. He really did smell horrible - how could he be thinking of bedding her, at a time like this? She could feel his big hands fumbling around her waist now, and she was worried he actually intended to tear open her gown. “Mmf - Sandor, m-my -” she managed to get out, before he was kissing her again.
Thankfully, he did not tear the flimsy fabric, just bunched it up as he tried to pull it up over her hips. Eventually, he did get the thing all the way off her, and then threw it onto the floor. Sansa frowned into their kiss. She would have helped him with it, if only he had let her.
He must have noticed the face she was making, but misinterpreted it. “My impatient wife,” he chuckled low in his throat. “I won’t keep you waiting long.” He emphasized this with a lusty thrust, one of his hands moving to hold her firmly by the waist. In his other hand he held his fully erect cock, which he had somehow freed from his trousers moments before.
This was really too much . “Keep me waiting - ? What do you think I’ve been -” But that was all Sansa was able to say before she was gasping in pain. Sandor had plunged himself into her, his own arousal not waiting for hers. She was not nearly wet enough to accommodate his massiveness .
A sharp intake of breath - he seemed to realize his mistake immediately. “I tried to tell you, I wasn’t ready -” but this time, Sansa cut herself off. By the faint candlelight, she could see the play of emotions rolling across Sandor’s face. Puzzlement - regret - shame. Still fully sheathed inside her, his look was full of sorrow so pronounced she wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it, in spite of her pain. She reached up to stroke the scarred side of his face. He leaned into her hand.
He rolled off of her abruptly. Sansa lay there momentarily, feeling cold without his warmth.
“Stupid old dog,” she heard him mutter, the wine slurring his words a little. “Damn me. I. . . I swore I would never hurt you, and you, you comfort me -”
She sat up, moving to where he was sitting on the edge of the bed, and wrapped her arms around him. “Shhh, that’s enough. Do I look hurt to you? You startled me, that’s all. I was asleep when you came in.” He gazed at her, and she could see his eyes were wet. She pressed her forehead to his. “Sandor. My husband.” And she kissed him gently on the lips.
Sandor sighed. “A worthless old dog like me - I don’t deserve -” and now Sansa cut him off with another kiss, more insistent this time.
“None of that, my husband.” She smiled at him. “You make me happy.” Then she wrinkled her nose. “Though - at the moment, you do smell awful .”
Sandor let out a rueful snort. “That cousin of yours can’t hold his wine. He tried to outdrink me, but vomited on me instead.”
“Is that what it is?”
Sandor sighed again. “Now that you mention it - I can see why that wouldn’t be exactly romantic .”
Sansa laughed. “Let’s get you cleaned up - and then , perhaps we can try again.”
She helped him to undress fully, and then led him to the bath. “It will have gone cold,” she warned him, clucking her tongue. “If you had been here at a reasonable time, it would have been nice and hot!”
“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” he said, smiling - almost shyly - at her. Sansa felt her heart flutter unexpectedly. How strange it is, to love so much that you can forgive so completely. And in that moment, she knew she could forgive him anything.
Sansa intended to wash Sandor from outside of the tub, and let him step into it on his own while she picked up a washcloth. To their mutual astonishment, the water was still pleasantly warm. “It must be some of your magic,” he whispered to her, lifting her into the tub after him.
The water felt good , and soothing - almost as soothing as Sandor’s strong arms folding around her from behind as they settled into their habitual bathing position. She could feel him bury his face in her hair, as she ran a hand through the water, down his leg. “Do you remember. . .” she murmured softly to him, knowing that he did, “. . . that night - at the hot springs?”
“Mmmm,” he said, and Sansa could feel the rumbling in his chest radiate throughout her. “A good night, that.”
She could feel his cock stirring against her lower back, and this time she welcomed that fiery feeling it awoke within her. She tilted her face up and leaned back, and he met her with a kiss. This time his hands moved over her slowly, gently caressing her in the way he knew she made her warm to him. At his movement, the water lapped delightfully over her breasts, and she felt her nipples harden at the sensation.
She breathed his name, and it sounded just like a prayer - “Oh, Sandor.”
“Little bird,” he answered her, and lifted her gently up to change positions. She settled on his lap, facing him, the water splashing lightly around them.
There was a weightlessness to being in the water; Sansa felt very free to move against her husband as she liked. She rose up, and then slid back down, the enormous length of him. He held her with his hands on her hips, letting her do as she pleased. She kissed along his jaw, down his neck, enjoying the quiet noises of pleasure coming from Sandor’s throat as she teased him. The lingering fragrance of rose-petals from the bathwater made Sansa feel as though she was floating on air, not in water. Everything about this moment was wrapped in hazy loveliness.
He kissed her, again and again, with a forcefulness that was at once gentle and pleading. He kissed her until she felt drunk, and was murmuring how she was ready now, would he please make love to her, please, Sandor, please .
Suddenly Sandor was lifting her out of the bath, standing in one effortless motion. Sansa clung to him and let out a squeal as the water sloshed around them, but he did not falter, just carried her out of the tub and set her down on the floor. There were several towels warming by the fire, and Sandor wrapped one around her shoulders before carelessly drying himself. Sansa couldn’t help but grin at her husband; she knew what would come next. . . but she still let out a little cry as he lifted her again, carried her to the bed, and set her down with a gentility that had become familiar to her.
There in bed, they held each other and kissed, long and lingering kisses filled with desire. He moved his hands over her breasts, squeezing her taut nipples with his rough fingers in that maddening way that made her writhe against him. He whispered into her ear, “Are you ready for me now, little bird?”
Just that whisper was enough to send tingles running through her. Ready? She was aching . “Yes, Sandor,” she said. And then she moaned aloud as he slid inside her.
This time, there was no resistance; his entrance was velvety-smooth. Sansa twined her legs around his hips, wanting him even closer, urging him on. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he rocked forward, until she felt that satisfying fullness, a balm to that persistent ache.
She clung to him with her arms and legs. He began to move within her faster, and she raised her hips to meet his, until they found that favorite rhythm to which they had become accustomed. Sandor smelled so good , now; clean and hot and hers . Sansa could feel the song rising in her throat as waves of pleasure rippled through her.
“Look at me - Sansa, look at me,” her husband growled. Sansa looked up at him, and as her eyes met his, the dam broke. Ecstasy overtook her in a rush, and his own climax was a deluge, filling her with a tremendous, delicious heat.
Afterwards, they lay in comfortable stillness for long moments, Sandor remaining inside her as their breathing returned to normal.
Just as Sansa was beginning to wonder if he had fallen asleep, he made a satisfied rumbling noise, deep in his throat again.
“My wife,” he said to her.
“My husband,” she replied, holding him. Sansa almost let out a sigh of relief.
He looked at her and smiled, and Sansa once again felt her heart pound anew. Who would ever have imagined her husband could look so - happy ? And that his happiness would be felt so strongly in her chest?
“Sansa, I’ll love you until the end of my days,” he vowed.
“And I, you.” She meant it with all of her heart.
This was that most sacred of moments, that glowing, golden time she had looked forward to all evening, when lovers spoke happy, beautiful nonsense to each other after lovemaking. Sansa loved these times - and tonight, had something very particular to say.
He nuzzled his face against her neck. “Sansa. . . little bird. . . and all mine.” It was so quiet it was almost a purr.
“Sandor Clegane, The Hound , and so gentle ,” she said.
“Aye, you’ve tamed me,” he said, with such a seriousness that she almost laughed again. “And do you like me so gentle?”
“A little ferocity is good,” Sansa confessed. This was the moment. She felt her face growing warm. “But you will have to be gentle with me indeed, at least for a little while.”
“Oh? And why’s that?” he chuckled, idly stroking her hair.
She took a breath. It bubbled out of her. “Because we’re going to have a baby.”
For the second time that evening, Sansa watched the naked emotions at play across her husband’s face. Surprise - wonder - elation. Laughter from both of them, tears of joy.
They had much to say, much to discuss, much to plan. For the moment, though, this night, all they could do was hold each other close, glowing in the warmth and light that radiated from the love emanating between them, that happiness as old as the world.