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Chapter Text

Sansa tugged at the hem of her dress and adjusted her collar. She wasn't ready to knock, not yet. She fretted instead. 

He likes me, she told herself. He wants me here.

Yet she struggled to recall anything they had talked about. When she pictured him in her mind's eye, she saw his scars, his tattoos, his hands. On his guitar, yes, but mostly on her. All over her, the way she wanted them all night. Soft on her breasts, warm and powerful inside her, and on her throat—

Oh, Seven forbid, she couldn't think of that now. Not unless she wanted to turn into a puddle at Sandor's doorstep. Fed up with herself, she knocked. 

Her knuckles had barely grazed oak before a loud howl rang out, followed by an even louder shout, and then the door jerked open. Sandor filled its frame and loomed tall. He looked very handsome tonight, with his dark hair combed and sleek to his shoulders, and his scruff shaved to a soft shadow. He wore a faded black t-shirt with the word Oathkeeper across his chest in a spidery script, tucked into a pair of green military-issue pants that tapered at his boots. 

His boots.

She certainly hadn't forgotten them. 

"You're early, little bird," Sandor greeted. Sansa's eyes shot up, and he gave her a teasing grin. "But I'll let you inside." 

She had only taken one step across the threshold before the door slammed shut behind her, and Sandor shoved her up against it. She squeaked in surprise, but the sound got swallowed up by a kiss. A hungry kiss. Sandor clasped her chin and cupped her backside, forcefully enough that her toes left the ground.  

In truth, his fierce hold kept her from melting to the floor. His tongue tasted the same as last time, of dark ale and herbal smoke, and it made Sansa feel the same, warm at her center and slick between her legs. That didn't take long, she thought, smiling against his mouth. She had remembered him correctly. 

When Sandor had his fill, he set her gently back down. 

"You're a pretty little thing tonight, aren't you?" he said, toying with a loose lock of her hair. "But you didn't save me anything to unwrap." 

Sansa blushed. She had only braided the top half of her curls, leaving the rest to tumble down to her hips, mostly because she wanted to tempt Sandor. His hands were busy on her, one stroking her hair, the other fingering the hem of her dress, which fell scantily to her mid-thigh.

"I like this, too." 

"I made it myself," Sansa replied. 

She loved this dress—her black pinafore—and she especially loved pairing it with her favorite blouse, the white one with a big round collar and billowing sleeves that came in at her wrists with silk ribbons. It was her prettiest outfit. She had chosen it to tempt Sandor, too. Bright desire played out across his face, and she smiled. All her fretting had been a waste of time. 

"Let's go eat," he said, turning down the corridor. "I'm goddamn starving." 

The rich scent of roast meat and spice wafted from the kitchen. It was a cramped space, galley style, with shabby appliances and countertops lining one wall and a small table against the wall opposite. An old kerosene lamp illuminated the modest table setting: a great big ceramic crock, one wine glass, and two chipped plates. Sandor ushered Sansa to her seat with a commanding palm. 

"It's not much," he said, rummaging through the fridge barely three feet away. "Shepherd's pie, with a lot more spice. Can't tolerate that bland shit. I'd rather eat my own boots."

"Well, it smells wonderful," Sansa hummed. 

"Aye, that'd be the garlic." Sandor pivoted back to the table, a brown glass bottle in hand. "This is all I've got. You like dark beer?" 

"Um—" Not really. She smiled anyway. "Sure, I'd love some." 

He fell in across from her and dumped a fizzy slug of black liquid into the wine glass, then nudged it in her direction. Sansa eyed it suspiciously but took a courteous sip. It wasn't horrible—it almost tasted like chocolate. She took another, bigger sip. She'd need it. 

Sandor dished out the pie, a much too big scoop for Sansa, and an ungodly portion for himself. He must really have been starving. He shovelled massive bites into his mouth and stopped only to gulp ale directly from the bottle. His open-mouthed mashing was grisly sight, but Sansa ate her own forkful of pie and understood—it was delicious. Creamy potatoes topped tender beef, and all of it swam in a gravy so complex she couldn't pick the flavors apart. She had never known a boy who liked to cook, never mind a boy who could cook well.

But Sandor isn't a boy, she reminded herself. She had become acquainted with a man. A big man, who knew just how to use his hands. Brashly, Sansa stared at the fork buried in his fist. She wondered just how much pressure it would take before he snapped the metal clean in two. 

"You don't like it," Sandor said, flashing half-chewed beef. 

"No, I—" Sansa glanced to her seemingly untouched plate. "I like it a lot, truly. I'm a slow eater." 

She stopped distracting herself long enough to take a few more bites. All these... thoughts were so unlike her. She had never thought these things of Joffrey, not even of Loras or Harry. But she hadn't been able to come within twenty feet of Sandor before the brazen heat returned to her blood. His welcome kiss didn't help, either. It made Sansa blush just to think about it. 

At least the kissing was easy. What were they supposed to talk of when they weren't swallowing each other's tongues? 

"How—how was your day?" Sansa wished it wasn't the first thing she could think to ask. 

"My day? Nothing special. Work was work, and now I'm here." 

"Work?" 

Sandor let out a bark of a laugh. "Aye, little bird. Work. If you're lucky, you'll never have to do it." When he noticed Sansa's frown, he added, "What? Did you think I spent all day making my shitty music?"     

"It's not—" 

"Oh, I know what it is. I'm a dockhand, girl. I moor boats and haul cargo. It's demanding work, but it keeps a roof over my head and food on the table. Can't complain." 

Sandor dumped another load of pie on his plate to keep himself busy. Sansa focused on the murky ale and stewed in their shared silence. She should be able to make friends with anyone, but she had somehow forgotten Sandor's borderline savage manners. He says anything he likes, no matter how insulting. 

And the beer was downright gross.

Still, Sansa finished her glass and got rid of the bitter taste with a few mouthfuls of potatoes. She couldn't let herself be as rude as him, and she certainly wouldn't waste all the time and money he'd put into her dinner, simply because her septas rapped her knuckles if she ate too hastily. So she mimicked Sandor's eating as much as she could stomach. 

But by the time he unloaded another serving of ale in her glass, she was through with silence. 

"I like your music," she offered up. "You shouldn't be so harsh on yourself. It's good." 

That earned Sandor's attention. He dropped his fork onto his plate with a clatter and leaned back with his arms crossed. "Is that right?" His tongue worked through his teeth, hunting for scraps for beef. "Might be it's good enough, if the little songbird says so. It keeps me out of trouble, at the very least." 

"Have you played for long?"  

"A few years now. I picked up guitar after the war. Met Gerold, as sorry a knight as I am. It works well enough." Sandor sucked down the rest of the beer and slammed it back onto the table. "Though it's not nearly as fun as killing." 

Sansa blanched—killing? 

But Sandor grinned.  

"What, you think I got on the Kingsforce for being merciful?" His eyes shone, wolfish. "No, I was the best of them, little bird. Or the worst, depending whose side you're on. All those bloated lords put me up north so I could cut down weirwoods and wildlings alike. And what fun it was—until it wasn't." 

Sansa didn't have anything to say anymore. He was a savage, plain and simple. She had been bedded by a man who took joy in killing and couldn't even chew properly. What was she thinking? 

Well, she wasn’t. Not about the right things, anyway.

"Oh, don't give me that look, girl. It's your lot that sent me out there to bloody my hands on their behalf. They say the wildlings want to unleash hell on the Seven Kingdoms, but that's a load of horseshit. Your lords want that sweet northern oil, and they're afraid. Afraid free folk are gonna make free folk out of everyone. No more lords, no more titles, no more slaving away for piss wages. Sure, the king may have them beat for now, but it's only a matter of time. People 'round here are catching on. Might be that I start killing again, but on the right side this time." 

Sandor snatched up Sansa's glass and drained it. Ale dripped through the gaps in his cheek and he swiped at it with the back of his palm. Then he turned his cutting eyes back to her. "The little bird is frightened." 

"No, I—" but she couldn't get the rest out. She was confused. First he delighted in killing the free folk, but then he said he would rather be on their side. Sansa would be, too. 

Her father was. 

Until Joffrey's family sent him to die. 

"I agree with you," she said at last. "I don't think we should have fought the free folk. I wish we hadn't. My family—" It always hurt to say it out loud. My family. She didn't have one, not anymore. Sansa caught her trembling lip with a bite. 

Oh, this was the worst. Had she really come all this way just to cry at the dinner table? But when the first tear fell, a rough thumb brushed it away. 

“How many of them are gone?” Sandor asked, newly gentle. 

"All of them,” Sansa whispered to her plate. “Except for me and my sister." 

"The Day of Red Snow?" 

Sansa meekly nodded, and Sandor picked her face up. “I’m sorry to hear that, little bird.” He used a garlicky smelling kerchief to get rid of the rest of her tears. “I know how it feels. I lost my family, too.” 

“You did?” Somehow it didn’t occur to Sansa that Sandor had anyone but Gregor. “H-how?” 

Sandor sighed and dropped his fist to the table, just beside Sansa’s plate. “Elinor drowned. Mom offed herself after that. Dad got done in by wildcat, hunting, maybe. That’s Gregor’s tale, anyway.” 

Sansa traced Sandor’s knuckles, which grew white beneath his inked runes. He opened up for her, and she put her palm in his. “Did you love them?” she asked. 

“I loved them a lot, little bird. My mom and sister the most.” 

“I’m sorry,” Sansa said. “I’m really sorry.” 

“It’s alright. It’s been long enough to forget, mostly.” Sandor squeezed her hand hard, maybe to cheer her up, or maybe to get her to look at him. It did both. He didn’t seem so mean anymore, so eager to spill blood. He looked tired, his skin lined and his good eye shadowed. Worn out from so many years of battle. “But I’ve got something to remember them by. When my brother got himself killed, I earned the family keep.” 

Sandor smiled, and then talking to him became much easier. They got to hold hands and Sansa learned about his keep, tucked away in the mountains to the east. He grew up there with the sister he loved, Elinor. He loved his mother too, because she had a pretty singing voice and never struck him. The years hadn't been kind to his keep, though. No one had lived there for almost two decades, so everything sagged and tilted. He would fix it up, someday. When he had the money. When he didn't have to spend every day lugging around the cargo of much richer men. 

He didn’t pry about Sansa’s family, which was good, because she certainly would have cried again. She hated that day, the worst day of her life. Sandor filled the silence instead. 

Sansa had forgotten a lot of things about him, and one thing in particular. It was the feeling she got when he shared his stories—that they were stowed in books on high shelves and rarely referenced. That something about Sansa’s hand in his could pull them down. 

Or maybe it was the ale that made everything soft and slow. Sandor wasn't as harsh as he was honest. He didn’t hide behind courtesy even when he ought to. Sansa didn’t know anyone else like him. He was all rough edges, yet somehow he wielded his words as precisely as Valyrian steel. When he wanted them to sting, they did. 

And other times, like now, they were warm. Warm as starlight, if you could ever get close enough.

Eventually, the lamp burned low and Sandor pushed up from the table. He narrowed his eyes at Sansa's half-full plate when he went to collect it. 

"You eat like a little bird," he said down to her. 

Sansa cocked a playful brow. "And you eat like a great big hound." 

Sandor bent low and heaved a cloud of black ale breath into her face. "Careful, girl," he growled. "This hound is still hungry." 

Sansa blushed, and Sandor retreated, smirking. He whistled for Stranger, and the bloodhound came loping into the kitchen to demolish all of Sansa's leftovers. When Sandor finished dumping the rest of the dishes into the sink, he beckoned Sansa with a tick of his head. 

"Come, little bird. It's time to smoke." 

They settled on the couch together. Sansa pulled off her boots and curled up on her knees while Sandor rolled a joint. This one was much bigger than the one they shared last time, the brown square of paper full to bursting. Sandor fit everything in, then he lit one end and pulled hard enough to expose a full inch of bright orange ember. After a bit of coughing and flicking off the ash, he passed the joint to Sansa. 

This again. She didn't want to cough, so she took the tiniest breath possible. Only when the smoke had lingered in her mouth for a good few seconds did she try to bring it all the way down into her lungs. She ended up coughing anyway.   

"Why do you even like this stuff?" she choked out. "It feels horrible." 

"There's worse things out there than a little bit of coughing. Believe that." 

He took back the joint and finished it off in three huge puffs. A cloud of smoke dirtied the air, but the rest of his living room was clean enough. The dishes were gone, his books straightened, and all his trash had found its way to the waste basket. He had swept up the weathered wooden floors, too. 

Sansa smiled at the thought of him tidying up in her honor—it meant he cared.  

"If I recall correctly," Sandor said, twisting a blackened stub in the ashtray. "You owe me a song." 

Sansa had wondered when he was going to ask. She hopped up from the couch and went to retrieve her backpack, which she had deposited haphazardly at the door. 

"I recorded it," she explained, one hand buried inside her bag. She pulled out a cassette and presented it to Sandor. "My Minimarq—I didn't know if I should bring it, with the train and all. So I just made a tape." 

"Smart girl." 

Sandor took the cassette over to the stereo while Sansa dropped back down on the sofa. She smoothed her palms over her dress, then wove her fingers together in her lap. "It's not very good," she blurted before she could think twice.  

Sandor turned to give her a skeptical look. 

"I mean—I didn't have much time to practice it. So don't expect much, is all."  

But Sandor only grunted. The tape clicked into place, then the speakers came crackling to life. Sansa grimaced as soon as the first machine-made notes swirled through the air. The song had sounded half decent when she was alone in the practice room. But now, each beep and blip grated her ears like broken glass. 

She pointedly did not look at Sandor when he fell back down next to her, just in time for her voice to spill out from the speakers. That was even worse than the synthesizer, so tinny and breathy Sansa almost wanted to cup her hands over her ears. 

But as soon as the chorus kicked in, Sandor swallowed up her hands with one of his. Then her song didn't sound so terrible. Sansa recalled just how she had felt making it, like a weightless mote of dust floating in a starry sky. Free, happy, unbound from obligation and expectation. Like she was her own person. She felt the same when she stole away to King's Landing and wasted an afternoon at Danny's Record Shop. Or when she holed up with her Minimarq for hours on end. Or when she sat here, next to the Hound.  

Eventually the song fizzled into staticky silence. Neither of them spoke. Sandor swept his thumb along Sansa's knuckles, over and over again, until she was certain he'd rub them raw. The quiet became too much. 

"Was it any good?" 

Sandor exhaled with enough power to knock down a wall. "Sansa…." He squeezed her hands, and she knew she ought to look at him. His eyes sparkled like steel, but with no sharpness. "It was beautiful." 

"R-really? You liked it?" 

"Little bird," he answered, in that teasing way of this. "I loved it. You're better than good. You're extraordinary, something else entirely. Fuck." He ran his free hand through his hair, sweeping it over his scars. "You could get signed with this, you know. If you make more like it, your pretty voice and all that synth work. There's nothing else that comes even close to this good. There's a label downtown—" 

"Sevenstreams? You think I could get signed with Sevenstreams?" 

Sandor smiled. "I'm certain." He cupped Sansa's face and ran his thumb along her cheekbone, but he saw something in her that made his smile fade. "I don't know why you're wasting your time with me. You could have everything. That recording is sharp as shit—whatever studio your little college has will do scores better than what my lot can. You should spend your time up there." 

"You don't want me here?" 

"No, I—" Sandor’s mouth twitched at the corner. "I don't deserve to have you here. Not a girl so talented, and connected, and far too pretty. You can do better. There's much better company for you than an old dog like me."   

"Oh." Sansa pulled in her lower lip. "Is that why it took you a half moon to call?" 

"Or maybe that’s why you left my bed in the middle of the night." 

They locked eyes, each of them daring the other to make the next move. Sandor had chosen to make it sting. A noble girl had no business with a dockhand in Sow's End—Sansa knew this. But titles were no better than shackles, and she was sick of being trapped. 

So she yielded.  

"I like you, Sandor. I like you a lot." 

That did him in. He plucked her by the thigh and towed her onto his lap. "The little bird likes me…." His hands slid up her legs, just beneath the hem of her dress. "Tell me, what is there to like?" 

A blush crept up Sansa's neck—she knew this position from last time. All the accompanying butterflies filled up her belly, and warmth gathered between her legs. He wanted to play with her. 

She would play, too. 

"I like that you're honest," she confessed.     

"Is that so?" 

Sansa nodded. "And I like—I like that you don't mince words. I don't know many people who speak their mind, not truly." 

Sandor replied with a grunt. His hands were busy under her dress, sizing up her thighs, kneading them like soft dough. Each roll of his fingers brought them closer to Sansa's center. She squirmed; he moved further up, until he cupped her buttocks from beneath, his fingers teasing either side of her panty line.

"What else?" he rasped. 

"I think you're funny," Sansa got out, her breath shallow. 

"I'm funny, is it? You seem to do a lot more blushing than giggling when I'm around." 

Sandor dug his fingernails into Sansa's skin to force a whimper from her lips. That made him grin wide enough to show all his teeth. Fangs, Sansa corrected. He's hungry. His eyes had that particular glint to them, the one that said you're mine.

"You're always teasing me," Sansa said in a near whine. "B-but I like it." 

"You like it," he repeated. "You like when I tease you?" 

She nodded. A finger swiped along the lace that barely suspended her wetness. It lingered where her pulse raged most urgently, the promise of a gift. But Sandor would want her words in exchange, so she said, “I like your hands, too. I missed them." 

"Do you want my hands, little bird?" 

"Yes, please.”  

Sandor slid her sodden underwear aside, then trailed his fingertips across Sansa's swollen skin. A growl rumbled up from the back of his throat. "Messy bird. How did you get so wet?"  

But she couldn't answer him. His hands worked their magic on her again, rough fingers hunting for her pulse. He knew the perfect places to touch. He gave her clit a quick brush, then a firmer press that sent a shock up her spine. She had barely recovered when his finger sunk inside her, restless. It wound against her walls then hooked into her favorite spot. 

Then her spine was useless—she thrust out her hands to catch herself on Sandor's rigid chest. 

"Did you dream of this?" he rasped, nipping at her ear. "Do you think of me when you put a hand down those pretty little panties?" 

Sansa whimpered, but Sandor took away his finger as punishment. He glared. 

How does he know? 

Sansa scarcely ever touched herself—her septas had made her so afraid. A disgrace to the Maiden, they called it. Boys never wanted a girl who plucked her flower herself. It was a sin. 

But Sansa had caved. She couldn't resist. Two days ago, when Jeyne was in class, Sansa had gotten so hot, so sticky, that she buried herself in the covers and let her fingers roam. They were useless compared to Sandor's, but they were better than nothing. And she did picture Sandor. She thought of bigger things than her own hand. She thought of Sandor's arms around her, and the way he called her good girl. It didn't take long for her to finish. 

It was the first time she had done it herself. 

"I did," she finally whispered. "Is that—is that bad?" 

"Of course not, little bird." 

He assured her with the swirl of his finger around her clit, then he dropped lower to circle her slick entrance. Sansa slumped onto his chest. When she rested her forehead on Sandor's t-shirt, she noticed something else she liked. The big something. 

It was extra big now, trapped in deep-green cotton confines. 

"I missed him too," Sansa mumbled. 

"What's that?" 

When Sansa didn't answer straight away, Sandor thrust two thick fingers inside of her. She winced and her back arched, forcing her to meet his eye. 

"Say it," he hissed. 

"I missed your cock," Sansa whined. She shifted uncomfortably on Sandor's lap, but only ground herself deeper against his hand. 

Sandor grinned. "Be a good little bird, and take him out to play."  

Sansa's fingers turned to thumbs as she fumbled with his heavy silver belt buckle, then tugged down his zipper. He was bigger than extra big. He was a giant. An angry, red giant. Sansa swallowed. Had she really put the whole thing inside her? And what did it even want? 

It stirred of its own accord, prowling at Sandor's abdomen. When Sansa trailed a finger down a swollen vein, it lunged, and she snapped her hand back.  

"Spit," Sandor rasped. 

Sansa's eyes shot up. Spit? Where? 

Ladies didn't spit. 

But it wasn't a suggestion. Sandor took his hand from inside her and caught her wrist. He held her palm in front of her mouth, his fingers glistening. "Spit," he said again.  

So Sansa filled up her mouth and let her spit dribble into her palm. Sandor put her hand on him, right at the tip, and it glided down.  

"That's a good girl," he groaned. "Just like that." 

The spit wasn't so gross once it was on him, and Sansa remembered how to play. If she squeezed him just tight enough, or swept a finger along his favorite ridge, Sandor would give her his noises in return—rough grunts and heavy breathing, like he'd just run a hunt in the woods. 

"You're so good with your hands," he told her. He looked down on her with low-lidded eyes. "But you know what would be even better?" 

"What?" Sansa asked. 

"If you rode me." 

"R-rode?" 

"What's that look for? You've never ridden a man before?"  

Sansa cheeks went hot. Ridden a man? She'd only had sex twice. And one of those times wasn't any good at all. She sighed. She needed to be honest. He would find out, anyway. 

"Sandor, don't laugh, but—I only slept with Joffrey once. And I didn't—I didn't ride him." 

For some reason, that made Sandor's manhood jump in her grip. He didn't laugh though, he just gave her that strained, hungry look of his. "I'll show you, little bird," he said. "You'll do great at it, I'm certain. We'll take it slow. How does that sound?" 

"Good," Sansa answered. "I'll be good." 

Sandor smiled. "Of course you will." 

He didn't bother taking off Sansa's underwear. He tugged them aside, lifted her buttocks to line her up, and sunk the first few inches of his length inside her. Just enough for Sansa to remember all the brightness in her blood, and the crackle of her nerves where his pulse throbbed against hers. 

Gravity helped them this time. Sansa slid lower onto him, guided by Sandor's hands on her hips, until he hit her very end. He let out a gruff, "Good girl," as the giant inside her beat against her walls and stretched her to fullness. Sansa remembered this part, too. She remembered she could fit him all. When she showed Sandor her smile, he pulled her up to the tip of him, then dropped her right back down. Sansa gasped and clutched at Sandor's swollen biceps. It took her a few long seconds to decide she hadn't been lanced straight through her spine, but as soon as her breath steadied Sandor did it again. 

And again. 

And again. 

He eased her up and down by the hips, slow, but deep. So deep he discovered new corners of her wetness, corners that ached when he hit them, but craved his warmth the second it disappeared. Sansa needed that warmth, so she found her own rhythm. She understood what it meant it to ride. 

Weirdly, it was like being in the saddle. She had ridden horses almost as soon as she could walk. She had spent hours, days, months on horseback. She had even been president of the Equestrian Club at the Sevenschool. 

And this, this was not so different. 

Sansa rolled her hips to win as much of Sandor as she wanted. Up here, she could choose where to put him, whichever spot needed the most attention. She also chose their speed. Sandor liked it fast, of course, but he also liked when Sansa ground all the way down, pushing his entire length inside of her. If she left him there, his pulse would rage inside her, and his face would twist up like he smelled something sour. 

Sansa loved that face. But when Sandor caught her smirking at him, his brow sunk low and his eyes turned mean. "Watch it," he warned. 

But Sansa was in control now. She wound her hips in a slow circle, savoring the feel of his heat against her walls.  

That got in her trouble. 

Sandor sunk his hands into Sansa's buttocks and shot up to standing, with her legs draped over his forearms and dangling past his elbows. She peeped like a little bird as her back collided with a bookshelf, but Sandor paid her no mind. He rammed his length inside her, so ferociously that each thrust jostled books and sent scraps of paper swirling to the floor. He was making a meal of her—his mouth landed on her neck to deliver more of those biting kisses, the kind that hurt, but in a good way. Then he kissed along her jaw to her chin, and finally his lips found hers. He thrust his tongue inside her. It tangled up with hers and swiped along her teeth, scouting every corner of her mouth. He bit at her lower lip and dragged it until she let out a yelp. 

Her noises made him smirk, always. 

"You look so pretty on my cock, don't you?"  

Sansa whimpered in response. He was a brutish giant, but he was sweet. He wanted her to feel good as he pounded inside her, stuffing her belly to fullness and stealing all her dew. And Sansa did feel good—her insides ached. Just like last time, heat pooled at her center and simmered like molten gold.

Sansa's hands fluttered around Sandor as he ground her spine against the shelves. She tried to keep hold of his shoulders, then his neck, but she finally settled on his cheeks. She cupped them gently enough to remind Sandor how small she was. To let him know how easily he could send her to the ceiling. 

Sandor dropped his forehead to hers. His smoky breath spilled onto Sansa's face and became her own. "I missed you, little bird," he rasped into their air. "I think about you every day." 

"I m-missed you too," Sansa sputtered in between thrusts. She stroked his cheekbones with her thumbs, her reassurance. 

It was true. She liked being bedded by him. She liked when he was rough with her, at the table, or now, plunging into her with a cock that by all means shouldn't fit. It only fit because she wanted him there. She let Sandor stretch her to her absolute limit, because she knew he would never hurt her. 

He had given a silent vow. He was her knight. 

Sansa's pulse flared along Sandor's. Her heat teetered on the brink of bursting. She knew this feeling, and she knew what happened next. 

She needed to use her manners. 

"S-Sandor?" 

"What is it?" 

"Can I come, please?" 

A deep growl worked its way up from Sandor's belly, but he spoke softly. "Of course, little bird. You can come." 

Hearing the word crest his lips sent Sansa right over the edge. The whole world disappeared except for heartbeat, the one between her legs, and the one tucked behind her ribs. All her warmth collapsed, and swirled, and danced as it spooled from her center. Without Sandor holding her up, she would have soaked straight through the floorboards. 

He only managed two more strokes before he let out a strained, "Fuck," and pulled out from her. His seed gushed out onto the front of Sansa's underwear, warm and sticky. They stayed close for a few minutes, their foreheads pressed together as they drank in each other's ragged breath. With one knee propping up Sansa's buttocks, Sandor pulled an arm back. He scooped up his mess with a finger, and brought it to her lips. 

"Open up, little bird." 

Sansa gave him a wide-eyed stare, but she did as she was told. She sucked the stickiness from Sandor's finger as best she could, then swallowed. It did not taste good. As soon as Sansa's mouth was empty she stuck out her tongue. "Yuck," she whined. 

Sandor laughed. "Better that hole than the other." 

Sansa pouted some more, but that only made him laugh harder. He was probably right—even girls as inexperienced as Sansa knew what happened when a man planted his seed. She would have to be totally mad to let herself be sowed by Sandor, a man she’d known for less than a moon entire. 

Sansa reached out and grasped the weirwood pendant at his neck. Yes, she assured herself. It would be utter madness. She could scarcely raise a bastard child in her dormitory. But Sandor was handsome, and strong, and his children wouldn't have any scars. 

They hadn't known each other for long, but he was no stranger. 

"I want to learn about the Old Gods," she found herself saying. The ruby eye of the weirwood dug into the meat of her palm, but she only squeezed harder. "Will you teach me?" 

Sandor looked down at her, soft and sweet, like he had at the dinner table. "I'll show you, little bird. I'll take you out the keep someday." 

Sansa smiled. "I'd love that," she told him. But she shelved that thought. She had thought of something else, something much more pressing. 

"Sandor?" 

"Mm." 

"I have to get back. I have my harp practical tomorrow, and I've barely practiced." 

Sandor grunted and dropped Sansa back to the ground. Her knees weren't quite functional, so she grasped at Sandor's forearms as he adjusted himself. Then he helped Sansa smooth out her dress, and he even tucked a few locks of hair back into place. He looked at her for a minute, eyes glassy, his half-burnt lips drawn tight. They twitched, then he turned away. 

"I'll go get my helmet," he said as he disappeared down the corridor. Barely audible, he grumbled, "Though I would rather have you warm my bed." 

Sansa should have guessed he rode a motorcycle, a beaten up Courser from at least a decade prior. Even so, when he led her down the narrow alley beside his building and pulled a dark canvas cover off it, Sansa balked. 

Sandor didn't pay her any mind. He stuck his helmet on her head, a big black thing shaped to look like a snarling dog, and then he put her in a big leather jacket. She liked the jacket, because it smelled exactly like him—of hempweed and clove. The scent distracted her long enough for Sandor to spur his mount into action. 

"Hop on, little bird." 

"Um…" 

Was there even room for her? Sansa approached the growling beast, her chest tight with fear. She had never ridden on a motorcycle before. They were dangerous, or so Father said. But Sansa had practiced her riding tonight, so she gathered her courage with one big inhale, and hoisted herself onto the small patch of seat behind Sandor. 

She coiled her arms around his middle tight as she could and pressed her face into his t-shirt. 

"Ready?" he called behind him. 

She nodded against his back, and they were off. 

Father was wrong. 

Riding on Sandor's motorcycle was fun. They zoomed down the dark highway like a shooting star. Others stars twinkled on the road, but they were the fastest, cutting through the sky simply because they could. 

Sansa's heart thudded against Sandor's as they went, and she thought of rubies again, of sparkling red eyes that knew too much—the eyes of the Gods. The Seven knew too much. They frowned down on Sansa all her life, waiting for her to make a mistake to unleash their wrath. They would be frowning now, wondering why a maiden should surrender herself to a stranger. 

But what of the Old Gods? 

The eye of a weirwood saw everything and more, and Sansa couldn't shake the feeling that they were here now. That the heart tree was her heart, and Sandor's heart, and they were both red-hot rubies, glowing together, beating together, simply because they could. There were no maidens and strangers, just Sansa and Sandor. 

Unlikely companions, but companions nonetheless. 

For the first time, in a very long time, Sansa felt as though the Gods were smiling on her. 

So she smiled, too. And she knit her fingers even tighter together to hold Sandor that much closer, and breathed him in as deep as she could, until her lungs were full of smoke and spice. He was as precious as a ruby. She wanted to keep him. She wanted him close. 

The motorcycle sputtered to stop when they reached Oxcross. When Sandor asked where she needed to go, she told him the train station would be fine. A neutral ground, with fewer curious eyes. When they arrived, Sansa dropped clumsily from the motorcycle. She fixed her dress while Sandor peeled off his jacket and plucked the helmet from her head. He tucked it in the crook of his arm and looked softly down at her. 

"I'll see you again?" Sansa asked, stepping close enough to feel his breath on her skin. 

"I've got a show this weekend, Smithsday. At the Den." 

"And I can come?" 

"I can't stop you," Sandor said. He smirked at her, grey eyes gleaming bright. "But I want you there." He put a kiss on the crown of her head, then revved up his mount. "See you then, little bird." 

And then he was gone. 

Sansa smoothed her hand over the spot where his lips had just been and lingered for a just a minute longer. I want you there. Good. She would be counting down the seconds until she could feel his arms around her again.  

Sansa hurried from the station to campus. It was late, all of the girls gone to bed. The only activity came from the campus watchmen, patrolling the walkways between stretches of manicured lawn and ancient stone buildings. 

Sansa's dorm, Hetherspoon Hall, was as dark and quiet as all of campus, the common room quite abandoned. Sansa slipped down the corridor to her room. Jeyne was fast asleep, so Sansa got dressed for bed in the moonlight, tugging on a nightgown, keeping her sticky underwear, a reminder of her sweet evening. She had only just slid beneath the covers when Jeyne's sleep-tinged voice broke through the silence. 

"How did it go?" 

"Good," Sansa breathed. "Did anyone notice?" 

Jeyne shook her head.

"Well, good night, then," Sansa said, turning towards the wall. She shut her eyes, and had only a brief moment of peace before another whisper crept through the dark.  

"Be careful, Sansa," was all Jeyne said. He'll find out sooner or later, was what she meant. 

Chapter Text

The train was late. 

Sansa scurried from Butcher's Station down the darkness of Hock Street, as fast as she could in her too-tight jeans. They were thick black denim that cinched at her waist and made sitting down quite the endeavor. They were made for working women. 

Uncle Petyr would hate them. 

He would especially hate that Sansa paired them with the light blue cardigan her mother had knit for her a decade ago, snug on her chest and barely long enough to hit her belt, with only a bra underneath. He would like the bra, of course, but Sansa didn't linger on the thought. 

She turned the corner to Sallow Street and bustled inside the Den, cheeks flushed and lungs ablaze. The doorman must have remembered her, because he waved her on with nothing more but a toothy smile. An eclectic-as-ever crowd had already gathered inside and filled the room with a noxious cloud of smoke, but the stage sat empty. Thank goodness. 

Sansa spent the entire train ride in a panic, her belly rotten at the prospect of missing any part of Sandor's show. What would he think of her then? 

"Hey, it's the Hound's girl!" 

A hand grabbed Sansa's shoulder, and she turned to see Wylla, red cheeks made redder by her green curls, her arm slung around the waist of a skinny brunette. "How did it go? I've never seen that grump so smitten in my fucking life." Wylla tipped her head back and laughed, jostling ale out of the tankard she held loose in her fist. "Gods, is he as big as they say? You can be honest with me—swear on my life I won't tell a soul." 

"Um—" There was Sansa's blush, right on cue. Was she the Hound's girl? And of course he was big, anyone could see that. But when Wylla stuck out her hands and started pantomiming measurements, Sansa understood. 

She was talking about him.

Were they allowed to talk about things like this? In public? 

But both Wylla and her pretty friend were smiling so wide that surely it would be rude not to answer. So Sansa used her hands to give her best estimate—eight inches was too short, and a foot, well, could he truly be a foot long? 

She settled for an approximate ten. Wylla clapped a hand to her mouth, and half her ale jumped to the ground. "Seven fucking hells, how are you walking?" 

"I could never," said the brunette. 

Sansa stood there, dumbstruck and hot-faced. People know. They know what he's done to me.

"Oh, don't be so prude—um, remind me of your name?" 

"Sansa." 

"No, your family name." 

Not this again. But she courteously answered, "Stark." 

Wylla laughed at that, like she apparently did to everything. "Another noble girl from the North gone rogue." She put her sticky mug against Sansa's fresh-pressed sweater and leaned in close. "I'm a Manderly." 

Sansa didn't have time to reply—the torches went dark. She needed to be up front to see Sandor play and fast, but she only managed two steps before Wylla caught her hand. 

"Archer is having people over at his place after the show. You should come—I need to know how you ended up on this side of town." 

Sansa smiled and put out a gracious, "I'd be delighted," before surrendering herself to the crowd. She had only just nudged her way to the very front, so close to the stage that its creaky beams sunk into the tops of her thighs, when two cloaked men came out with torches. 

They repeated the same ritual as before. They chanted in the Old Tongue, lit heavy bronze candelabras, and finally, they cast their dark cloaks aside. 

Sansa's jaw fell as if she were seeing Sandor for the first time.

The chainmail, the dark tunic stretched by all his muscles, and his boots, Seven forbid. They were right there. Sansa could touch them if she were half so bold. Instead she stood stock still, wondering how on earth she knew a man so handsome, and so damn tall. 

Not to mention talented.  

He played the guitar beautifully—he truly didn't give himself enough credit. Sansa's hands could work as fast on the piano, but on the lute? Never. His fingers went at unimaginable speed, putting out all those darkly enchanting melodies as if they were nothing. 

Sansa knew how to dance this time. Or thrash, rather. She leapt up and down, she threw her plaits wherever she willed, and she certainly made use of her elbows. It didn't take long for her to disappear into the music. She was a princess again, gowned in emerald velvet, decorated in gold. 

She was in a castle—Winterfell—stumbling through the great white Godswood. An enormous weirwood loomed over the others, its trunk thick as five grown men, a sorrowful face slick with red sap. Sansa fell to her knees before it, landing softly in fresh snow.  

She prayed. 

I've missed you, she told the tree. I want to come home. Please, please, please. 

But nothing lasts, especially not weirwoods. The red eyes became berries, tangled around a deep brown trunk. An oak tree. No, Sansa thought. The Gods aren't here. I need to go North. But when the oak tree disappeared, a statue of a weeping woman took its place. When her stone eyes peeled up, she wore Sansa's face.   

That sent Sansa staggering back to the Den. She came to with sweat trickling from her temples and her chest threatening to burst the buttons on her cardigan with each shuddering breath. The first thing she saw was Sandor, looking down at her. 

He looked at her like that a lot, Sansa realized, with shining eyes and coarse lips held tight. It was a sad look. A stripped down to her bones look. 

Like maybe she wasn't even real. 

Sansa smiled up at him, a wordless, I'm here; I'm real, but Sandor glanced quickly away. 

After they finished and the torches came blazing back to life, Sansa idled by the ratty velvet curtain that separated the backstage area. Darkstar was the first to emerge. His purple eyes narrowed when he noticed Sansa, and he stepped close, propping his arm on the wall just beside her head. 

"Who are you waiting for, sweetling?" 

He was a lean man, taller than Sansa, with frightfully smooth skin and silky white hair. His breath fell down on her smelling strongly of citrus. 

Sansa swallowed it all down, accidentally. 

"Get off the girl, Gerold." 

Sandor. He pried Darkstar away by the shoulder, and the drummer put his hands up in surrender. Still, his thin lips pulled to a smirk. "So this is the one, is it? The little bird?" 

"Aye, she's the one," Sandor answered, a paltry introduction.  

"My name is Sansa," she finished for him. She offered up her hand. 

"Darkstar."

He kissed her gently, cold lips lingering, and suddenly his name made perfect sense. His dark purple eyes shone like amethyst, and cut like them, too. They clung to Sansa, everywhere. 

She swallowed, hard. 

"You're making the girl nervous." Sandor tore away Darkstar's hand and gave him a shove. "Go put those pretty eyes of yours on someone else." 

He staggered back a step and dipped into a bow. "Enchanted, Lady Stark," he said. With a sly glance to Sandor he added, "And by the way, I absolutely adored your tape." 

Quick as a shadow, he was gone. 

Sandor closed in. One step had Sansa backed against the stone wall, craning her neck to look at him. His hand wandered down her plait, then found rest at her waist. 

"Did you really show him my song?" Sansa whispered.  

"I did," Sandor replied. "I'm proud of you, little bird. I want to show you off." He ran his thumb up and down the curve of Sansa's breast, and his breath got all shallow. "What are you playing at with this sweater?" He dropped lower, so that his dark hair tickled her cheeks. "So soft and tight. You have no idea how pretty your tits looked bouncing up and down out on the floor. I could take you right here and now without thinking twice, you know that?" 

Sansa's knees wobbled, and she latched onto Sandor's mail to stay upright. "Sandor," she whined, sounding just as pitiful as she felt. "Not here, please." 

"Fine," Sandor grunted. He slid a finger into her waistband and tugged her so that his lips lined up with her ear. "But only because you're in these tight little jeans. Let's get out of here before my cock turns blue, or you'll damn well force me to rip them off of you." 

He turned to leave, but Sansa's hand was still tangled up in his mail. "Wait," she said. 

"Wait what?" 

"There's a party—or, a get together—or something. At um—Archer's place. Wylla invited me." 

The look Sandor gave her was one of pure, unfettered anguish. 

A few dozen pretty pleases and a five minute walk later, they arrived at Archer's doorstep. 

It was a doorstep of sorts, down a steep flight of crumbling stone steps into a cramped landing that barely fit the two of them together. Metal raged beyond the sturdy oak door. Sandor exhaled, or maybe just groaned, then pushed Sansa inside. 

Gods, it was smoky. A haze of hempweed stuck in the room, a big open space scattered with threadbare sofas and piles of stained cushions. Bright red neon signs and fluorescent tubes of light cut through the smoke to illuminate the crush of bodies, in all their dark clothing and glittering accessories. 

Sansa squinted to make out the faces, her throat tight to keep herself from coughing. She groped for Sandor's hand behind her, but never quite reached it. 

"You're here!" Wylla cried. She surfaced from the smoke and looped Sansa into a hug. "My sweet northern lady. Come on, let's get you a drink. I need you to meet everyone." 

Wylla tugged Sansa to a ramshackle table laden with bottles and half-full cups. She rummaged through a dented bucket of ice, then put a can in Sansa's hand. The words Bael Blue Rose glistened on the side in a sprawling script, appropriately set over the picture of a blue rose. 

Wylla opened up her own beer, drank deeply, then stuck out her tongue. "Tastes like piss, but you get used to it—by the sixth can." 

Sansa giggled nervously alongside Wylla, and grimaced when she discovered that her new friend had spoken truthfully. But Sansa kept drinking, because there were so many people, all of them drinking, and laughing, and sneaking looks her way. So many people, and none of them were Sandor. Where had he gone off to? 

She didn't get her answer—Wylla stole her hand again and dragged her to a group of three people lingering in the far corner of the room, in a part the flickering lights didn't quite reach. Her people, she called them. The skinny brunette was named Willow; she was Wylla's girlfriend. Then Sansa met Melly, a stocky girl with cropped pink hair and at least twenty rings on her face. Their other friend was named Puddingfoot. Puddingfoot had smooth skin near black with ink, from the crown of their shaved head to the tips of their ringed fingers. 

"So this is the Hound's girl, huh?" they said, blasting Sansa with a plume of sourleaf smoke. 

"The very one," Wylla returned. "Oh Gods, tell everyone what you told me about…you know."

Sansa did know, and the knowing made her blood prickle beneath her skin. Still, she stuck out her hands and parsed out ten whole inches. Maybe closer to eleven, this time. 

All her new friends howled with laughter. "So what's he like in bed then?" Melly asked. "A tiny little thing like you ought to be broken in two with a cock like that." 

Before Sansa could even begin to think of an answer, Willow cut in. "He hangs around the Black Cell. Or at least he did before—" 

"I forgot about that," Wylla interjected. "Gods, is he that wild in bed? Shackles and chains? I wanna try that shit." 

Shackles? In bed? Sansa would be surprised if there was any whiteness left on her face. Her whole body was blushing now, even down between her legs. She looked around for Sandor, or any reason at all to excuse herself, but she came back to four eager sets of eyes. 

Maiden forgive me, she pleaded. 

"He's nice to me," Sansa said, quietly, just in case the Gods could hear over the raucous metal that clanged around the room. "He's big, but he's really quite gentle, and—" there would be no going back now "—I can fit all of him. If he goes slow." 

"Gods you're precious." Wylla replied. "Fresh from the Sevenschool, is it?" 

Sansa nodded. "I go to Oxcross now." 

"Well," Melly said, sipping at her own can of Blue Rose. "It's a miracle you got him out. He doesn't come around much anymore. Not that he's that great of company." 

"Definitely not," Puddingfoot agreed. "A total fucking prick. At least he's clean now." 

"Oh, don't be such cunts. He charmed Sansa right out of her skirt, maybe he's not so bad. "

He's not bad, Sansa thought, and he’s very clean. She swallowed down the words with more of her gross beer, hoping it would make all this talk of Sandor easier. She should have known that Sow's End was no better than court. Hungry eyes were everywhere, waiting to feast on anything new. 

And Sansa was certainly new. 

Thankfully, Wylla helped to remedy that. She pulled Sansa from one circle to the next, and thrust fresh cans of Blue Rose in her hands before Sansa could protest. The beer made all the introductions a breeze, though it also made remembering names rather difficult. It had lost its taste by the time Wylla said, "You know what would be fun? Getting high." 

Sansa must have pulled a face, because Wylla added, "What? You've smoked hemp before, no way you haven't." 

Hempweed, yes. But getting high? Was that what Sandor was trying to do every time he rolled them a joint? But the beer made Sansa bolder, so she answered, "I've smoked hemp," purposefully leaving out, and I've hated it both times. 

It was enough for Wylla. She took Sansa across the room to a cluster of ratty armchairs and sofas pulled around a cluttered low table. Ordinarily, Sansa would have been frightened by the sight of the half dozen burly men, bearded and grim-faced, that filled up every seat. But at the far back, in a black oak chair upholstered in dingy velvet, was Sandor. 

His eyes shone when they met Sansa's, and her belly somersaulted. Even before Wylla called out, "Make some fucking room, I'm trying to get Sansa Stark high," Sansa’s feet carried her through the tangle of bodies towards him. 

There was certainly no space to share Sandor's chair, so she knelt on a cushion just beside his boots. She smiled at him in greeting, and he reciprocated with a sweet caress on the crown of her head. Ruby-red warmth glowed inside her. This was good. Being close. 

Wylla had tucked herself between two men that were at least three times her size, both of whom wore iron mail and necklaces of bone buried beneath their bushy beards, and she seemed to be bossing them around. After a bit of back and forth, one of the men passed a tall glass tower to Sandor. "She wants the girl to smoke," he grunted. 

How on earth were you supposed to smoke from that? 

The column of glass looked more like a sculpture than anything functional, with a black snake coiling down into the gaping mouth of a skull. But Sandor must have been familiar with it, because he put a lighter to the skull's forehead and pulled a breath from the very top of the column, until the black glass turned grey with smoke. 

He set a hand where his mouth had just been and held the whole thing out to Sansa. "Try to take it all, little bird. I bet you can do it." 

Ever obedient, Sansa lowered her lips to the opening. She drank in all the smoke until the glass went black again. She held it. She held it until her lungs ached and tears came trickling down her cheeks. She held it until the world went fuzzy at the corners. She held it until she coughed. 

And All Seven Above, did she cough. 

She coughed, and coughed, and coughed, so hard that she expected to launch her lungs onto the table. She clasped a hand to her mouth just in case, but they never came up. Even after wiping her tears away, everything stayed fuzzy, set to the tune of her thundering pulse. 

Strange eyes were on her, lots of them. Mouths opened, closed, roared, and gnashed. Brutish hands clutched big bellies. When the sound came back, Sansa finally understood. 

They were laughing.

So she should laugh too. Oh, how easily it came up from her belly, as automatic as a cough, but soft and light as silk. Deeper laughter sounded from Sansa’s side—Sandor. He loved to laugh, Sansa realized. Most times it had a biting edge, but not now. His laughter was honey, smooth and robust. 

It was the sweetest sound Sansa had ever heard. 

But he caught her eye and stopped short. “What is it, little bird?” 

“You’re sweet,” was all she got out. That made him smile again. He picked up her cheek and ran his thumb along the bridge of her nose. 

“You’re much sweeter,” he answered. “How are you feeling? That hit was something else.” 

“Um…” Feeling. There was a lot to feel, wasn’t there? There was the music and smoke that soaked into Sansa’s sweater. There was the pressure of too much beer bloating her belly, and a tight waistband to trap it all in. And there was Sandor’s hand, large and warm on her skin. She liked that feeling the most. 

“I like your hand,” she ended up saying. 

“I know, sweet girl.” Sandor brushed Sansa’s bottom lip, pulling it down just-so. Then came that feeling, the ache between her legs. “You earned it.” 

When another cough sounded out from across the table, Sansa’s reward slipped away, and she turned to see all those strange eyes again. No one spoke. 

Of course, how could she be so silly? She needed to introduce herself.  

“I’m Sansa,” she said. She paired her words with a well-practiced smile. And then, faulting anything else, she added, “I think I'm rather high." 

This time, when they all laughed together, they laughed as friends. Sansa forced an introduction from every one of those big brawny men. There were the brothers Gendel and Gorne, then there was Toefinger, Bodger, and Howd. The youngest was Quort, his beard only a patchy inch of red hair. Hempen Dan had to be nudged awake, but he smiled sweetly at Sansa and promised she could smoke his stash anytime she wanted. 

They wanted to know how a Stark had landed here, in Sow’s End. So she told them. 

“I go to school at Oxcross. I’m studying music there, and I came here—” because the weirwood called me “—I came here for the music too.” 

“The little bird can sing.” 

Sandor’s rasping voice cut across the circle, and Sansa stiffened in surprise. She gave him a wide eyed stare, thinking of what he had told earlier that night.

“Sing something, then,” slurred Gendel. 

“Aye, sing!” called his brother. 

“I want to hear something too!” Wylla said, near crushed between the two of them.

But Sansa didn’t have anything prepared. All the songs left her head that very instant and sweated out through her palms. She ran them steadily over her denim-clad thighs, then looked to Sandor for help. 

“I’ll put on your tape.”  

She hated those few long minutes without him. She especially hated when the raging metal screeched to a halt, only to be replaced by smoggy silence. But what she hated the most was when her music fizzled from the speakers, so jarring that she squeezed her eyes shut and prayed the electricity would miraculously blow out. 

Metal was harsh, but this was much harsher. It had no right to be played at a party like this. 

But her song kept coming, and all her friends stayed dead silent. Respite came when Sandor sat back down in his old oak chair. Sansa dropped into him. She rested her head on his thigh and curled an arm around his great big boot. She traced his yellow laces, and she listened. 

Her song wasn’t bad. It was a true song, straight from the part of her heart that shone the brightest. The part that wanted to be a star in the sky, brilliant and free. Another Nova, she called it in her head. There were millions of stars, trillions, and Sansa longed to be among them. 

I want to show you off, Sandor had said. And if she climbed atop his shoulders, wouldn’t she be that much closer to the sky? 

The song faded to silence. A thick, dreadful silence. When Sansa looked up, dozens of blank faces looked back. 

Wylla spoke first. 

“Again.” 

When no one moved, she wriggled up to standing. “We’re playing it again.” 

Sansa drifted into sweet depths of outer space, then. 

Everyone orbited around her. Hands tugged her up, dropped onto her shoulder, pulled her this way and that. They all wanted to smile at her, and Sansa smiled back. Her smile was the easiest thing in the world. It sparkled in the sky among so many other sparkling smiles. Sansa danced. She sang her own song back to herself. She was a star in the dark night.  

She met so many new friends. People wanted to know so much about her, and Sansa was happy to tell them. She bounced from friend to friend, explaining her interest in folk music, or how she found her way to the Den, or how she taught herself to play her beloved Minimarq all on her own. 

That was how she found Archer. The host, she remembered, it's always important to thank your host. He was red-haired and freckled, a little older and taller than Sansa. He received all her thanks very courteously, and even put two wet kisses on her cheeks. 

He had something to show her, he said. Something musical. 

But it wasn't in the big smoky room, it was down a darker corridor partitioned off by tangled strands of beads. Archer knew the way without much light, towing Sansa along by her wrist. His room was small, nothing but two bunk beds, tattered band posters, and piles of black clothing on the floor. 

And a synthesizer. A Quester, an older model, a little dented and covered in peeling stickers. 

He showed Sansa everything about it, even though she already knew. But she was good at listening, so she let Archer talk. He talked, and talked, and he inched steadily closer into Sansa’s atmosphere. Eventually one of his hands left the knobs of his machine and landed on her waist like a big cold spider. 

Sansa wasn't sure what to do about it. She didn't like it there, but would it be rude to take it off? 

She stayed in place, which might have been a bad idea, because then Archer slid behind her. His arms snaked along hers and he guided Sansa's hands to the Quester. "Your turn," he breathed in her ear. 

She tried to play something, anything, but Archer forced his body flush against her back. A hardness pushed into her backside, and her hands started to shake so badly she couldn't even set the first filter right. He only wants music, she assured herself. He wants to hear me play. But he didn't seem interested in the sounds Sansa made. His breath was heavy against the nape of her neck, reeking of sour Blue Rose. The scent clung to Sansa's nose so strongly she almost wanted to heave all of hers up and ruin Archer's stupid synth. 

She didn't like this anymore. She wanted to leave. 

She turned around, but that was a horrible mistake. It put her face to face with Archer, and he grinned down on her like a feral cat. "I knew you wanted me, pretty girl." 

His lips had barely grazed her neck when a shout rang out from down the hall. 

"Sansa?" 

And again, louder.

"Sansa, are you down here?" 

Archer leapt away just as Sandor pushed inside, big and dark as a stormcloud, bright rage crackling in his eyes. They went from Sansa, to Archer, and then back again. 

He took one step forward. 

His shadow eclipsed Sansa. His heat simmered up and lapsed at her skin. She should have met his eye, but shame dropped like stone in her belly. She was weak, in too many ways to count. Weak enough to follow a stranger into darkness. Weak enough to let him put his hands on her. Weak enough that after all her betrayal, she still needed rescue. 

She closed her eyes and braced for a strike. 

But it never came. 

"I'm going," Sandor rasped down at her. In her shock, Sansa lifted her face. 

"Going? W-where?" she stuttered. 

"Home. Bed."

"Am I going to bed too?" 

Sandor exhaled, invisible steam pouring from his flared nostrils. His palm dropped to her collarbone, and his fingers curled around the back of her neck. He dragged his thumb down the column of her throat in one long swipe. 

"If you like." 

A different, much weaker hand latched onto Sansa's wrist. "Stay here," Archer put in. "We have plenty of extra space." 

The look that Sandor gave him was so sharp Sansa was surprised it didn't slice his spine in two. But apparently Archer was made of stubborn stuff, because his slender fingers sunk deeper into her wrist. 

"Choose," Sandor spit. 

Sansa's eyes darted between the two of them. She measured the feel of their hands against one another. The one at her wrist was cold and slimy. The one at her neck—

There was no question. There was never a question. 

That hand could turn Archer's face to jelly with one effortless tap. Good, Sansa thought. He deserves it. Then, to Sandor, she said, "I want to go with you." 

For a split second, his eyes softened. "Good girl," he soothed. He took her by the shoulder and shielded her from Archer as they made their way out. He had half-pushed Sansa through the main room and all the way to the front door when she realized something was missing. 

She groped at her back, but her bag wasn’t there. It was gone.

She had forgotten all about it. 

How would she ever find it in such a dark and bleary room? She turned to Sandor, praying he would still want to help her despite all the trouble she’d caused, but she didn’t even have to open her mouth. 

“It’s right here, little bird.” Sandor hoisted up her little black backpack by the handle, laughably small in his mighty grip. Sansa snatched it up and pressed it to her chest. “Thank you,” she mumbled into the folds of leather. 

Sandor only grunted, then pulled the door open for her. She didn’t budge. 

“Um—Sandor?” 

“What?” 

“Can I say goodbye to everyone before we go? Please?” 

The sigh that came out of him was rough as gravel, but he answered, “Of course you can. Will you be alright if I wait outside?" 

Sansa nodded. "I'll be so quick, I promise."  

She hurried around the room to collect as many phone numbers as possible. She didn’t want to keep Sandor waiting, and she definitely didn’t want to run into Archer again. Mostly, she wanted to see Wylla. 

Sansa found her last, and gave her a really big hug. Wylla was so nice. “Your song was perfect,” she told Sansa. “You’re definitely playing at my house show.” 

Sansa promised she would. She promised she’d call, and she promised she’d write plenty of songs just like the first one. Wylla said that she and her were going to be really good friends, and that she wished other noble girls had as much sense as her. She would have said a lot more if Sansa hadn't politely disentangled herself and gone for the door. 

When Sansa finally made it outside, she found Sandor at the top of the steps, a joint poised between two thick fingers. 

"Let's get on," he called down before charging out into the dark. 

Sansa trailed at his heels, clumsy on the cobbled pathway. She had to watch her feet and make sure Sandor didn't speed too far ahead, which was made difficult by the heady stream of hemp smoke he sent curling back in her face. 

"Are you angry with me?" she panted, tugging at his sleeve.

"No," he replied. He didn’t spare her a glance. "But I hate parties." 

Oh. Sansa didn't know that was even possible. 

"I love them." She stopped walking and held onto Sandor's sleeve with all her might. That got his attention, but all he said down to her was, "I can tell." 

Then he was off again. 

"Everyone is so nice, though. They liked my song, and Wylla said I could even play at her show. I think they liked me, too. I hope they do." 

"That cunt Archer likes you plenty." Sandor paired his harsh words with another blast of smoke, so big it swallowed up Sansa’s vision. Her boot stuck to a jut of stone, and gravity lured her down. 

Sandor nabbed her by the arm just before she made impact. He steadied her and stared, his entire face steeped in darkness except for shining eyes and a bright patch of bone.

"Are you angry about Archer?" Sansa asked. She suddenly felt very small. 

"Might be."

Sansa sighed and looked down at both pairs of their boots. She twisted her toe, thinking. How could she even begin to apologize for what happened? But Sandor wasn't angry with her, so maybe he didn't want an apology. Maybe he just wanted her to be honest. 

"I'm angry about him too,” she confessed. “He wouldn't stop touching me. I hated it. But I didn't—I didn't know how to leave." 

Sandor spit out one more cloud, then dropped the end of his joint to the cobbled walk and crushed it with his boot. He stepped closer, and lifted Sansa's chin with a finger. "It's not your fault, little bird," he told her. "Archer knew what he was doing. I'll teach you how to fight back next time, like a proper wolfling.” 

Sansa sniffed. "Promise?" 

"Promise." 

Sansa threw her arms around Sandor's middle and nestled her face against his warm mail. At first she smelled only the cold tang of iron, but after a few seconds, Sandor's arms dropped around her shoulders and rained down his perfect scent of hemp and clove. 

Sansa breathed in all she could. He had come to her rescue, and vowed to protect her. I must be his girl, she thought, and he’s my knight.

Chapter Text

Sansa returned to Sandor’s apartment bone-weary. She flopped onto his couch while he tended to Stranger, then he went to the kitchen to grab them a couple of drinks. Sansa asked for anything but beer and prayed he had purchased something more to her taste within the last week. 

Her prayers were answered. 

Sandor put a frosty pint glass in her hand. "Lemonade," he said. "Better than that Blue Rose swill." 

He settled at her side, lifting her legs then dropping them back into his lap. Sansa sipped her lemonade. True to Sandor's word, it was a million times more refreshing than Blue Rose. He set to work on another joint. He must have thought she had enough hemp for the night too, because he didn't even offer her any. 

She would have said no in any case. She was done being high. It made the world so exciting and new, until the newness bit back and turned her into a hapless damsel. She would rather keep her head out of the clouds, for now. 

But she and Sandor were finally alone, so she got to thinking of everything her friends had said at the party. Lemonade or beer, her tongue must have been feeling pretty loose, because she drained her entire glass and asked, "What's the Black Cell?" 

Sandor's jaw clenched. He took one long drag, and exhaled, "You were talking about me." 

Sansa blushed. "Well, yes, but—" 

"It's a club, little bird." 

"Like the Den?" 

"Not quite," Sandor said. He ground the joint in the ashtray, then turned to her. "It's a dungeon."

"Shackles," Sansa breathed, automatic. 

Sandor's eyes glinted dark. He smoothed a palm along her jeans, then picked up one of her wrists where it lay on her belly. "Iron might snap these pretty wrists of yours," he said, tracing a spidery blue vein beneath her fair skin. His hand curled to a tight fist. "I'd do better with rope." 

A nervous squeak caught in Sansa's throat. Alongside it, a steady flow of blood made its way below her belt, and her clit pounded against the confines of her too-tight jeans. Why in the world did this excite her so? She loved Sandor's hands, but rope? Something impersonal, something used to bind up chattel? She was mad. 

Right? 

But madness had led her to Sandor's bed in the first place. Madness put her here, in his apartment, after a night on the streets at Sow's End. She had chosen this madness, and her pulse would have her choose madness again. 

She twisted her wrist in Sandor's grip, relishing the strength of his hold, and whispered, "I'd like that." 

Sandor was over her in an instant. His knee shot up and settled firmly between her legs. He stole both her wrists and pinned them on the arm of the sofa behind her. He came close, black hair dangling, hemp breath sticky on her skin. 

"You want to play with rope, little bird?" he asked, achingly soft. His eyes shone like polished steel as they danced across her face, but they didn't sting. He liked to play, Sansa realized. He liked being hungry, and he especially liked making a feast out of her. But it was all a game. 

So she nodded. "Yes, please." 

"Then take off your clothes, and get into bed. Now. "

Sansa obeyed. 

She hurried to the bedroom, heart aflutter, and peeled off her clothing as fast her fingers would allow. She had just crawled into bed when Sandor returned, coils of slender rope clutched in either fist. Her whole world was her pulse again. It roared in her ears, slammed against her ribs, and mostly, it swelled between her legs. Already, her own water trickled onto Sandor's covers. Messy little bird.  

Sandor set to work, one limb, one bedpost at a time. First were her wrists. He bound each with a series of loops, then pulled. "How's that?" he asked, smoothing a thumb over his handiwork. "It won't get any tighter, no matter how much you squirm." 

"Um—" Sansa started. She flexed her wrist to test its captivity. "It's good." 

Sandor gave her a soft smile. "Good. You have to tell me if it's too much." 

He fixed her other wrist and hitched it to the opposite bedpost, then circled to the foot of the bed and began winding rope around her right ankle. She hadn't realized he would bind her legs, but she submitted to Sandor's care. His fingers moved with a quick, comforting tenderness. After every knot he'd mutter a sweet, "How does that one feel?" To be followed up with a, "good little bird," when she agreed that all her binds felt just right. 

But when he tied her last ankle into place, splaying her legs to reveal her wetness, Sansa whimpered. And all the wrongness of this situation, all the madness, dropped onto her chest. What was she thinking, letting herself be strapped to a bed by a man she had known for less than a moon entire. What was she to him, other than a good girl or a little bird? 

Suddenly it wasn't enough. 

So before she could stop herself, she blurted, "Am I your girl?" 

Sandor's heavy brow creased. He glared at her from his position at the foot of the bed, his burns flickering in the lamplight. But to soften himself, he ran his fingers lightly along Sansa's calf, making gooseprickles rise up all over her skin. 

"What did you just say?" he asked, dangerously sharp. 

"Wylla said—" 

"Oh, so Wylla's the one talking. Do all your new friends have something to say about me?" 

"Well, Puddingfoot—" 

But Sandor didn't want to hear that. He threw off his tunic, and he pounced. He dropped into bed and tucked his knees beneath Sansa's thighs. It raised up her hips, put her wet flower on full display. She struggled against the ropes, a futile attempt at doing something, anything, to cover herself up. 

It didn't matter if she was Sandor's girl. She had already surrendered. 

She whimpered.

"Don't be frightened, little bird." Sandor's fingertips swept along the softness of her inner thighs. "You're going to tell me everything they said. If you sing me a sweet enough song, you'll earn this." He slid a finger along her the front of her swollen sex, lingering at her clit. "Understand?" 

"I understand." 

"Good. Now, little songbird, what did you tell your friends?"

His finger stayed on her clit, but it was a teasing touch, a flicker that had Sansa lifting her hips, petitioning for more.

Sandor withdrew. "Little bird," he scolded. "Sing." 

Sansa gave him a good, long look. She was here again, spread apart for a giant. A giant marked by flame and ink. A giant with a shine in his eyes that Sansa had never known. A giant that she shouldn't know, but a giant who kept calling her back. Every word that fell from his half-burned lips made her blood bristle and ache. 

He knew exactly what he was doing. 

He was playing their game. And Sansa wanted to play, too. 

So she tested her tethers, one at a time. She had chosen these constraints, just as she had chosen Sandor. She breathed deep, filling her lungs with the warm, smoke-tinged air, and she met his gleaming grey eyes dead on. 

"They wanted to know how big you are. How big he is.”   

That got Sandor to move again. He nestled ringed fingers in her maidenhair, letting the warmth of his palm hover just above her clit. "And what did you tell them?" 

"I didn't—I used my hands," she replied. She jostled the rope to prove her point. Sandor snarled. 

“That’s a pity. You’ll use your words, now.” 

His palm dropped closer, the looming heaviness of his hand the sweetest threat Sansa had ever known. What did she have to say about him? 

Well, a lot, actually. 

“You’re big,” she breathed. 

“I think we both know that,” he came back. “Give me something else.” 

His hand didn't budge, so Sansa went on, “You’re so big. I didn’t even think it was possible for a man to be that big. I still don’t know if it should be possible. But—but—” her praise ended in a shuddering moan—Sandor had lowered the heel of his palm onto Sansa’s clit and pressed down, but only enough to make her pulse ache even worse. His other hand went to stroke the growing swell in his jeans. 

Gods, she wanted him. She wanted all of him. 

“They asked if you fit," she whispered. 

“And what did you say to that?” 

“I said you could, if you went slow.”

She must have done well, because fingers replaced his palm. He circled her clit, treating her to extra pressure, and then came the best treat of all. He sunk two fingers into her sex. They slipped right inside and braced against her favorite spot. There was so much behind that spot, more than Sansa had ever felt before. It felt as though an entire spring rested atop her belly— hot, and so, so heavy. 

“Keep talking,” Sandor said. His eyes didn’t leave her as he began to unbuckle his belt, slowly. “Tell me about my cock, little bird.” 

“Um—” Sansa started, trying to look anywhere but Sandor’s bulge. She settled for looking at his hand inside her, which might have been worse. “I love your cock,” she whined. “I think about it during class. I think about it during my lessons. I think about it at night, and in my dreams. I can’t—I haven’t been able to think of anything else. You shouldn’t be able to fit inside of me, but you do, and—oooh—” 

Another finger found its way inside her, and Sandor put it to work, winding against the pool of warmth in her belly, the one that wanted so desperately to drop. But in the next instant, his hand was gone. 

“You did good, little bird.” 

Sandor held himself now, using that same glistening hand to stroke along his length. He laid the other on her waist, and thumbed the fullness of her belly. “I’ll give you something special.” 

Sansa expected him, but instead, Sandor shifted back on the bed, lowering his face between her legs. His breath lapsed at Sansa’s swollen clit, so achingly light that it made her blood boil. What was he doing? She wanted his cock—anything other than hot air. 

When his mouth dropped down, she understood. 

Something special. 

Sandor didn’t lie. His lips locked around her clit, and his tongue ran wild. Gods, his fingers were strong, but his tongue, Seven forbid. It was wet and warm and slid into all the right places, with all the right pressure. Then he went lower. When his tongue circled Sansa’s entrance, she practically convulsed, tugging her ropes taut and causing the bedposts to creak their complaints. 

Sandor held Sansa in place with one massive palm. The weight of it was immense—it would force all of her water out of her. Combined with the swirl of his tongue, it was simply too much.

She had to let go. 

“Sandor,” she whined. “Sandor, please.” 

But just like that, he was gone. The hand, his tongue, all of it. He peeled back up, still giving himself his own pleasure, but saying nothing. 

His eyes though, he always had the flicker in his eyes that said, I know what I’m doing.  

So like a scared little bird in a cage, Sansa peeped. She tried to scoot back on the bed, but Sandor was advancing. He dropped over her, clasped her chin, and pried her mouth wide open. She watched, horrified, as his mouth drew to a pucker, tongue all too visible as it swept against the tattered ruin of his left cheek. 

But there was nowhere to go. 

So when Sandor loosed his spit into Sansa’s mouth, a huge wet glob of their combined juices, she couldn’t do anything but swallow. She swallowed every last drop. 

Then Sandor smiled. His hand turned soft on her face. He petted her cheek, her jawline, and then smoothed along her plaits, pushing back the curls that clung to her temples. “Look at you, little bird. Drinking up all your sweet juices. Did you like that?” 

Sansa whimpered, then forced out the most pitiful, “Yes,” in the world. 

“Good girl,” Sandor said. “I think I’ll fuck you now.” 

He drew back, shifting his seat between her legs until the tip of his cock pressed just-so against her entrance. Sansa squeezed her eyes shut and braced to receive all that agonizing length she had sung about.

Sandor kept his word. He eased himself into her, one thick inch at time, until her entire belly was stuffed full of throbbing cock. Sansa was certain she could see it through her skin, bulging out of her like it intended to break free. Or was that just the lemonade, and all the gross, watery beer? 

“We’re not done talking,” Sandor said, extracting himself all the way to the tip. “I want to know everything else these little friends of yours said." 

"S-Sandor," Sansa panted, lamenting the hollowness he had left behind. "I already told you—"

"No," he barked. "How did you know about the Cell?" 

"I—it was Wylla—or Willow. They said you used to go there, before—"

"Before what?" 

Sandor refused to fill her back up. Instead, he glowered, his burns roiling, sweat slick on his temples. He can't be angry with me if I'm honest, Sansa thought. So she confessed, "I don't remember. All I remember is Wylla, she asked if you were that wild, if you liked shackles, and chains."

Sandor seemed to take it as truth. He yielded, dropping himself back inside to the quick of her. They both shared a moan—Sansa's light and smooth, Sandor's heavy and rough as rock. He fell over her with his muscular arms curled around either side of her head. 

"What did you say to that, little bird?" 

Mercifully, he began to move. His slow strokes caught every nerve as he slipped along her walls. "I said—" Sansa began, brow twisted in concentration. "I said—" But she couldn't get her words out, so Sandor stopped, and stared. 

Pinned, Sansa whispered, "I said you were nice." 

It was either the wrong thing to say, or something all too perfect. Sandor ravaged her. Each powerful thrust sunk her deeper into the mattress, until her ropes pulled taut and dug into her wrists. When Sansa yelped, Sandor growled low enough to shake her ribs. His arm slipped behind her back and stuck her bulging belly to his. His mouth fell to her neck. He bit at her skin, teeth sharp on her throat, lips and tongue hungry.

"Good little bird," he breathed, kissing along the line of her jaw. "I'm a nice dog, aren't I? This sweet old dog takes you to bed and he treats you like a proper lady. Is that what you tell everyone?" 

"Y-yes," Sansa sputtered between thrusts. 

"Is this what you imagine in your sweetest dreams? My cock inside your little cunt, splitting your pretty belly in two?"

Sansa tried to shape a "Yes," but her jaw quivered so ferociously the word wouldn't come out. Sandor was good at solving her problems, though. He trapped her chin and lanced her with his cutting eyes. 

"Say it," he rasped. He slammed himself into her very end and throbbed there. "Tell me how my cock feels inside you." 

Sansa swallowed, her jaw flexing against Sandor's rigid hold. She shifted her hips to learn his feel all over again. "It's big," she started. "And warm. It's—it's—" but she couldn't finish the thought. If she focused too intensely, the impossibility of her situation came tumbling down. I shouldn't be this full. Sandor shouldn't be so big and so deep, not all at once. It's impossible.

"I'm so full," she mewled. "It's heavy, Sandor. It's going to spill out." 

He made one of his noises, the visceral kind that rumbled up from his gut. But he treated her gently, tucking her loose curls into place, easing away droplets of sweat that misted her forehead. "Is that true, little bird? Are you going to soak my sheets?" 

He drew up from her. His hands latched onto her hips, fingers entrenched in her backside. Inside her, his pulse raged. Its heat echoed against her walls, and told Sansa all she needed to know—she felt good too. She made him just as desperate for warmth, and even more desperate to hear all her sweet words. 

"Sandor, I—" 

He moved again, one thunderous thrust. Sansa gasped. He truly would break her. That pool inside her was suspended by a veil of silk, something perilously thin and eager to rupture. She tried to grab hold of his chest to stay herself, fighting Sandor's knots, but she just squirmed. She curled her toes into his comforter and writhed in his grip. 

She was going to break. 

He slid out from her, and Sansa cried out, "Please Sandor, please, you can't. If you—I can't—" 

But he did. Sansa had one foot on a cliff. The other dangled. She would fall now, she would fall so far and pray the water below was deep enough to catch her. "Sandor, I'm—" 

Then it all disappeared. 

Sandor tugged her back from the cliff. He took back everything—his cock, his hands—and he left Sansa empty. Two feet on solid ground, aching to be pushed into oblivion.   

Sandor kept going, though. He still had use of his hands, so he went on pulling up and down his impossibly large manhood. It wasn't fair. Sansa deserved to be touched. She had been so good; she had sung him every song he asked for. So why wouldn't he touch her? 

"No," Sansa whispered. She strained against the rope. "No," she said again. She looked to the bedposts—maybe there was a way out—some way she could use her hands, anything to feel as good as Sandor, to glean some tiny bit of friction to push her over the edge. 

But Sandor only laughed, baring his big white fangs. "Keep struggling, little bird," he said. "Just like that. You're not going anywhere." 

He was horrible. A great, big beast. He wasn't a nice dog. If he was a nice dog, he would help her finish. But instead, he watched her struggle. He watched her and his hand moved faster, gliding over his monstrous length, still shining from its dip inside her wetness. Sansa's pulse ached from the memory of him, of his impossible touch, and still she got nothing. 

"You owe me answers," he growled. 

"I told you everything, Sandor, please. I promise." 

"Not quite, little bird. I want to know one more thing." 

"What?" 

"Are you my girl?"

Sansa went slack, her battle against the ropes hard lost. That was her question, not his. How was she supposed to know the answer?

"Little bird…" 

A warning. Sandor reached out, but his hand didn't land where Sansa wanted it, he put it on her swollen belly. He pressed down, hard. 

"Yes," Sansa squealed. "I'm your girl." 

"Good girl," Sandor replied. "Again." 

His hand sunk even deeper—maybe it didn't even need to be inside to break her. Everything was so tender, so raw that all her nerves were bundled up as one. Sansa was certain that even his breath on her skin would send her toppling from the cliff. 

With that thought, his hand went away. 

So Sansa sang. 

"Sandor, I'm your girl, I promise. I'm all yours." 

"Is that so?" He trailed a finger along the inside of her thigh. "The little bird is mine, she says. But if you're mine, I'll have to keep you close." 

"Close is good," Sansa whined. "I want to be close." 

For once, she was certain she had said the right thing, because Sandor's finger wandered into her wetness. It slid up and down, wound around her clit, but not on it. Then it lingered at her entrance, a bittersweet gift. "Do you promise, little bird?" The finger slipped inside her, and it may as well have been as big his cock for how much heat bloomed at her center. "Promise you won't put those pretty wings to use and fly away?" 

"I'll stay with you, I promise. I'm not going anywhere. I just want to be close. I want to be your girl, for as long as you'll have me." 

The reward was simple—her favorite spot. Sandor knew this, like he somehow knew everything, so he curled his finger up and bore into that spot with all his strength. 

This would undo her. 

Sansa wasn't quite as experienced as Sandor, but she was learning. And she knew this—his hand, buried inside her, reaching—this would rip her precious silken shield in two. The spring at her center longed to become a flood, something no dam could withhold.  

"Sing, little bird," Sandor commanded in a tight rasp. "Sing me that pretty song again." 

She earned another finger, and twice the strength. At first she could only moan, but she looked on Sandor's face and remembered his desperation. He needs this, Sansa thought, just as badly as I need his touch.   

Pushing past the tide that churned inside her, Sansa incanted, "I'm your girl, Sandor. I'll always be your girl. I'll be yours, and I won't fly away. I'll stay close. I'll be yours." 

One press, another, then one more, and she fell. She fell and burst at the same time—the water wasn't so far, after all. Maybe she was the water. All the pressure slipped away as she swirled and drifted on a crestless wave. "I'm yours," she whispered as she rolled. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm yours," and the water carried her away, to deep infinity. 

Sansa floated there as long as she could, weightless. 

She couldn't stay forever, of course. But when she came back from riding her waves, the wetness was still there. A cold wetness. 

Something damp.

Sansa looked down on herself, and her heart sunk to the black opposite of wherever she had just been. "Oh," she puffed. "Oh, no." 

There had been water inside of her, so much water, and now all of it had soaked into the sheets. It wasn't just a little bit of stickiness, it was an entire puddle, a pond even. Sandor swam right in its middle, his cock slightly soft in his hand, knuckles coated in white seed. The heat that rose on Sansa's face could have baked an entire cake. 

She had wet the bed. 

Her jaw began to shake, and she knew she shouldn't look up, but she did. Sandor's face was hard iron, his eyes restless. They went from the puddle, to his hand, then back up to Sansa. She had to explain herself, anything to justify her shame, but the only pathetic thing she could force from her lips was, "I think—I think it was the lemonade." 

Sandor burst to life. He roared with laughter so fierce that he arched back and set a hand on his belly. Sansa drowned in its loudness, though she wished she could drown in the ocean instead. When she reclaimed air on the surface in one dry sob, Sandor stopped. 

"Oh, sweet little bird." 

He came to her rescue, scooping her up in his arms and pressing her head against his chest.  "Whatever it was, we'll get it cleaned up." He smoothed his hand over her hair, over and over, until Sansa's sobs waned to whimpers. Then Sandor started chuckling to himself again, which did little for her shame, but at least let her know he wasn't angry. "Seven fucking hells," he said into her hair. "I've never come so hard in my whole sorry life." 

Sansa peeled up from his chest to find his eye. "Really? You mean it?" 

"Of course I mean it. Gods, we need to figure out how to make you do that again." 

They shared a smile, and Sandor gave her a few sweet kisses before helping her out of her knots. He was so helpful. Once she was free, he scrounged up a knit blanket from the bottom of his wardrobe. It was a dull pastel pink, dusty smelling, but it warmed Sansa right up. She bundled herself in it and sat in Sandor's desk chair while he changed the bedding. 

It was a horrible mess, but he didn't grumble once. No, he grinned to himself while he soaked up the puddle with a few tattered towels, then he stripped the sheets. And he boomed out a laugh every time he glanced to Sansa, who couldn't help but frown. After he replaced the sheets and laid down a faded quilt, he came over to her. He kissed and nipped at her downturned lips until she giggled, then he scooped her up and tossed her into the bed. 

Sansa wanted to be sour, but he kept kissing her. Maybe he hadn't eaten dinner. He stole little bites from her lips, her nose, her cheeks, and then her neck. Each one made her giggle. She didn't know boys kissed like this. She didn't know a man so large could give such small kisses. 

Sansa decided to learn new kisses too. She practiced on his chest, because it was right in front of her, all hairy and inky and huge. He had enough muscle for little mouthfuls. His skin tasted salty and his hair tickled Sansa's tongue. She smiled as she kissed, and she started to ask questions too. Sandor loved to talk almost as much as she did. He got his tattoos on the front. The best artists were up there. Northmen have taste, he said. Northmen were the only kind of people who would stain his skin with runes. 

"What do the runes say?" was the next logical question. 

"Elinor," he answered, setting Sansa's fingers to a line of ancient letters on his ribs, tangled in the weirwood's branches. He slid her hand to the opposite side of him. "Gwyneth." 

"Your mother?" 

"Aye, my mother."

Sansa kissed those runes, because it seemed like the right thing to do. You were always supposed to kiss your mother. She looked to Sandor's hand next, and ran her finger over his rough knuckles. "What about these?" 

Sandor pulled both his fists side by side. He lifted the left. "Nåde," he said. Then lifted the right fist. "And ære. Mercy and glory." 

"Mercy and glory," Sansa repeated. She kissed each one in kind. "A pleasure to meet you." 

When she looked back up to Sandor, he didn't seem so hungry anymore. His face was soft, almost sad. His lips drew together and trembled and the burnt corner. His eyes were as bright as stars. Sansa recognized that far off stare, and she didn't quite like it. 

"What is it?" she asked. She smiled a half-hearted smile, because she didn't know what else to do. "You're always looking at me like that—like I'm a ghost." 

"Are you?" he shot back. 

"Sandor—" Sansa brought her face to his chest, and laid kisses along the trunk inked on his skin. "I'm real," she whispered. "I'm your girl." She set her lips to the weirwood's weeping eye. Into it, she mumbled, "And you're my knight." 

Sandor let out a quick bitter bark, then picked up Sansa's chin with a finger. "Who told you that one? Is Puddingfoot roaming around Sow's End, calling me a knight?" 

"Well, not exactly, it's just—" 

"Tell me this—did they call you the knight's girl?" 

Sansa pulled in her lower lip. He always knows.  

"No," she admitted, eyes downcast. "They called me the Hound's girl." 

"That's right, little bird." His words were rough, but his hand stayed soft on her face. His thumb worked gentle strokes over her cheekbone. "I'm a mean old hound. If anyone comes too close to what's mine, I'll bite." 

Good, Sansa thought, trailing a finger down the trunk of the weirwood to trace the fangs of a snarling hound. She could think of a few people she'd want Sandor to bite, Joffrey and Archer to start. But there was one man in particular, who came too close too often, who deserved a bite most of all. 

Good. 

Perhaps knights were too noble. Perhaps the protection of a loyal hound was what she truly needed, after all. 

Chapter Text

Sansa woke with her face smashed into Sandor's chest, sticky with sweat. His arms caged her in, so she stayed put, in a hot and stinky cloud of body odor. She didn't know what else to do—she had never spent the night with a boy before—and Joffrey would never hold her as close as this, if he even came close at all. 

So she waited. She swallowed back all her own warm air and made herself sweatier by the minute. 

Finally, Sandor stirred. The first thing he said to Sansa was, "You stayed put." Sansa blushed, Sandor grinned, and he somehow tugged her even tighter so he could torment her with those kisses that were half-bite. He nibbled at her neck, down to her breasts, and then he even stuck his face in her armpit. His scruff tickled her terribly, but no amount squirming would set her free. He growled into her skin, then resurfaced to say, "We need to clean you up, little bird." 

Sandor's bathroom wasn't particularly neat. It was more old than anything—he had a chipped porcelain basin with a rusty faucet and a pull-chain toilet with a crooked tank, all atop a crumbling tile floor. The massive clawfoot tub was pretty enough, though its enamel coat was peeling off in big white flakes. Above it was a small cloudy window that filtered in soft daylight. 

While Sandor got their shower ready, Sansa piled her hair on top of her head, preemptively mistrusting his taste in hair-care products. She stepped into the far end of the tub and slid the mildewy curtain shut behind her, then congratulated her own intuition. There was no shampoo to speak of, just a lump of soap in a glass dish on the windowsill. How on earth does he keep clean? Sansa wondered. And then, Does he, though?  

"Watch your feet, little bird." 

Sansa looked down and gasped as a stream of warm, yellow not-water landed between her toes. "Oh, gross," she moaned. She scrambled to the absolute furthest part of the tub and reached for the curtain, but Sandor trapped her upper arm. He howled with laughter as she struggled against his hold. "You're the worst," she whined to the wall. "You're—you're—" 

"An animal?" 

"Yes, " she wailed.  

"Keep pouting like that," Sandor growled. "It's making me hard." 

Sansa glanced over her shoulder, and of course he wasn't lying. His manhood hung heavy with arousal, the reddened tip of him pressing through its sheath.  

Sansa frowned.  

So Sandor laughed even harder. "Just like that," he teased, palming his length. Sansa tried to keep frowning—she really did—but when she met Sandor's eye, her lips betrayed her, warping up to a wobbly smile. Why was he like this? And why was it so grotesquely funny?

"I'm still mad," she huffed, furrowing her brow even though her mouth wouldn't cooperate. 

"Alright, mad girl. Let's get some soap on those pretty tits of yours." 

He wrangled her back to him and grabbed the soap. As he lathered her up, his scent of cinnamon and clove steamed into the air. Sansa yielded to his touch—she would smell like him. Sandor smoothed the bar over her arms, her shoulders, her belly. He saved her breasts for last, and after they were sufficiently sudsy, he put both his hands on them. 

Sansa never thought of her breasts as anything special, not terribly small, certainly not as big as most men seemed to like. But Sandor really liked them. He didn't even say anything as he buried his fingers into their softness and thumbed her nipples to pink peaks. His breath got heavier, and his cock grew stiff between them. It thumped at Sansa's belly like a warm, fleshy sword. 

"Touch me," Sandor urged, looking down on her with low-lidded eyes. "Use your pretty hands anyway you like." 

There was a lot of him to explore, more man and muscle than she knew what to do with. But Sansa liked those muscles. She ran her palms up his thighs, past his hips, to the swell of his inky, hairy abs. She petted him there, and his cock danced up to meet her. She giggled—a funny giant. Her fingers worked their way back down. They sifted through the coarse pubic hair at his base and prodded the heaviness beneath. Sandor's breath snagged at that touch. 

So Sansa finally picked up his stupidly large manhood. She held it in two hands, barely enclosed, and let soapy water guide her strokes. It wasn't too much meat to manage. Bubbles frothed, his pulse throbbed, and he parsed out the sweetest words. "Good girl," he told her. "My cock loves those little hands of yours. You have the perfect touch, don't you?" 

Sansa blushed and gave him all her strength, and his cock grew redder and harder. She knew he was close when his breath started to catch and go lower, each exhale more of a growl than anything human. Sandor steadied himself with a hand curled over her shoulder, palm digging into her collarbone. He pressed his thumb deep into the hollow of her throat and ground himself into her grip, getting all he could from her. He sputtered, "Fuck, that's it, good little—" just as his cock quivered and spit out strings of seed all over her knuckles. 

She loved how he felt when he finished. She couldn't help but to imagine how it would feel inside her, all that red-hot explosiveness set against her own aching flesh. She shivered at the thought. 

"Do you want a treat too, little bird?" Sandor asked, sweeping his thumb along her neck. 

"Um…" What kind of treat? He had given her plenty of those last night, but when Sansa set a hand to her belly, she could only think of the other kind. The kind she hadn't had since midday yesterday. 

"Can I have breakfast?" She blinked up at Sandor and smiled as sweetly as she could. He smiled back down at her, his eyes bright. 

"Of course, little bird. I know just the place." 

They dressed quickly. Sansa's sweater was much too smelly for her liking, so she had to borrow one of Sandor's shirts. It was a big black t-shirt that looked suspiciously similar to his Oathkeeper shirt, except this one said Lady Forlorn across the chest. She tucked it into her jeans, then let her hair drop to her hips. She hoped she looked femine enough. When she asked Sandor what he thought, he said, "Forget breakfast, I'd rather eat you."

Sansa blushed, and they headed out the door. 

Sandor took her to a shop a couple blocks away. A bakery, judging by the warm floury scent that wafted down the street. A heavy-set Dothraki man with a long braid sat beside the door, his brawny arms crossed. After exchanging a quick nod with the man, Sandor guided her inside by the waist.  

The smell was even better inside. It was a tiny place, walls painted a shabby olive color, a tube of fluorescent light flickering on the low ceiling. The display case took up most of the floor, a wall to wall array of breads and pastries in every shape and size. Sansa's eyes widened from the splendor of it all, and her stomach rumbled its agreement. How would she ever choose? 

A wrinkled Dothraki woman perked up from behind the counter and waddled over to them. Thankfully, Sandor did all the ordering. "Three mare," he said, pointing to a pile of crescent-shaped hand pies. "And a sweetgrass for the girl." 

They got their pies and two cups of milk and took them to a makeshift counter that ran below the windows, scarcely more than a plank of wood with a few scattered stools. Sandor stood against the wall, since he was already too big for such a small shop, and he had Sansa sit in a stool right beside him. His hand, Mercy, stayed put at her beltline. 

The sweetgrass pie was everything Sansa could have dreamed. A flaky golden crust wrapped around a true-to-its-name sweet filling, with a subtle heat that tingled her tongue. Sansa went to wash it down with some milk, but whatever sour and curdled liquid Sandor had ordered was definitely not milk. She coughed back into the cup and prayed the shopkeeper wouldn't notice her rudeness. 

Sandor noticed of course, and he grinned down at her. "Not one for fermented mare's milk?" 

Sansa shook her head. 

He drained both cups, and then polished off the leftover half of Sansa's pie. When he started gathering up all the wrappers and napkins, Sansa asked, "Where should we go next?" 

"Home," was Sandor's reply. 

Sansa frowned. "We were just at home. I've only ever seen Sow's End in the daytime once, and I scarcely knew where to go. But I have you now, so you have to show me your favorite places." 

"Fine," Sandor grumbled. "I suppose there are a few that are halfway decent." 

Sansa made Sandor hold her hand as they navigated the crooked streets of Sow's End. This was no neighborhood for a lady like her. These were common folk who played ball games in the street, threw dice outside corner stores, and smoked cigars thicker than Sandor's fingers. In every alley, on every stoop, there were rebels in black clothes, skin punched through with silver. It was Sandor's court—he shook hands, offered nods or sometimes simple grunts. He held Sansa close and introduced her whenever someone called, "Oy, Hound! Who's the pretty lady?" 

"This is my little bird," he'd say. "Sansa Stark." 

"Enchanted," Sansa would reply, and she'd accept kisses to her hand and cheeks, blushing as Sandor stood by. The people were nice; the streets were gross. A breeze carried hot stable smell out from the gutters and alleys. Crushed glass dotted the walk, discarded flyers and street sandwich wrappers clung to the cobbles like paper-mache. Leaking bags of garbage idled on the curb and boiled like stew. None of the houses matched. Paint peeled on facades that wilted on crooked beams. Weeds grew from crumbing porch steps and flower boxes held nothing but cigarette butts. This was no place for a lady. 

It was a place for Arya, probably. Her and her mummer's troupe probably lived in a saggy wooden shack just like these, but the Braavosi version. Worse, she probably liked her shack! She was silly like that. She was silly like Sandor. 

They would probably get along. 

Sansa should call. It had been what—three moons since their last argument? Arya could never keep her mouth shut about Uncle Petyr. Littlefinger, as she would have it. It was so vexing, Sansa could scarcely stand it. Arya will never understand us! 

Sandor came to a sudden stop, and yanked Sansa by the hand to wrangle her back to him. She peered up to read the wooden sign that hung above their heads: Stonedoor Records.  

Sansa gasped and quite frankly squealed in excitement, which had Sandor grumbling, but he towed her inside. He stuck by her as she went through all the crates stuffed haphazardly with records. The titles were more obscure than what Sansa was used to, with creepy dark forest covers that matched all of Sandor's shirts. He explained them as best he could, and the shopkeeper, Errok, even let them listen to a few of Sandor's favorites. 

By the end of it, Sansa had an armful of albums that she toted to the register. While Errok began tallying everything up, she noticed Sandor staring at something in the display case just beside the counter. Inside sat a gleaming back record inlaid with silver runes, next to a colorful square jacket with a painting of a grisly bearded giant, stalking alone through snow-frosted woods. 

"What's that?" Sansa whispered. Sandor and Errok chuckled in unison, apparently sharing some private joke. So she pressed, "What's so funny?"

"That," Sandor started, "That is one of a hundred copies of Giantsbane's The Last of the Giants." 

"A legend," Errok put in. 

"A true collector’s item, that. Can’t play the damn thing of course, but it’s got to be the only copy this far south of the wall." 

"Well I want it," Sansa chimed. 

Two very narrowed sets of eyes landed on her. Sandor spoke up first. 

"That'll set you back a hundred Gold Dragons, little bird. If you're carrying around a hundred dragons in that little bag of yours, then I'm the fucking king." 

Well, it certainly was a little steep, but at least it wasn't two hundred dragons—that would truly be too much. Besides, the record looked so special, or at least, Sandor looked at it like it was very special. There was no reason she shouldn't have it. She would give it to Sandor, anyway. 

"I'll write a check," she offered up, already reaching inside her backpack. "My uncle won't mind. That's nothing to him, truly."

This time, only Errok laughed. Sandor's brow furrowed over dark eyes. "What did you say your uncle does again?" 

"I didn't, but, um—he serves as Master of Coin, for the Vale." 

"The Vale, as in all of the Vale?

Sansa nodded. 

"Fuck's sake," Sandor grumbled. "Buy that bloody record, girl."  

So she did. Errok wrapped it in a length of supple black leather, embossed with the word Giantsbane, then covered that in a few layers of brown paper, and tied it all up with string. He put it in black canvas bag, which ended up in Sandor's care, alongside Sansa's other purchases. 

Only after they set back out down the street did she feel the black spider of guilt creep along her bones. Be careful. Jeyne's words echoed in her head, a warning Sansa was somehow incapable of formulating on her own. 

Dropping a bag of dragons at a record shop in Sow's End was decidedly not careful. 

And walking down the streets of Sow's End, hand in hand with the Hound, was just as reckless. It didn't matter if these were his streets. Eyes stuck to them wherever they went, and Sansa found herself wondering, Are those Uncle's eyes? He had people everywhere, though there were more of them in the Vale and King's Landing. Uncle always knew what she did in King's Landing whenever she had a spare afternoon to herself. 

"How was your little trip to the Street of Seeds?" he'd say on the phone, casually, as if Sansa had given him any forewarning whatsoever. But she had learned to answer back just as casually, and especially nice. Uncle Petyr hated when she didn't play nice. 

He only called her once a week since she came to Oxcross. And if he did ask her about the dragons, she'd say she bought a new harp, a golden lute, or even another Minimarq. He was much too busy to travel west, so it's not like he would come searching for the evidence. 

She would be fine. He was far, far away. 

And he loved her. 

She would be fine. 

Still, Sansa held a little tighter to Sandor's hand. She put herself close, cast in the darkness of his shadow. I'm fine. 

Their next stop was Firestorm Books. They stayed for a little while, but the shop was cramped, hot, and rather loud. A group of people clustered in the back, a book club of sorts, engaged in a heated discussion about the Manifest of Freedom. 

Morbidly curious, Sansa bought a copy for herself, and they were on their way. 

They turned onto a block that Sansa recognized—the one with the wall of posters and all the shops she had found on her first day in Sow's End. This time, Sansa understood the rope and leather store a little better. It wasn't some sort of farmer's warehouse—everything they sold was meant to be used on people. 

During sex. 

Sansa blushed the entire time they were inside, and Sandor took so long looking around. Every time he picked up a new abstract tangle of leather and silver buckles, he'd turn to Sansa, sizing her up with a hungry stare. He even plucked a pair of leather cuffs off the wall and tried them out on her wrists. She could have died, simply sunk into the floorboards and made peace with the Stranger six feet below. 

The shop girl didn't pay them any mind. She flipped through a small paper leaflet and sucked loudly on a mouthful of sourleaf. She didn't even look up when Sansa came over to the big glass display case in front of the register. The case was full of collars, the kind that ought to be used on dogs, but were certainly intended for people. Most of the collars had thick leather bands and tall metal spikes, but a few were more delicate. Sansa liked one in particular—a half inch band of black leather with a golden heart charm dangling from its center. 

She set her fingertips to the glass—oh, she wanted it—but the black spider pulled her hand back. She was already pushing her luck. 

So they left empty handed. They walked for a little while longer, catching stares on every street. But around the next corner stood the soot black sept. It towered, throwing a thick shadow over the whole block. Bass boomed from beyond an iron-clad door three times Sansa's height. Like a ruby heart, it pulled her in. She stopped at the door and craned her head. She remembered the sept from her first visit to Sow's End, but she hadn't noticed the near invisible lettering: dark iron on black slate. Sansa squinted to make it out. 

The Black Cell. 

So this was a dungeon. But how on earth could a sept be a dungeon? 

"Let's go in," she told Sandor, reaching for the door. But her other hand was still trapped in his. He gave it one strong tug and she staggered back to face him. 

"What?" she huffed. 

"Sansa," Sandor snarled, throwing an agitated glance over his shoulder. "Don't." 

Sansa frowned; Sandor's grip on her strengthened. But she wasn't afraid of his fingers clenched around her own, not anymore. So she went on, "I liked the rope. I want to go in, I'll be so good." 

But Sandor barked back, "No, little bird. I'm not palling around with the daytime crowd, and that's that. We're going. "

He turned and pulled Sansa's wrist so fiercely her bones popped, but she dug in her booted heels. He had no right to be cross with her. She was a woman grown, a Stark, a lady, and she could do as she pleased. But when Sandor put his sharp eyes on her and plucked her by the waist, she became a little bird in an instant, snared in a steel trap. 

Sandor half-dragged, half-carried her into the nearest alleyway, his breath coming out in ragged fumes. He backed her against a sickly cold stone wall, caging her in with an arm on either side of her waist.

"What part of no," he rasped, "do you not understand?" 

His jaw clenched so tightly his entire face shook. Sansa's reflection danced in his eyes like flame; he was burning. Her heart fell. She wasn't a good bird—she had made a scene, on the street, for no reason. That wasn't how ladies behaved, even if their escort was a disfigured dog. They were noticeable. They were unlikely. 

It shouldn't be, came a voice from the furthest reaches on her heart. But she banished that thought, pushed away a looming tear, and whispered, "I'm sorry." 

A ragged sigh spilled out all over her. Sandor kissed her forehead, then the tip of her nose, and then he lingered on her lips. "You're fine, little bird," he breathed. "I'm sorry I lost my temper. If you truly want to go, we'll make a date of it another night." 

"I'd like that."

Sansa swept away the dark hair that hung over his scars. She cupped them, and ran her thumb along mottled black skin that barely clung to muscle and bone. My handsome hound, she thought, and she smiled up at him. They hovered in each other's air until Sandor's breath steadied. He hoisted himself up from the wall and grumbled, "Let's go home. I'm sick of being out." 

"Is it too much?" Sansa asked.  

"Aye," he answered, leading her away with a soft hand on her shoulder. "It's too much." 

They ended up stopping one more time. Halfway to Sandor's apartment, they passed by an open air Dornish market, thick with the scent of roasting meat and spice. Sandor groused to himself a bit—he was already goddamn hungry, and he didn't have much at the house. So they took a detour down the tight and smoky alleyway, crammed with rickety shop stalls. 

Sandor bought a whole rabbit on a spit, a dozen skewers of charred lamb, and a couple skewers of blistered peppers with cubes of white cheese for Sansa. He let her pick out some creamcakes from a baker, and then a bag of dried apricots from a produce stand. Then he picked up a whole basket full of lemons. "For lemonade," he told Sansa with a wink. She turned red as a roast hare. 

In the late afternoon, the sun hanging heavy on the tops of all the mismatched stone buildings, they arrived back at Sandor's place. They fell easily into ritual. Sandor hung up Sansa's backpack, she helped him wrestle off his boots, then he went to the kitchen for drinks. He returned with a bottle of beer and a glass of fresh lemonade, plus an overfull tankard of water for them to share. 

He started smoking hemp, of course. 

Sansa decided she would try it again, since it was just the two of them. She attempted her best puff so far, taking a huge breath and holding everything in until her lungs ached. Then she coughed and chased it all down with a few big mouthfuls of water. 

When Sandor asked what she wanted to listen to, Sansa requested Lady Forlorn's Battle of the Seven Stars. They had purchased a copy from the record shop, and Sansa was dying to learn about the namesake of her new t-shirt. Sandor fixed the record, and the room crackled to life with the sound of an electric guitar that droned like a dark, rolling tide. Sansa dropped her head into Sandor's lap while he finished up their joint. He ran his fingers through her hair over and over, and Sansa drifted away. 

She stood in a wide open field. A cool mist settled over the yellow grasses, as it always does on the dawn of battle. Sansa knew this battle—the battle of the Old Gods and the New. Like every young lady, she learned the story in history class. The Old Gods fought with bough and thunder, stone and rain. The New Gods fought with steel. 

The New Gods won. 

Both sides frightened her when she was a girl, but now Sansa felt the anguish of the Old Gods. Their rage was the guitar, melody breaking into discord, no resolve. It ground into Sansa's bones like an iron hammer. She should never have been afraid of the Old Gods—they had suffered the most. 

"How," she whispered. She had meant to keep that thought to herself, but Sandor's hand stopped midway down her curls. His eyes found hers.

"Do you like it?" 

Sansa nodded, and Sandor's right hand came to cradle her cheek. Sansa held him there. As the battle wore on, she prayed. I'm not afraid, she told the Gods. I know who you are. They were Father's Gods, and his father's Gods, and his father's, and his, as far back as the first man. They were a northern lady's Gods. They were the Stark's Gods. 

They were Sandor's Gods, too. 

When the clangor of the electric guitar faded back into mist, he asked, "What did you think?" 

"I loved it," Sansa hummed. "I love Lady Forlorn." 

"I'm glad," he replied. "You can put on whatever you like next." He pushed to his feet, tossed his arms up into a mighty stretch, and grumbled, "I need to lift." 

He left Sansa cold on the couch—rude. She peered over its back in uncomfortable half-repose. 

Sandor had already picked up two massive iron dumbbells and begun to put his big biceps to work. With every repetition, they strained against his sleeves, desperate to rip the seams in two. Sansa watched for a while—his physique was mesmerizing, a true feat of nature—but eventually she got bored. 

"I thought we were going to spend time together," she said, setting her chin on the wood edge of the couch and putting on her best frown. It was useless on Sandor of course. Through bursts of heavy breathing, he came back with, "We are spending time together. You're a smart girl, I bet you can keep yourself busy." 

Sansa frowned for a minute longer, then figured out how to make Sandor's words come true—his Silvertongue. The guitar sat in its stand in the corner of the room, amidst a pile of cords with a small amp box just beside it. She had only tested out an electric guitar once, at Danny's. She would have gotten that pretty Orland, if she hadn't discovered the Minimarq on the same day. 

Now was as good a time as any to try her hand again. 

So she shuffled over to the guitar, checked her lines, fiddled with the knobs on the amp, then switched it on. Sandor paid Sansa no mind, grunting away in his corner, as she tuned the instrument and began to finger her first chords. They were similar enough to the lute, and besides, Sansa was a smart girl. She'd had an ear for pitch before she could even talk—her mother had always told her so. 

As Sansa wove the chords into melodies, she walked the room, a black snake of cord following wherever she went. She fancied herself a traveling bardess, come to Ser Clegane's stronghold to share the songs of ages past. She started in on Florian and Jonquil, clumsy at first, but then slipping into the song as easily as a well-worn glove. 

On her tenth pass by the bookshelves, a bright red binding caught her eye. Two languages, embossed in silver, ran along the spine— Songs of Old in the common tongue, and the runes of the old tongue just below. Naturally, Sansa plucked the book straight from the shelf. She stepped over  to the couch, propped the Silvertongue at her side, then peeled the cover open. 

The book was beautiful. On each page there was a song scrawled in ancient runes, with black and white illustrations for accompaniment. There were spreads of forests, lakes, and mountains, riddled with magical creatures—children of the forest of course, then unicorns, sea snakes, and big hairy giants. Each song was its own adventure into the Age of the First Men. 

The only problem was that the book didn't list a single word in the common tongue. Sansa huffed—how would she ever learn the songs of the Old Gods without the words? 

Sandor came from behind, looming over her like a dark tree. "What's the matter?" he asked, wiping his brow with a damp t-shirt sleeve. He was all sweat now, no trace of spiced soap remaining.  

"I can’t read the runes," she fretted. She ran her fingers over the point of a unicorn's horn. "The songs look pretty enough, but I want to hear them." 

"Make some room," Sandor said, circling around to sit at her left. He took up the book, and flipped through to a page that depicted a girl with plaits down to her hips, bundled up in a thick, fur-lined cloak. He thrust the book at Sansa, then took up the guitar. 

"You’ll know this one, " he said. “I’ll get us started, but you’ll figure it out.” 

As Sandor strummed each chord, he helped Sansa sound out the runes. They were similar enough to the letters of the common tongue, and even better, she already knew the song. It was The Winter Maid, same tune and all, just in the language of the First Men. This was how her ancestors in the North would have sung it, when the Starks were their own kings. So Sansa sang along too, imagining herself as a Queen of Winter, draped in white furs, a direwolf sigil stitched proudly on her cloak. 

When their song finished, Sandor turned to another page. This one had a more gruesome picture—a great big knight burying a dark dagger into the chest of a white walker, wisps of hair sprouting from its gaunt skull, eyes white as stars. 

Sansa recognized the song as soon as Sandor began to play it. 

The Night That Ended.

Her father’s favorite. 

Sansa's heart froze to solid ice. She turned her head stiffly to Sandor. He sang. He sang like Father had, low and rumbling, though his voice was much deeper and dark as night. That was what Sansa felt: the cold, the darkness. A long winter with nowhere to roost. She was a little white wolf, on a snowbright field that disguised black fathomless depths below. One misplaced paw, and she would slip through to nothingness. 

Her family would be there, right where she put them. 

Sansa shattered with one heaving sob. I don't want to drown, she thought, and she sobbed again, but caught it in her hands. "No, no, no," came a rasp at her side. Sandor pulled Sansa onto his lap and pried her face clear. He tried to wipe her tears with a rough palm, but they flowed on. Sandor rocked her. He curled his arms tightly around her and kissed the top of her head. He was as soft as Father. Sansa cried harder. She pressed her face into his already damp shirt to soak it with tears. "Shh, little bird. I've got you. We don't have to sing that song." 

"I killed them," Sansa wailed. "It's all my fault. I should have died." 

"No. No, little bird." Sandor picked up her chin and gave her a stern look. He brushed a string of snot away with his thumb. Sansa sniffed, and said through a trembling frown, "I told. I told Lady Cersei that Father kept the Old Gods, and the next day—the next day—I didn't even say goodbye." Her face scrunched as another series of pitiful peeps forced their way out. "The last thing I said—I said I hated his stupid Gods. I said I was glad the heart tree fell."   

Sansa collapsed back onto Sandor's chest. It was as thick as centuries of old growth, a sturdy trunk with a red heart that pumped red sap into strong limbs. A safe place for a little bird. She wept. It had been a long night, the winter. The winter lived on, in her sleep, in her scariest thoughts and most haunting nightmares. But it wasn't winter in Sandor's arms. She was warm, high above the snow-frosted ground. 

"It wasn't right what they did," Sandor said, gently running his hand through her curls. "To your family, to the weirwoods. I shouldn't have fought for the King."

"But you did," Sansa whispered. 

"But I left," he replied.

"How?" 

"Discharge. Bad leg. Bad mind." 

Sansa pulled up from Sandor's chest. She found his eyes. They shone like hers. "Bad mind?" 

"We fought with fire, sweet girl." He picked up her cheek and swept away the last of her tears. "I can't handle fire. They let me go." 

Oh. "I'm sorry," Sansa said. She slid Sandor's necklace from beneath his shirt and clasped the weirwood in her palm. A shame, that good men were sent to commit such terrible evil. "Do you think the Old Gods forgive?" 

"I don't know, little bird," he answered with a sigh. "I can only hope." 

"You promised you'd show them to me, remember?" 

"I remember." 

"Well, when?" 

Sandor's lips twitched to a smile. "Pick a date." 

If there was anything Sansa was good at, it was picking dates. She loved having places to be. So she smiled back at Sandor, and smeared her snot on his shirt, and leapt up to get her day planner. She snuggled back into his lap and flipped the booklet open. The perfect weekend jumped right out. "The Blood Moon!" she chirped. She put her finger on the day, and beamed up to Sandor. It would give her a whole moon to prepare. He smiled back. "Perfect," he said. 

Sansa scribbled a note and shut the planner, but a gilded sheet of paper slipped out—her invitation to the Warden's name day celebration. Sandor caught it midair. "Going to court, are you?" he asked. 

Sansa blushed. "Well—I probably should, but—"  

"I got one too. Used it to wipe my ass." 

"Sandor," Sansa gasped. She gave his chest a playful smack, then sheepishly asked, "Do you still have your papers?" 

"You mean am I still a Ser?" 

Sansa nodded. 

"That I am. Ser Sandor Clegane, at your service, my lady." Sandor winked and bent down to nip and Sansa's nose. She twisted away, but next his hand invaded for tickles. He went for her armpit, then her belly, and absolutely milked her for laughter. He was the silliest knight in the Seven Kingdoms! 

"Stop," Sansa huffed between giggles, batting meekly at Sandor's hand. "I mean it. I'm a lady." 

Sandor yielded. He decided to assault her with kisses instead. He planted them all over her face, even licked her, until the stiffness of her tears was long gone, and only a smile remained. 

"You are a lady," he said, putting one final kiss on her forehead. He lingered there. "And you're mine."

Chapter Text

Sansa loved being the Hound's girl. 

It meant they got to talk on the phone every single day. Sansa would creep out after the other girls had gone to sleep, curl up with the receiver in her favorite velvet armchair, and swap stories with Sandor until she drifted asleep. He would wake her back up eventually, when he got tired of listening to her breathe. 

Sometimes that would take hours. 

Then she would shuffle back to bed, careful not to wake Jeyne, and steal a few more hours of sleep. In the morning she would wake, bleary-eyed but still somehow energized, to face the new day. This was her new routine. 

If she didn't call from Hetherspoon, she'd call from the music building, Plumm Hall. Her two favorite hobbies were talking to Sandor and making new music, so it was nice to combine them both. Plumm usually cleared out shortly after dusk, which meant Sansa could lug the whole hand set into the practice room and show him all the songs she'd written for Wylla's house show. He was her biggest fan. 

On one of those late nights, shacked up in the practice room, they made plans for their first proper date. The room was rather small, so Sansa curled up in the corner, her knees pulled to her chest. Her backside had already gone numb from sitting so long, but she'd have to lose feeling in her entire body before hanging up on Sandor. 

Their plan was simple: dinner and a show. Dinner would be at the Golden Pit, a Meereenese restaurant that Sandor said was better than decent. The show would be at the Black Cell. Sandor didn't say much about what to expect, and when Sansa asked what she should wear he answered, "Whatever you like, little bird. Maybe that schoolgirl outfit, the one you wore the first time we met." 

So she picked that one, of course. She put on her black sweater with the bishop sleeves, her black pleated skirt, and her black boots. She added knee-high socks this time, for a little extra schoolgirl flair, knowing full well what it would do to Sandor. Her braids took her an entire hour to weave, but when she finished, two perfectly symmetrical milkmaid's plaits fell to her hips. 

Sansa didn't even second guess her appearance tonight. She knew Sandor would make a meal out of her. 

When he met Sansa at the train station, he swept her up and backed her against the shabby wooden schedule board. He spent a good five minutes with his mouth on her, working over the skin on her face and neck, then pulling down the hem of her sweater to plant a few dozen kisses on her collarbones, too. His hands stayed under her skirt the entire time, entrenched in her upper thighs. 

For once, Sansa was glad that the Butcher's Station was very, very dark. 

Eventually they walked hand in hand to the Golden Pit. Like most places in Sow's End, Sansa had never seen, or smelled, anything like it. Soft candlelight filled up the cozy interior. The stone walls were draped in boldly patterned silks. There were no chairs, only bright cushions and teak low tables, topped with tealights in colorful glass bulbs. 

A dark-haired woman in a purple tokar led them to one of these tables in the furthest corner of the dining room, per Sandor's request. He slid to the backside of the circular table, and had Sansa sit right at his side. When their server, a young boy no older Arya, brought them menus, Sansa furrowed her brow. The wrinkled sheet of parchment contained an extensive list of dishes, each one written in Valyrian, Ghiscari, and the common tongue—far too many choices. 

She asked Sandor to help her pick, as long as she got to decide on dessert. He agreed.

In no time they had their drinks: a pale beer for Sandor, and a sparkling white wine for Sansa. She loved the wine. It tasted of fresh grapes, perfectly ripe, and the bubbles tickled her tongue with each sip. By the time the food arrived, she was already on her second glass. 

The food, well, the food was something else. Sandor demolished each dish as it arrived, eating honey locusts by the fistful, then an entire bowl of tomato goat curry, and a side of pickled yellow mushrooms. Sansa liked the carrot and raisin salad the best. She soaked up all the garlicky oil at the bottom of the platter with the warm flatbread that their server brought them by the basketful. 

"It's prathya," Sandor said about the bread, in between sloppy mouthfuls of curry. "Not to be confused with chyatra. Very different, little bird. Prathya is roasted in a clay oven, and chyatra's cooked on an iron griddle." 

Sansa didn't totally get the difference, but she ate the bread all the same. 

Sandor explained more about the food, and she listened diligently. But after another glass of wine, she couldn’t stop herself from bringing up their trip to the mountains. They would be staying at Sandor's keep for two whole nights! “The keep isn’t much,” he kept saying. “It’ll be more Oldstones than Casterly Rock.” 

Sansa didn’t care if they slept naked in the mud, as long as she had Sandor for company. 

She told him as much, and he had a nice, long laugh. 

The best part of dinner was dessert—poached pears in coconut cream. Sansa knew as soon as she saw it on the menu that she had to have it. Caramelized pears swam in a thick sauce of honey and sweet wine, all atop chilled coconut cream. Each bite melted in her mouth and made her taste buds sing.  

After the last spoonful of pear, she slumped onto Sandor. "That was delicious," she sighed. 

"I'm glad you liked it, sweet girl." He set a palm on the back of her plaits and planted a kiss on top of her head. "I have something else for you." 

Sandor reached into his back pocket and pulled out a black velvet box tied with gold ribbon. When he held it out to Sansa, she straightened up. 

"Can I open it now?" she asked. 

"Of course, little bird. Go on." 

Sansa took the box and tugged the shiny ribbon loose. When she lifted the lid, she gasped. A black collar with a golden heart charm sat atop a satin cushion. It was the very same one she had seen at the leather shop and chastely abstained from buying. 

"Oh, Sandor," she breathed, setting a hand to her chest. "You shouldn't have." 

"But I did," he came back. "Open the locket."

A locket? Sansa hadn't realized the charm was a locket. With shaky fingers, she prised open the clasp, and her mouth fell open. 

A hand-penned portrait of a black hound stared back at her. It was tiny, no bigger than her thumbnail, with crosshatched lines as fine as hair. Sansa would have expected a picture of Sandor of course, but somehow a drawing struck her as even better. No boy had ever made art for her. Pictures, yes. Joffrey had given her plenty of pictures of himself. But a drawing?

It must have taken Sandor hours. Hours he would have spent thinking of her. 

Sansa looked up to him, stunned. 

The burnt half of his lips twitched up to a smile. "For my girl," he said. "Let's put it on." 

Sandor eased the collar from the box, and Sansa swept aside her plaits so he could fix the golden buckle at the back of her neck. She liked the feel of leather curled around her throat, weighed down ever so slightly by the golden charm. When she set her fingertips to it, her heart swelled. There was nothing to do but throw her arms around Sandor's thick middle and find his heart, too. It thumped against her cheek, quick and strong. Twice as strong as hers. My ruby, she thought. My living gem.

It took a second, but Sandor's arms landed around her. He tucked her head beneath his chin and breathed deep. "You didn't say if you liked it, little bird." 

"I don't like it," she mumbled into his chest. "I love it." 

Sansa left the Golden Pit full-bellied, her cheeks rosy from three glasses of wine. Sandor guided her down the street with his arm slung around her shoulders. Sow's End crawled in the night. A trio in patchy clothing battered unfamiliar songs on drums made of stretched alligator skin. Dozens of mustachioed men gathered outside a cafe to smoke cigars and shout over a radio broadcast of a football game. Punks filled in the gaps. They hid in alleyways and blasted metal from portable stereos, or posted up on empty curbs with double tall cans of Blue Rose partially sheathed in paper bags.  

People parted as Sandor and Sansa passed. Some stared, but when Sansa smiled, they smiled back. These could be my streets too, she thought. 

As long as she had her hound by her side. 

He was more than by her side. He was above her and over her like a mighty oak. Sansa sheltered in his hold as they walked, and she nearly forgot— 

The Black Cell.

Heavy bass lured them to the entry of the towering black sept. Sound and light pulsed from two-stories tall stained glass windows, cut with mosaics of rainbow demons, horned, fanged, and scowling. Torches blazed in iron sconces along its slate facade. It was alive in the night. 

Sansa shrunk into Sandor, and he helped her inside. 

Thick clouds of spiced incense smacked her in the face. Incessant bass swallowed her heartbeat and shook her down to the bone. Sansa blinked back tears, waved away the smoke, and knew—this was no true sept. 

Seven black marble columns shot up from the floor to a domed glass ceiling, high as the sky itself. Each column was carved with a pile of skulls at its base, and winged bats at its capital. Wights, demons, dragons, hellhounds, and shrykes were cut the archways in between. The marble creatures seemed to moan and snarl in the flickering torchlight. 

Oh, the Seven would absolutely despise this place. They would especially hate that instead of their likenesses in the seven points, there sat great marble plinths, each one topped by a dancer. They wore costumes the likes of which Sansa had never seen, like mostly-nude medieval gaolers, or perhaps prisoners. Small leather cutouts covered their most private parts; chains dangled from their hips and shoulders, and in some cases, their nipples. Was it rude to stare? Sansa was definitely staring. The sparsely-dressed dancers gyrated as if they were, well, making love to the air. 

Sandor pulled Sansa through the smog and music and the crush of bodies. It was a dense sea of black clothing, black makeup, and sparkly piercings. Sansa fit in somewhat, though she'd need dark lipstick, a few tattoos, and a nose ring to look the part. Uncle would hate that. Sansa tried to think if she would, too. 

Sandor brought her to the bar and ordered. He got a stout glass half-full of liquor, and put a glass of clear liquid in Sansa's hand. "Seltzer," he shouted over the roaring bass. Perfect—it was far too hot for more wine. Sansa felt her sweater sticking to her armpits already. She almost envied the nudity of the dancers! Sandor took her to the Stranger's corner of the sept. A dark marble bench wrapped around the alcove, with round tables set every few feet. Sandor claimed one and pulled Sansa in close. 

So this was a dungeon. Sansa was in a dungeon. It wasn't so scary. It was like the Den, but bigger, smellier in a good way, and honestly, prettier. The marble surfaces were smooth and polished; there were no cobwebs in the corners, or grime on the windows. And their dancer, the Stranger, was simply baffling. Everyone knew the dark god was neither man nor woman, and so too was the person on the marble pedestal before them. They had long black curls to their chest, but they had a flat chest, a wide waist, and a soft belly. They wore a tiny leather skirt that swished as they rolled a dragon glass skull along their arms, as fluidly as a river. 

Sansa could have watched the Stranger forever, but torches burst to life in the center of the sept. They circled around the biggest stage of all: a massive seven-sided jut of dark marble at least five feet tall. A heavily muscled man wearing patent leather from the neck down pushed up the steps, towing something on a leash behind him. 

A woman. 

A naked woman. 

Sansa's mouthful of seltzer spurted gracessly back into her glass. 

But no one else seemed surprised as the man tugged the woman across the stage. He made gestures and she performed tricks. She sat, and rolled, and fetched. Then the man had her kiss his boots, and nuzzle his rather obvious erection. Sansa turned beet-red when the man unzipped his pants and took the whole thing out. 

He made his pet do all sorts of things to him. In public, on a stage. Sansa could only watch for so long before she buried her face in Sandor's armpit. 

And of course, Sandor laughed at her. His chest bounced and jostled her head. Sansa stayed put, stewing in her prudishness. Sandor liked this, Seven forbid. He liked watching people have sex, and he liked making her suffer through it with him. 

She only looked up at the sound of a loud shout. 

"Oy, Hound." A stocky, squash-faced man in a studded leather jacket staggered towards them, and Sandor tensed so fiercely that he pushed Sansa away. The man stopped at their table and leaned in close. 

"It's been a while you old dog," he called over the music. "Listen, do you want to buy any—" 

Sandor shot up to standing and hoisted the man over the table by his collar. He put the man's forehead to his and snarled, "I'm with my girl, you daft fucking cunt. Make use of your eyes next time, or I'll have them out for good." 

Sandor shoved the man hard enough that he toppled onto his back and skidded across the floor, parting and startling the crowd. Countless cruel eyes landed on Sandor. He cut them all down with a much sharper stare, then dropped back to the bench, still fuming.  

"Who was—" 

"Don't start, little bird." 

Sandor gave her the same look he had given everyone else, so she stayed quiet, thinking of what kinds of things he would buy. Records, or drawings, perhaps. But why would that make him so angry?  

Another intruder came to their table, a much prettier one. She stood nearly as tall as Sandor in platform boots and a flowy floor length gown, slender as a willow, her mahogany skin glowing. When she pulled up a chair and took a seat across from them, Sandor didn't tense up. 

"Sandor Clegane," she purred, her plush lips pulling to a smirk. "We've gone far too long without your company. Who's your pretty friend?" 

When a pair of soft amber eyes met Sansa's, she blushed, but managed, "I'm Sansa. What's your name?" 

"Amayana," the woman answered. "A pleasure. Tell me Sansa, how do you like our club?" 

"Um, well—it's quite, um—impressive." 

Both Sandor and Amayana got a laugh out of that, and Sansa's cheeks grew even hotter. What on earth was she supposed to say? There was a girl on leash a few dozen feet away, totally naked, with an angry red cock in her mouth. It wasn't horrible, but it was certainly something she would never forget. 

"The little bird is a proper lady," Sandor put in, swirling his glass of rye. "But when she blushes, it means she likes it." 

Regrettably, that made Sansa blush even more. 

Amayana clicked her nails on the table. They were long and pointed, painted metallic silver like five miniature daggers. When Sansa looked up, Amayana was smirking. She reached out and lifted Sansa's hand from her glass, then spread her palm wide. She sunk a single sharp nail right into its center. Sansa's breath caught and electricity fizzled up her spine.

"Tell me, Lady Sansa," she said, twisting her nail deeper. "Do you wish to confess?" 

"Um…." 

Sansa looked to Sandor. He took her hand back from Amayana. "Not tonight," he growled. He knit their fingers together and stowed them atop his thigh. "She's been a good little bird."

Amayana floated up to standing. "Some other time, then," she called down to them. "We'll have a booth ready." 

With a swish of silk wisps, she was gone. Sansa turned to Sandor. 

"A booth?" 

"Another time, little bird," he told her. "Another time." 

Sansa didn't press the issue. She sipped her drink, and tried very hard not to look at the stage. But when loud smack and a scream echoed through all seven chambers of the Cell, she had no other choice.  

It was worse this time. Much worse. 

The pet must have made the man mad. She was on all fours before him, her round bottom rosy red, because the man was hitting her. He spanked her with black paddle, over, and over, and over again. The woman's sounds were as wild as a harpy's wail. Every time she cried out, Sansa gripped Sandor's hand even tighter. 

"He's hurting her," she fretted aloud. 

"Not quite, little bird," Sandor answered, nonplussed. "She's learning a lesson." 

Sansa's brow furrowed. Learning a lesson?  

Then she realized. 

The woman broke the rules. She was supposed to be a good pet and do as the man told her, but she had misbehaved. Why on earth would she misbehave if she knew the consequences? Sansa knew better. No one had ever spanked her—she avoided punishment like the bloody flux.

Who in their right mind wanted to be hurt? 

Who in their right mind liked this? 

Sansa's heart clenched when she realized she already knew the answer. Sandor watched the stage with an unwavering stare, flame dancing in his eyes. Overcome by curiosity, Sansa inched their intertwined hands further up Sandor's leg. 

Then she went a little further up. 

And further. 

And just that much more. 

Sansa's blood ignited when she grazed the edge of his hardness. Of course Sandor liked this—he wouldn't be the one to get hurt, he'd be the one teaching the lesson. 

Sansa had blushed a lot since she met Sandor. No one else in the whole world knew how to tease out her bashfulness like he did. But when he slid Sansa's hand all the way over the stiffness in his jeans, her blood steamed straight out of her skin. She was nothing but a crimson fog by the time he looked down on her, lips curled to a predatory grin. No one in their right mind likes this, Sansa thought. So I must truly be mad.

As the show wore on, she stayed hot. She couldn't hear her pulse, but Seven forbid, she felt it. Her lace panties clung to her flower, slick with dew. She crossed and uncrossed her legs, hoping desperately to trap it all in, but the cool marble beneath her bare bottom only grew hotter and damper by the minute.  

At the very least, she knew Sandor was suffering the same. Her held her palm on his bulge for the entire show, until the man gave the woman a big kiss, a biscuit, and plenty of pats to her head. He led her off stage, and they disappeared into the crowd. 

Just as soon as they had left, a new performer pushed up the steps, lugging a great wooden crate by a chain. It was a woman in skintight leather and thigh-high boots with heels of sharpened steel. After she dragged the crate to centerstage, she hoisted the lid, and began tossing cables to and fro. A series of invisible hands connected all her lines, and she began to play. 

She had a turnable! Sansa strained to make out the equipment, but she was sitting much too far away. She leapt from the bench and tried to pull Sandor up, too. "I need to get closer," she said, two small hands tugging feebly on one of his. "I want to see what she's playing." 

"I'm not going up there," Sandor grumbled. "I hate crowds." 

He hated crowds? That was stupid—he was a musician. The Den was nothing but crowds.

So Sansa tried harder. "Please," she begged. "Pretty pretty please." 

"I said no." Sandor jerked his hand away and Sansa toppled back. She gave him a wounded look. He glared for a minute, then tersely said, "It's too much." 

Oh.

Sansa's heart fell. She didn't want to be sad, but she frowned down at her boots anyway. Didn't he like music? Didn't he like Sansa enough to stay by her side? Sandor picked up her hand and gave it a squeeze. "Come now, little bird," he said. "You go on up there. Take as long as you want. I'll be right here." 

Sansa beamed. "Truly? You promise?" 

"I promise." 

Sandor pulled Sansa down into him for a drawn-out kiss, then sent her on her way. 

She cradled her golden locket as she slipped to the front of the great marble stage. The woman spinning records caught Sansa's eye and smiled. Sansa smiled back. The block script logo on her sturdy black turntables: DNZO. Imagine, a pretty girl playing a radio quality machine! She had the softest golden eyes, a round face like a doll, and two puffs of black curls on her head that glowed like clouds in blue moonlight. 

Best of all, she was making new sounds. Sounds Sansa hadn't heard before. The bass scraped low against the marble floors, like an iron ball tethered by a chain. Sansa swore she saw the columns shake and the panes of stained glass quiver and quake. The sound seeped into her blood, and she danced. You have to dance a new dance for new sounds, of course. Sansa matched the bodies beside her—her head bobbed, her hips swayed, and her arms went up, twisted toward the ceiling. 

Sansa lifted her chin, too. The ceiling was the sky, a big black beyond. The light of the moon and the stars kissed her. The bass carried her. She lost her own weight. The Seven were nowhere to be found—no frowning Gods here, up so high. Only me, Sansa thought. 

She danced herself sticky. She elbowed men who got too close. She joined a circle of girls who complimented her braids and sweater. She took a puff of an offered joint, and a sip of sparkling pink wine. "Who is she?" Sansa asked, glancing to the Lady DJ. The answer: Missandei. 

Sansa could have listened to her play for an eternity. 

But at long last, the music faded, the crate was repacked, and the torches extinguished. 

Sansa tiptoed to see above the packed sept floor. Sandor sat in the same spot, in the Stranger's far off corner, reclined in the shadowy alcove. His eyes met Sansa's immediately. His eyes might not have left her the entire time, the way he stared—steadfast, wolfish, in wait. He had a hand cupped over his square chin, and ran his thumb along the edge of his jaw. 

Slowly, gaze unwavering, he pulled that thumb down the hollow of his throat. 

Time for bed. 

Sansa braved the crowd, unapologetic in her use of her elbows and arms to part one body from the next. Her brashness drew attention. As she moved, people cleared from her path. Eyes went from her, across the sept, to her destination: her hound. She stood taller, chin up, locket high and sparkling in the torchlight. She belonged. 

Sansa grinned. Sandor grinned back. 

They broke from the Cell into the blackened streets. Sansa curled herself around Sandor's arm, resting her head above his elbow. Their walk was unhurried. Sandor didn't mind stopping and listening to the musicians on each corner. First they listened to the drummers. Later on, there was a man playing Pentoshi sitar, and further on a blind woman singer, with a voice deep and rich as amber honey. The musicians knew Sandor. He gave each of them a palmful of coins, even though he was just a dockhand. He said they didn't have a house, any of them, but they still needed to eat. Sansa agreed.

She nestled close to Sandor. What safety there was, being a part of these streets. Being known. Lots of people knew Sandor in Sow's End, and it made Sansa wonder— 

"How often do you visit the Cell?" 

She peered up at him, and he gave her a half-smile in return. "Often enough." 

Sansa had heard that answer before. She realized she was asking something different. "But the girls there, do you—" 

"Do I fuck them?" 

Sansa blushed. She wasn't going to ask that out loud. It seemed sad, sleeping with prostitutes. Uncle abhorred the trade—he donated regularly to the campaign against it, the Coalition for a Wholesome Westeros. But the girls at the Cell seemed happy, and they were all marvelously pretty. Still, Sansa was too embarrassed to reply. She shrugged instead, and looked down to the two sets of boots working across the cobbled path. 

"The answer is yes, little bird. I've got an appetite." 

"But they're not your girls?" 

Sandor stopped and faced Sansa. He wrapped his palms around her neck, and pushed her chin up with his thumbs. "They're not mine, Sansa. You're my first girl." 

Sansa's heart missed a beat. "Really?" she asked. 

"Really." 

Sandor stroked along Sansa's jawline, and she held his wrists to make sure he stayed. He wasn't smiling, so she did. She had already had a boyfriend, which meant she was more experienced than him. She knew more than he did. She would prove it. So she told him, "I'm a really, really good girl." 

That got Sandor to smile his full white smile. He leaned down to put a kiss on Sansa's forehead. "I know," he said, lingering with his soft black hair lapsing at her cheeks. "And I've got another present for my good little bird." 

"What is it?" Sansa peeped. 

"A surprise," Sandor replied. His thumbs dropped to stroke the slender band of leather around her throat. His eyes flashed their hunger. "I think it'll go quite nicely with your collar." 

Chapter Text

The minute the apartment door closed, Sandor had his hands on Sansa. He went for her plaits first, curling a fist around each one and tugging them to lift her head. Then came his mouth, teeth sharp on her bottom lip, greedy as ever. His feral sounds filled up her lungs, one rumbling breath at a time. 

Sansa gasped when her backside collided with the arm of the sofa, but Sandor caught her waist to keep them pressed together. Sure hands untucked her sweater and dipped beneath to cup her breasts. He might have wanted to rip them clean off, with all the strength he used mashing and twisting until her nipples were two swollen rosebuds cloaked in lace. 

"It's been too bloody long," he growled at her ear. "I ought've had my way with you at the station." 

Sansa mewled, but the sound only stoked Sandor's appetite. He shed Sansa’s layers until she stood in nothing but her bra, her panties, and her schoolgirl socks. 

Sandor drank her in, deep, his forehead pressed to hers. 

"Gods, these are pretty," he said, sliding a finger beneath her waistband. "Where do you get all your pretty things?" 

"Um, well—" Sansa looked down at her matching night-blue underwear, patterned in sheer lace moonblooms that left little to the imagination. "This set is from my uncle, from a shop in Myr. He says it's the finest in the whole city." 

When she looked back up, Sandor's nose rumpled as though he'd smelled something rotten. He disentangled himself from Sansa, and a punishing chill ran down her spine. 

"Your uncle?" Sandor's eyes ran over her skin as if he intended to peel it from her bones, and not for pleasure. The unspoken threat made her jaw tremble. 

I'm not his, Sansa wanted to say. But all she got out was, "My uncle—when my mom died, and my aunt—he was all I had. He—he just wanted me to have nice things. There was no one else, and he just wanted—" 

"That's enough," Sandor snarled. "Get that shit off of you." He gestured, but he wouldn't touch her now. "Buy yourself something better." 

Sansa doubted she could find something better quality than what Silken Spirit had to offer, but she was certainly old enough to choose her smallclothes. She wouldn't even have to tell Uncle Petyr—she'd simply put on his favorite set the next time he came to visit. 

But I'm not his, Sansa told herself again. I belong to Sandor.  

When she had taken off the offending garments, Sansa came to where Sandor had retreated on the sofa. She settled on her knees, between the toes of his boots, to make extra sure he knew where her loyalties were. She smiled at him, the cherry on top. 

His scowl softened. "Good girl," he said down to her, picking up her cheek. "Are you ready for your other present?" 

Sansa gave an eager nod. 

Sandor reached into his back pocket and took out a small bundle of leather cord with a golden clasp on its end. When he unfurled the cord to its full length, clutching it by a looped handle, Sansa gulped. 

A leash. 

Oh, Seven forbid, she should have known. She should have expected this, and still, heat descended on her like a flood, filling her cheeks and pooling between her legs. Even more predictably, the carnivorous glint returned to Sandor's eye, and his half-burnt lips pulled to a smirk. 

"I think the little bird likes it." He took up her locket and hooked the leash to her neck, then gave it a test tug to win her eye. "And she's quick to learn." 

Sansa's thighs tensed together. Sandor was too good. Not only could he read all her dirty thoughts, he was horribly nice. He knew what Sansa wanted to hear, and right now, she wanted to know that they were playing—that this was all a game. 

"I'm your pet," she said, because it was the new truth. 

Sandor's thumb brushed her lower lip, then pressed inside to trace her teeth. A treat. Sansa held him there, giving him her tongue in return. 

"That's right," he replied. "You're my little pet bird, and I'm in charge.” He pulled out from her mouth and dotted the tip of her nose with his spit-soaked thumb. “You're going to do exactly as I say." 

"Everything?" 

"Everything." 

"What if I don't want to?" 

Sandor shifted his seat, exhaling deep and stretching his boots beside Sansa's hips to trap her in. "We're not saying no tonight, little bird." She must have looked as trapped as she felt, because Sandor went on, "We're going to use a new word for no. If it's too much, you're going to say nightshade. Do you understand?" 

"Nightshade," Sansa repeated, to try it out. "But what happens if I say no?" 

Sandor jerked the leash up and dropped to meet her halfway. "If you say no to me tonight, sweet little pet, there will be consequences." 

The reactionary thump of Sansa's clit forced a whimper out of her. Consequences. She thought of the paddle, tender red skin, and shouts that reverberated deep in her bones. She decided right then that she would be a good pet, the best pet, the kind that never gets spanked at all—just like always. She would follow the rules, and be very, very good. 

She told Sandor as much, and he lowered her back down. "I believe you, little bird, so I'll tell you what you're going to do first—you're going to clean my boots." 

Sansa glanced down to the black leather monsters perched at either side of her. They were covered in fine brown dust, mud caked along the stitching. It was nothing a damp cloth couldn't fix, but when Sansa rose to fetch one, Sandor jerked her right back down. 

"Not so fast," he scolded. "You're going to use exactly what you have." 

Sansa froze—she didn't have anything, she was stripped down to her socks. Unfortunately, Sandor heard her thoughts. He pulled in his cheeks and loosed a great glob of spit right between his knees. It landed on the floorboards with a sickening splatter. 

Sansa frowned. She hated spit. 

But she hated Sandor's aggravated sigh even more. He didn't pull the leash hard; he gave it a devastatingly light tug, enough for her to surrender to his steel eyes. "I've worked hard today, little bird," he told her. "I worked myself to the bone. And you know what I did after that? I took you out. I treated you to a nice little dinner, and I even let you choose the dessert. I gave you sweet presents. I showed you the Cell—remember how you begged to go? That's what I did today. So this is what you're going to give me in return. This is my present. Understood?" 

Sansa nodded, despite her reservations. He truly had worked hard. He had been so many places, and now, all those places were on his boots. Grime from the docks, the restaurant, the club, and the smelly streets of Sow's End. That was what Sansa was going to clean off. 

The word no lingered on her tongue. 

But no meant consequences. 

So Sansa puckered up, and she spit. She used her hands to smear the dirt crusted on dark leather. It took a lot more spit then she would have liked to loosen it all up. When her fingers got too dirty, she had no choice but to tug off one of her socks and use that, too. At least the sock made things easier. 

Her mouth was well and truly dry by the time his boots shone. She dropped the soiled sock and smiled up at Sandor. He smiled back. 

"Good girl." 

One of the black beasts stirred, moving from Sansa's side to rest between her legs. It split them all the way up until the very tip of his toe rested against her maidenhair. Then it inched closer, sneaking beneath her. When warm leather grazed her clit, Sansa was helpless. She mounted him, curled her arms around his calf, and she rode. 

Oh, it was such a sweet ride. 

She glided over the toe of his boot, using all her weight and wetness to give her pulse exactly what it wanted. Sandor was kind enough to help her. He angled his foot upward and held it rock steady. No matter how quickly she shifted, he supported her. He met her rhythm, rocking with her, because she had earned it. She was a very good pet. 

She was a slightly disappointed pet with Sandor shook her off and pulled out from her. He left his boot between her knees, glistening in the lamplight. 

"What a shame," he said with a click of his tongue. "You've gotten it all dirty again." 

When Sansa reached for her sock, he pulled the leash taut, and tossed her makeshift rag across the room. So she went for the other sock, but Sandor got rough with her. He scooped up her wrist, stacked both of their hands atop her head, and pushed her all the way down, until her lips met sticky leather. 

"Clean up your mess, little bird."  

He didn't leave any room for no.

Sansa scrunched up her face, and frowned harder than she ever had before. He was so gross. He was gross, but her mouth was opening up. Her tongue lapsed over the skin of the big, wild monster. She tasted her juices, and dust, and the bitterness of boot polish. She licked it all up, every last drop, until he was just as clean as before. 

Sansa did such a good job that she got a nice big smile, and extra praise that had her heart begging to crack her ribcage in two.

"You're so good with your mouth, little bird," Sandor said, palming the hardness in his jeans. "You're going to give me more of it." 

Sansa knew what he was asking for as soon as he began unbuckling. His cock came free, already stiff enough to stand on its own, though Sandor kept stroking it as he eased Sansa forward. She resisted slightly on instinct, but the collar dug into her neck, and she landed mere inches from the new beast, the big red one. 

Her favorite beast, admittedly. 

Sandor didn't even have to tell her this time. She pursed her lips, gathered up what she could, and released a great mouthful of spit on the tip of him. It slid down his length, but Sansa caught it with her tongue. She used her tongue the same way she used her fingers, running along his swollen veins, or sweeping along his favorite ridge. Her tongue was better than her fingers, sensitive enough to feel every throb and reach every corner of him. Her game became a conquest—she wanted to swallow his entire pulse. She had tried before and failed, but this time she was determined. She was going to do this all on her own. She groped for Sandor's hand, the one that wasn't tangled up in her leash, and she locked it up in hers beside his thigh. Then she brought her lips to his angry purple head, and she opened wide. 

It wasn't wide enough. 

She would never be wide enough, not truly. Sandor's girth squeezed past her teeth, stretching her jaw to its utter limit. Sansa took a second to gather her breath, to line up her tongue and feel his blood rage against her skin. He was throbbing so hard, practically convulsing against the confines of her lips. 

There wasn't any room to smile, but somehow Sansa did. She smiled and dropped lower, pulling in a few more aching inches, enough to induce a growl so wild that Sansa glanced up to make sure she wasn't bedding an actual wolf.  

She wasn't, but you wouldn't know from the look in Sandor's eye. 

He wanted to devour her, but he couldn't, because she was the one with her mouth on him. She was the one who controlled his pulse. They both knew this. So as Sansa drew in more of him, she kept her smile, and she kept her eyes firm on his. 

Sandor had no choice but to let Sansa do whatever she wanted. She was a good pet though, and what she wanted was to treat him as nicely as he treated her. When her tongue found a spot he liked, she would stay there. When she got tired of that, she would take more of him in. His length worked further down her throat, so far her throat tried to push him back out. 

He liked that feeling best of all. His face drew in tight, the only noise he could make was a breathy, "Fuck." And he couldn't even hold himself upright, he had to slump back against the couch until his pulse settled back down. 

But as soon as he quieted, Sansa did it again. 

And again. 

And again. 

She would draw her mouth all the way to the tip of him, then drop back down as far as her throat would allow, far enough for all his dark hair to tickle her nose. The tickling made her giggle, and the giggle made Sandor's cock turn savage. His hand broke free from Sansa's grip, fumbled across her cheek, then latched onto one of her plaits. 

He didn't pull it, he just needed something soft to hold, because Sansa wasn't feeling merciful. 

She did both her tricks at once—her tongue and her throat. Sandor squirmed the same way she did, bucking into her, breathing all funny. He couldn't even get a word out between all his rough grunts and panting. So Sansa went faster, chasing his pulse until there was nowhere left to go. 

She was so preoccupied with taming that silly beast that she forgot what happened when you won: seed.

Everything was magnified in her mouth, and this was no different. When his juices started shooting out of him, all hot and bitter, they sent Sansa flying up, too. He fell from her lips still alive with pleasure, a sticky white mess going all over his black shirt and jeans, then dribbling down to the base of him. 

When Sansa dared look up, she found dark eyes glaring right back. "Little bird," Sandor growled, kind enough to give her a warning. "Look at what a mess you've made." 

She opened her mouth to say, No, you made that mess, but a hand clamped her jaw. Sansa watched in horror as the other hand scooped up all the neglected seed, and drew closer. He was going to do it again; he was going to put that gross goop in her mouth and make her swallow. 

Sansa wasn't going to let that happen. She thought about saying no, and she thought extra hard about nightshade. But when Sandor's fingers slid into her mouth, she knew there was only one option. 

She bit down, hard. As hard as she would have on a tough tea biscuit. 

She got what she wanted—Sandor's fingers, gone—but she knew immediately that she was in trouble. Sandor howled, jerking his hand back and dropping the leash to clutch at his wounded fingers. 

This was Sansa's only chance to escape. She scrambled to her feet to make for the hallway, but Sandor caught her socked heel and tried to tug her back. He would have succeeded if Stranger hadn't come bounding to his master's lap, pawing and whining. Sandor's grip loosened just enough for Sansa to slip right out of her sock and down the corridor. She had mere seconds to decide where to go. There were only three doors—the bedroom, the bathroom, and something else. 

She chose something else, prying open the door and sliding inside. She sealed herself in with a soft click, and listened. 

Sandor was grumbling to himself, or perhaps to Stranger, but Sansa only caught every other curse. She stayed quiet as a little mouse in her hiding place—small, dusty, and pitch black except for a strip of yellow light below the door. But eventually Sandor got to his feet. Heavy boot steps thudded across the squeaky floorboards towards her.

"Little bird…" It was sickly sweet, the softest of threats. The boots came closer. "Where did you fly off to, little bird?" 

Thankfully, they passed by Sansa's door. They disappeared into the bedroom, came back, then the bathroom door creaked open. There was a pause.  

And then they turned. 

He was coming for her. 

Sansa backed away from the door, but she bumped into something metal—a shadow knight. She gasped, then clapped a hand over her mouth, but by the time she realized it was just Sandor's old Kingsforce armor, it was too late. 

Two dark shadows settled in her strip of light. 

Sansa shuddered. Her clit ached so desperately that she stuffed her spare hand between her legs. I've been bad, she thought, and for some reason that only made her shivers worse. 

"I know you're in there, little bird." 

Sansa pressed both her hands deeper onto herself, as if that would keep her whimpers and water in. When Sandor dropped a palm onto the door, a whimper broke loose. 

"It's time to come out. If you come out now, you won't get in trouble." 

He was giving her a choice. She could be the good pet she ought to be and surrender, or she could stay put and suffer the consequences. But she wouldn't be suffering, she would be learning a lesson. 

A solitary drop of dew trickled between Sansa's fingers and trailed down her inner thigh. She knew exactly what word to use if she wanted a lesson.

"No. " 

Oh, she loved the way it felt on her lips. She especially loved the exasperated grunt on the other side of the door, and the very long minute while Sandor had to figure out what to do with her. 

"Little bird," he tried again, his voice grave. "You need to come out, now."

"No," Sansa chimed. This no was even more exciting, because it didn't mean stop. It meant I want to keep playing. 

"I'm going to count to three, and if you don't come out, there will be consequences." Sandor breathed in extra loud to let her know what was coming, then exhaled, "One." 

He paused to give Sansa a chance to yield. She didn't.

"Two." 

She didn't take her second chance, either. 

As soon as she heard the start of Sandor's, "Three," she reached for the doorknob. But he was much stronger, and yanked the door so hard that Sansa came along with it. His sharp eyes stunned her, just long enough for him to scoop her by the waist and carry her, chirping and fluttering, down the hall. 

He kicked open the bedroom door. Sansa tried to fight, feebly flapping her wings, but Sandor used his big muscles to wrestle her over to the bed. He sat on its edge and positioned Sansa on her belly, her backside arched over his lap. Sansa clawed the covers, but Sandor kept an iron-tight grip on her leash. He wouldn't let her escape again. Sansa knew all hope was lost when he used the leather cord to bind her wrists behind her. Any squirming forced the collar against her windpipe, poaching her breath until she was forced to give up. 

With her cheek mashed into the bedspread, Sansa peered back at Sandor. He caught her eye and grinned.

"It's time for your lesson, little pet." 

He was so soft it hurt. His tone, his eyes, and his hands, Seven forbid. He swept a broad palm over Sansa's head, down her plaits to her buttocks. His hand stayed there. 

Warm.  

And dangerously soft. 

Sansa whimpered into folds of velvet, but she had nothing to absorb the stickiness between her legs. It would soak straight through Sandor's jeans. She was a messy bird, trapped in the lap of a hungry giant, by a length of leather and one strong palm.  

She needed to know what he was going to do with it. 

"H-how many?" 

"How many?" Sandor smoothed over one buttock, then the next, sizing her up like a quarter of lamb. "The little bird wants to know how many. That's a good question. How many do you think you've earned?" 

That was easy—"Three."

"Why three?" 

"Because—because you gave me three chances." 

Sandor growled, and his fingertips sunk deeper into her flesh, deep enough for his nails to bite at her skin. "You're a clever little pet, aren't you? A naughty pet, but a clever pet. We'll do three." 

The longest seconds of Sansa's life passed her by. This was the part she would never have seen on the stage—the anticipation. Sandor's hand idled on her backside, a far too gentle omen for the storm to come. When he lifted off, Sansa's eyes squeezed shut. 

When his hand came thundering down, she cried out, but her sounds were an unholy blend of scream and moan—there was another invisible part of her lesson. 

Pleasure. 

The sting of Sandor's palm against her skin was a sweet ache, another melody for her blood to sing. Even better, the force of his blow ground Sansa against his thigh, giving her clit the most bittersweet taste of relief. She wanted more. 

But Sandor was making her wait. He brushed the site of his smack, teasing every sore nerve and coaxing a pitiful noise from Sansa's lips. She wished more than anything she could have stayed quiet, because Sandor's brow sunk over his piercing eyes. 

"The little bird likes it," he mused. "Do you want the next one?" 

Sansa frowned—he was doing it again, feeding all her shameful thoughts back to her. Even worse, she knew she had to answer for them. So like a good little pet, she whispered, "Yes, please."  

And Sandor delivered. Sansa quickly learned his first strike had been merciful. An unforgiving palm connected with the same patch of bare skin and sent her lurching forward. Sandor braced her by the collar to keep her from flying off his lap. Her pulse sung in her throat and glowed on her smarting backside, but it was the worst between her legs. She tried to thrust her thighs together, but they were already too slick. Her juices streamed out of her with each agonizing throb. 

Sansa's squirming only made her problems worse. Her legs rubbed against him, and he was just as hot as her. The proximity was enough to drive her wild. 

"Please," she begged. "I need more." 

"Oh, little bird." Sandor swiped a finger along the inside of her thighs, extracting one long string of the stickiness within. "What trouble you are—biting, hiding, and now this. How can I be certain you've learned your lesson?" 

"I have, I promise, please. Please, Sandor. I won't get into any more trouble. I'll be so good, and I'll do exactly as you say, and I won't— oooow. " 

The final blow put stars in Sansa's vision. It turned her skin white-hot, so hot it became cold, so cold that it went numb entirely. Her breath disappeared, leaving only her heartbeat. It screamed on her behalf. 

At her side, Sandor's cock lunged. 

"That's a good girl," he soothed, reaching to wipe away a tear from Sansa's flushed cheek. "Did you like that?" 

She could only manage the meekest of nods, but it was enough for Sandor. His hand worked between her thighs again, but this time he went further up, to the part of Sansa that needed his touch the most. "Do you know what good girls get?" 

"Treats," she whispered. Sandor smiled. 

"Exactly." 

Two strong fingers sunk into Sansa's dew, and she buried her moan in the covers. Gods, she had earned this. She would never tire of Sandor's hand, his rings pressed warm against her entrance. He found all the best spots—the spots that forced out more noises—and he massaged them until Sansa's belly filled with achy warmth. 

Sandor was doing exactly what Sansa wanted, until a wet glob of spit landed between her buttocks. Her eyes shot up to meet his, and he answered her silent worry with a full-fanged grin. He smeared the spit deeper down, and before Sansa could protest, his thumb pressed inside her. 

Not inside her flower.

Above it.

Where it ought not to be. Where nothing should be. 

There were so many things to hate about it. First of all, it was gross—so, so gross. But Sandor liked being gross, which led to the second thing Sansa hated. The beast trapped beneath his jeans surged at her hip, thrilled by her disgrace, and her clit responded in kind, betraying her own arousal.  

What she hated most of all, though, was that it felt good. It felt so good that Sansa made a new sound, a pathetic sound, like a lame kitten starved for affection. And she was learning what her sounds did to Sandor. They turned him just as wild. 

His thumb went deeper. He held it steady as he began to plunge his fingers into her wetness. There must have been some wicked magic involved that made every stroke twice as electric, igniting every possible nerve, and Sandor knew. He bore into her, circling her walls, waiting for Sansa to gasp and then going even faster. 

Her backside ached, her skin on fire from Sandor's lesson, but even in her weakened state, she ground into his hand. She had to, because each roll of her hips pushed her against his thigh, giving her that much more release. She lost herself chasing her own pulse. She shouldn't have liked Sandor's thumb as much as she did, but he had it put there for a reason. It made everything feel good. Warmth collected at her center and ballooned, until every touch rippled like liquid flame in her veins. 

"Sandor," she whined. "Sandor, please." 

"Go ahead, little bird. Come on my hand." 

So Sansa did. She let go of all her heat, blood ablaze, heart echoing in every corner of her body. 

She rested in white bliss, and came back with her damp face nestled in the velvet bedspread, her thighs trembling. But Sandor's warm palm was there to stay her. He rubbed her thighs and the sore skin on her backside. He whispered, "I’m here, little bird. I've got you." He undid the leash and massaged Sansa's wrists. Then he scooped her up in his arms and cradled her as gently as a fluff-feathered chick. He petted her plaits, pushed the rogue curls from her temples, and put countless kisses on the top of her head. 

Sansa no longer shivered. She melted into Sandor's chest the way leaves seeped back into earth. His dense muscle shrouded her. His musk was her atmosphere. So silly, that a smelly man could bring such comfort. Her lungs burst with spice and sweat and stink. Sansa pushed her nose to his shirt and dragged in even more. She took a fistful of his damp shirt. 

My world.

"Are you good, little bird?" 

Sansa's eyes fluttered open. She was surprised by the softness in Sandor's face. He was all harsh lines—a sharp jaw, hooked nose, strong brow. His scars were harsh, too. A living wound so grisly that it should have sent her running for the hills. But the way he looked on her was anything but harsh. His eyes flickered like distant stars, a bright comfort amidst a sea of darkness. 

Sansa nodded. "I'm good," she answered, trailing her fingertips down his shirt. But when she dropped too low, she frowned. "I made a mess." 

There was such a mess. White splotches on black cotton, and worse, wet spots on his jeans. A big one on his thigh where Sansa had ridden his hand, and a smaller one just below his beltline. Sansa put a finger to it. "Did I do that one, too?"

Sandor laughed. "More or less." He took back Sansa's hand, kissed it, then set it on his scruff. "Don't worry about the mess, sweet girl. I'll clean up. I need you to tell me if there’s anything you need, anything at all.” 

“Anything?” 

“Anything.” 

Sansa thought of all the things she could possibly ask for, combing the sensations in her body. Her entire lower half ached from all her play. It was a good ache, but even so, she wouldn't need anything down there for a very long time. Beyond that, she realized something else. 

"I'm hungry," she told Sandor, setting a hand to her belly. "Can I have something to eat, please?" 

"Of course, little bird," he replied with a kiss to her forehead. "I'll be right back." 

He went off to the kitchen, but not before bundling Sansa up in her knit blanket and helping her settle on his pillows. His bed was almost as comfortable as his lap, and Sansa's eyes had just fallen shut when Sandor came back, a plate and cup in hand. He passed them off to her, and she beamed. Warm milk and a cream cake—a perfect treat!   

"Thank you," she hummed. "Can I eat in bed?" 

"As long as you don't spill on the sheets," Sandor said with a wink. 

Sansa blushed a bit, but he didn't pay her any mind. His idea of cleaning up was simply stripping off his dirty clothes and dabbing his sweat with a soiled shirt. He fell into bed next to Sansa and took her mug so she could eat. She couldn't stop smiling. It was too perfect. The cake, soft as silk, light as a cloud. A strong, handsome man by her side. A man who gave her cake and kisses and kind words. What magic there must have been that brought them together! He was a dark and welcome blessing. 

"That good, is it?" Sandor teased. 

"Mhm," Sansa replied. She swiped a fingerful of frosting from the plate and held it at his lips. "Open up." 

He complied, sucking Sansa's finger a little too clean before letting her back out. Then he stuck one of his great big fingers in the middle of the cake to pick up a whole sticky glob of it. "Your turn," he said, lifting the bite to Sansa's mouth. "No teeth this time." 

Sansa gave him a sheepish look. A string of dark red marks dotted his outstretched fingers, an unfortunate relic of her bad behavior. But she had learned her lesson, so she opened wide. 

The cake didn't make it into her mouth. 

Before she knew, Sandor shoved every last crumb onto her nose, in her nose, so deep she had to breathe from her mouth. But breathing was impossible, because she gasped from the shock of it all, and then Sandor had her pinned. He did what he always did, working his mouth over every inch of her face as if it was made of sugar. Sansa squirmed, and giggled, and kicked as he used his tongue and teeth to tickle her half to death. 

But before she absolutely suffocated, he put his mouth over her nose and cleaned everything up. Then he gave her a vanilla-scented kiss and growled, "You taste so sweet." 

"You're much sweeter," Sansa chirped back. 

It was the wrong thing to say to a hungry beast, because Sandor buried his face in her chest and started in on her breasts, licking and nibbling until her nipples were puffed and raw. When he finished his feast, he stayed there, nose to her breastbone, arms tight around her waist. Into her skin, he grumbled, "Do you really mean that?" 

"Of course," Sansa replied, putting a kiss in the softness of his dark hair. "You're the sweetest man I know." 

Sansa slept soundly that night, woken only once to Sandor twisting restlessly at her side. He was having a bad dream, the kind that makes you groan and mutter. He went from his back to his belly, side to side, then finally stopped and shivered, turned away from Sansa. She reached out and rubbed slow circles into his damp skin.

"Shh, sweetling," she whispered. "It's just a dream. I'm right here." 

She must have chosen the right words, because Sandor calmed. His mutters turned to snores, and Sansa curled close, so her body pressed flush against his backside. As she kissed the sweat from his skin, she wove her spell again. Sweetling, sweetling, sweetling, she thought. I'm yours. I'm here.

It was true. She was Sandor's girl, and he was her sweetling, the sweetest man she had ever known. Sweeter than cake, and even sweeter than honey. He was as sweet as the stars on the clearest summer night, his warmth the warmth of a million flickering lights. They were countless and familiar. They hid by day, and only in set against vast black depths did they shine the brightest.

Chapter Text

Professor Lefford passed Sansa the salmon pink slip of paper midway through her intermediate alchemy lab. All the girls knew what that shade of pink meant, so they giggled and whispered, and Sansa went red as an overripe cherry.  

She pretended to focus on the experiment at hand, something to do with soil types, but Jeyne ended up doing all the work for them. She was a considerate friend, a discreet friend, who didn't bother Sansa with questions while sweat seeped out from every corner of her skin. Her sweater was well and truly drenched when the clock struck noon. 

"Should I meet you back at—" was all Sansa heard before she shot out of the classroom, out of Brax Hall, and onto the quad. She wove through bodies and buildings, only brave enough to watch her own boots stomp along the grey cobbled path. If she had known about this meeting, she would have worn a much longer skirt, but it was too late now. 

Sansa arrived at the towering stone administrative building—a miniature castle in its own right—redder and sweatier than ever. The headmistress's assistant had Sansa take a seat in the lobby, so she perched as delicately as she could on the lip of a slippery, leather-upholstered chair. She nearly toppled straight to the ground when she heard her name called. 

"Sansa Stark," Headmistress Lannett beckoned. "Come with me." 

Sansa curtsied, smiled, and followed the golden-haired head of Oxcross College into her office. It was bigger than Sandor's entire apartment, the ceilings twice as high. Framed diplomas, pictures of campus, and family portraits of equally golden Lannetts lined the stone walls. The headmistress sat behind a pristine oak desk, totally clear except for a quill, a pot of ink, and a pile of sickeningly pink stationary. 

Sansa swallowed down her breakfast, and took another timid perch on a much slippier leather chair. The stuffed head of a lioness kept watch just behind the desk. When Sansa caught its glowering eyes, her porridge made a second attempt at escape. It took every ounce of courage to look at Headmistress Lannett instead. 

She was too pretty for her post. Her hair too blonde, her skin too smooth, and her green eyes far too sparkly. She had coiled what was certainly hip-length hair into a neat bun at the nape of her neck, and red satin covered the rest of her. Each tasteful piece of her jewelry was made of ruby and gold. 

Her smile was whiter than snow. 

"Sansa, my dear," she began. "You must be wondering why I've called you this afternoon." 

Sansa nodded, still afraid to part her lips. 

"Certain...whisperings have been brought to my attention. Talk from students and the Campus Watch. It is my intention to put any rumors to rest." 

After Sansa delivered another nod, the headmistress went on, "You know full well I have to report any suspicious activity to your uncle. His endowment to our college this year was more than generous, and our plans for Baelish Hall are well underway. It is imperative that we meet his expectations. Exceed them, even." 

Lannett paused to smile even wider. Sansa clenched her hands to stillness in her lap, though she wanted nothing more than to tear into her cuticles. The headmistress's smile didn't reach her eyes—they shone just like Uncle Petyr's, deceptively light. Sansa felt just as she did under his gaze, stark naked, fingers of black shadow crawling over her bare skin. It's over, she thought. And then, No, if it was truly over, Uncle Petyr would be here too.

"Would you like to know what has been said?" Lannett asked, unblinking. 

"Yes, please." 

"There's talk of trips into the city. Late night phone calls, and even later nights in the practice rooms. There may have even been an incident with a motorcycle, if our watchmen tell it true. This doesn't paint a very pretty picture, as I'm sure you know. But I feel kindly to you, so I'll give you an opportunity to explain yourself. Elsewise, I'll be forced to bring the issue to your uncle. Do I make myself clear?" 

"Yes, Headmistress Lannett." 

"Good. Now tell me, Lady Stark, what have you been up to?" 

This was Sansa's only chance. She had walked a thin line this past moon, and the path ahead was even thinner. One slip, and she'd lose everything. Though she hadn't been particularly cautious lately, her uncle had still taught her his art, the art of delicate words and sure feet on the thinnest of ice. She put her skills to use on him every time he called, and she'd use them again now. 

So Sansa smiled. She giggled, even, shaking her head and admiring her perfectly manicured nails. "It's so silly, really," she told her lap. "I think I might be the most foolish girl in all of Westeros." 

She looked up to find a curious look on the headmistress's face, one wrinkle between her two well-groomed brows. "What's silly?" she asked, pushing the words past bared teeth. 

"I'm trying to surprise him—my uncle. It's an impossible feat, I know, but I simply have to try." 

Lannett urged her on with a minute dip of her chin. 

"I've gotten a music teacher, you see, in Lannisport. Someone to give me extra lessons. I'm writing a whole album for my uncle, to surprise him on his nameday. Oh, it will be so wonderful when he hears just how much I've learned since coming to Oxcross. If I can truly surprise him, it will be the best gift I could ever give." 

Lannett's lips folded to a stern pucker. "Who is this music teacher of yours? You should be satisfied with Professor Turnberry." 

"It's, um—" Sansa fumbled for a name, any name. "Dayne. Wylla Dayne. With all respect to Professor Turnberry, Lady Dayne is one of the finest harpists there is. I sought her out as soon as I could, and it was pure luck that she had an opening for a new student. I should hate for the opportunity to go to waste, especially knowing just how pleased my uncle will be with my progress."

Sansa's cheeks had begun to ache. She could control her smile, but she couldn't control the blood that lingered hot on her face. She almost regretted wearing her oversized Lady Lioness sweater, all too sweltering over her button-up blouse, but the school spirit ought to help her case. Please, Sansa silently begged. Please take it as truth.  

When the crease disappeared from Lannett's brow, and she reclined in her too-tall puffed leather desk chair, Sansa dared to hope. 

"Very well," the headmistress said, lacing her slender fingers together. Her ruby rings glinted in the sunlight that streaked in from the windows. "As long as it doesn't interfere with your studies, I suppose you may keep seeing this teacher of yours." 

"Oh thank you, Headmistress Lannett, truly. It means so much to me—to my uncle." 

"I'll take your word, Lady Stark." She reached to adjust her pile of salmon stationary, though nary a sheet was out of place. "You are dismissed." 

Sansa rose, curtsied, and wasted no time scurrying to the door. Her fingers had just curled around the cold brass knob when Lannett spoke up again. 

"I'm doing you a favor." 

Sansa's spine stiffened as though an ice cube had dropped beneath her blouse. She turned to see all the supernaturally white teeth back on display, paired with knowing eyes that crept all over her face. 

"Be careful, Sansa. Be very careful." 

Sansa ran all the way back to Hetherspoon. Only when she had sealed herself inside her room did she allow herself to breathe, though it came in great shuddering gasps. She might have sobbed. She might have wilted to the soft oak floorboards and sunk into the cracks. But she didn't, because Jeyne sat at her desk, her perpetually baleful brown eyes wide as ever. 

"What happened?" she asked, pushing up from her chair. Sansa waved her back down, willed away the hot threat of tears behind her eyes, and dropped into her bed. It doesn't smell right, she thought sadly. To the ceiling she said, "She's noticed. The calls, the trips to the city, the late nights. The other girls, or the watchmen, or someone—they're talking." 

"So what happened?" 

"I lied," Sansa sighed. She closed her eyes so she wouldn't have to look at the picture of her mostly-dead family tacked on the wall. Would Father still be proud if he knew the trouble she had gotten herself into? Cavorting with a rogue knight, premarital sex, lots of sex, sex that was surely sinful as the Stranger themself? Oh, Maiden's love, what was she thinking? Sansa pressed her hands over her face to make extra sure Father couldn't see her shame. "I told them I'm seeing a music teacher in Lannisport. I made one up—Wylla Dayne." 

"Wylla Dayne," Jeyne repeated, now an accomplice in whatever scheme Sansa had wittingly begun. "So that explains all the practicing, too." 

"I'm supposed to be writing songs for Uncle's nameday, as a surprise. I'm seeing a teacher, and I'm making an album for him. That's my story." 

"But Uncle Petyr hates surprises."

Sansa needed Jeyne on her side more than anything, but in that moment, she could have clobbered her dim head into stone. Instead, she whispered back, "I know, Jeyne. I know." 

The rest of the day was a terrible slog. She still had arithmetic and piano. Then she had study group in the library for two impossibly long hours before dinner. Her dinner had no taste whatsoever, but maybe she didn't even take one bite.  

All Sansa could do was watch. She stared down every single girl in the dining hall, wondering which of them whispered to Lannett. Was it Carolei, who sometimes lingered in Plumm while Sansa practiced her new songs? She had asked one too many questions about the Minimarq, and she had even bought the exact same boots as Sansa. 

But she was always so nice. 

So perhaps it was Margot. She lived down the hall. She was only a Peckledon, so maybe she was jealous. Jealous that Sansa came from so much more, jealous that Turnberry doted on her the most for all her natural talent. She was so jealous she even started wearing a black silk ribbon around her neck. 

She didn't get it, of course. Sansa's collar meant she belonged to someone. That she was so good, and so special. 

At least to one person. One man. 

One Hound. 

By the time Sansa's cold pudding had gone warm again, she had decided they were all jealous, the whole sorry lot of them. If they noticed her calls from the dorm, if they overheard her saying Sandor's name, they were simply jealous. They wished someone cared for them enough to call them every day. They wished they knew someone half so handsome, or kind. All their boyfriends did was make them cry and scream at each other. 

Served them right for getting attached to self-obsessed noble boys. Sansa had already learned that lesson with Joffrey. 

These girls had yet to learn. None of them would dare to read Manifest of Freedom. None of them understood the tyranny of their own noble class. Sansa laughed into her one meager bite of dessert, thinking of what would happen if she brought up the redistribution of land next time she attended court. Or perhaps when Sansa offered to play the harp over cordials, she could floor them all with a flawless rendition of the Winter Maiden, sung in the Old Tongue. 

Bitterness was the only thing that filled Sansa's belly as she charged back to her room. They don't get it, she told herself over and over. They just don't get it. 

It was a poor excuse for a meal.

Well after sundown, Sansa knew she only had one reprieve. She picked up her Minimarq, and she fled to Plumm Hall. 

Her favorite little practice room, the one at the far end of the corridor, was miraculously free. Sansa set up her synth on the side table and began to play. She loved every song she had written these past few weeks. They seemed to sprout right out of her fingertips, each one a more lovely flower than the last. She had a full garden now, a familiar bed of blossoms that cheered her up every time she visited. 

She sowed, she pruned, but mostly, she sang. She sang until her lungs ached, and then she sang some more. Instruments came and went, they fell out of tune, but her voice was hers and hers alone. So she used it. 

When the hallway lights went dark, Sansa crept back out into the corridor. She poked her nose into the other practice rooms, then a string of classrooms, and even the few offices that filled up the first floor. There was no one, except for the maid, Bryn. When her soft-soled shoes scuffled across the floorboards, and the entry door slammed shut, it was time. 

The phone in Plumm was a flimsy olive green handset. It sat at the back of the hall, next to a dingy armchair that had far surpassed its prime. Sansa was almost ready to tow it back to her room, but then she glanced at her wristwatch, and remembered. 

Warriorsday. In all the excitement, she had forgotten that Sandor had band practice until at least eleven, and it was hardly ten. Sansa slumped into the armchair, which smelled vaguely of chalk dust and mildew, and she bit at her lip a little. She desperately wanted to keep using her voice, and she wanted to hear Sandor's, too. That would make the day all worthwhile. 

Before she knew, her fingers were dialing another number. Sansa twirled the cord and listened to the fuzzy tone on the other end. 

"Rytsas," greeted an unfamiliar voice in thick Valyrian.

"Um, hello, is—um—Arya there? I'm her sister." 

"Arya?" 

Sansa sighed. She never knew what to call her sister anymore. "Salty? Cat? Mercy?" 

"Mercy, yes." 

Sansa waited out some shouts, the distant stomping of boots, then footsteps so light they were barely audible. The receiver crackled, then came Arya's voice, crisp common tongue with a Northern edge. "You there Sansa?" 

"I'm here," Sansa replied, smiling. She tucked onto her knees as warm relief bloomed in her chest. Getting Ayra on the phone was always such an undertaking, but Sansa needed her tonight, this little slice of home. "What're you up to? How are things?" 

"Oh, same old stuff. Three shows a day, four on the weekends. Izembaro works us near dead. You'd think I'm fieldhand with all the bruises and scrapes I've got. But I'm alive, so I can't complain. I'm putting away money now, might join Marro when he heads down to Pentos." 

"Pentos? That would be quite the adventure." 

Arya scoffed. "Yeah, we'll see. What about you? How's school going?" 

"Um, school is good." Sansa smoothed down her skirt, picking off microscopic bits of fuzz that clung to the wool. "Midterms went well, I got high marks on all of them. So that's good. And, um—" she pulled in some courage with her next breath. Arya can know. She never whispers. "I met someone. A boy." 

"A boy?" Arya sucked her teeth. "Where did you find a boy at a girl's college? It's supposed to be dull as a wooden dagger." 

"Well, um, he's not a boy really. He's a knight." 

"A knight. So you've been keeping court at Casterly Rock?" 

"No, um—" Sansa's cheeks burned. Even from across the Narrow Sea, Arya knew just how to needle her. Or maybe it was the thought of her knight—tall, dark, and handsome—that made her blood too hot. "He's actually retired now, from the Kingsforce, and he lives in Lannisport. I went to one of his shows there, he's in a band, and he plays guitar, and he's really, really good." 

"I'm sorry, are you telling me you're dating a rogue knight in a rock band?" 

"Heartsbane is folk metal, technically, but yes." 

Arya's laughter went on for a very long time. She wheezed and sputtered, and smacked whatever hard surface was closest to her phone until Sansa was forced to hold the receiver at arm's length. She couldn't blame her sister for being so amused—the situation was nothing if not laughable. The most important thing was that when her laughs reduced to giggles and a few odd coughs, she answered, "That's so fucking cool. What's his name?" 

"Sandor." 

"Ser Sandor," Arya hummed. "That has a nice ring to it. But what's his family name?" 

Sansa sighed. "It's Clegane." 

"Huh, why does that—" 

"His brother was the Mountain, Gregor," Sansa replied before her sister could finish. The little puff of air on the other end meant she understood. "Sandor goes by the Hound sometimes. That's what people in town call him, but they called him that in the Kingsforce too, for his loyalty." 

"Yeah, about that. How does one leave the Kingsforce? Aren't you supposed to stay until, you know, death?" 

"He was discharged, for—um—his health. He's on the side of the free folk now." 

"Like dad?" 

"Like dad." 

They shared silence. Sansa's skirt was picked clean, so she tapped each one of her nails into her thumb in turn. Sansa missed her father, but sometimes she wondered if Arya missed him even more. She was so much like him. They had always been the best of friends. Father would hold Sansa close, and sing her to sleep, but he would ride with Arya. Spar with Arya. The same as he did with Rob, and Bran, and even sometimes Baby Rickon. 

No one would ever come close to replacing father for Arya. She had made that very clear. 

"You would like him," Sansa said, just to get rid of the quiet. "I think you would really like him. He's so tall, and a little dour. But he's handsome, and smart, and considerate, and really quite funny. He can smell out a lie better than anyone I've ever known. He's wonderful, truly, and—" she lowered her voice to a whisper, just in case. "We have sex, and I like it." 

"Oh, gross," Arya moaned. "I thought you were saving yourself for your prince charming, and a septon's blessing to boot. How do you s'pose mom's Gods feel about it?"

"I don't think I care much how they feel about me anymore," Sansa came back. "Besides, I did save myself for Joffrey, and he took me anyway. There was nothing left when I met Sandor." 

"Sansa, I didn't know—" 

"I know, because I never told you. But it doesn't matter now. Sandor makes me feel good. Really, really good, in ways Joffrey never did. We do things, like things in bed, that I didn't even know you could do. Sandor knows though, he knows so much, and he's teaching me all sorts of things. He's rather bossy, and we use rope to—" 

An aggressively loud burst of singing cut Sansa off. She blushed, and got the message. Too much—right. One moon ago and it would have been too much for Sansa, too. 

Worse than the singing was the silence that followed. Sansa knew this silence. The shadows crept in. 

"Sansa," Arya began. 

"Please don't," she replied. Tears were already heavy behind her eyes. "Please." 

"So he doesn't know. Of course he doesn't know." 

Sansa shook her head as if her sister could hear, lips drawn tight to keep in any whimpers. Arya sighed. "Well, I suppose the worst that could happen is that you'll end up like me." 

Sansa missed her chance to reply. There was a stern grumbling on the other end, some rapidly exchanged Valyrian, and what sounded like the crack of a whip. Then the line went dead. 

A few tears slipped down Sansa's cheeks. 

I miss you, she had meant to say. I wish you were here. I wish you could meet Sandor. But mostly, for the first time in her life, she envied her sister. Was that truly the worst possible outcome? 

Ayra was free. 

Help me, Sansa should have said. Help me to be as brave as you. 

Many minutes passed. Moonlight streamed in from the window, the only light in that long, empty corridor. Every so often, the air conditioning would whir to life, stir in more cold, then sputter back to silence.

Sansa loved Sandor's pet name for her, but sometimes, she worried she was just a helpless little bird. Maybe it was okay if she was just brave enough to pull the handset around the corner and shut herself back in the practice room. Just brave enough to crumple onto the floor, and dial the numbers she now knew by heart. 

When the line clicked, and Sandor answered with a gruff, "Little bird," Sansa knew, if only for a short while, everything would be okay. 

"Hi," she answered back, far too shaky and breathless. 

"Everything alright?"

Sansa put on her smile. "Of course." She giggled, too. Everything is okay. "Just a little tired is all. How was your day?" 

"Shit," he breathed out, alongside what must have been the world's biggest cloud of smoke. "Some cunt wheeled ten dozen barrels of arbor gold straight into the sea. Boss says it's coming out of all our pay. The boys roughed the guy up pretty bad. Came out looking like raw beef. I didn't hit him none, but I didn't put a stop to it either. Fuck." There was a crackling inhale, a big long pause, then an even bigger exhale. "But I'm better now that I'm home. Now that I have you." 

That made Sansa smile for real. "I'm glad I have you, too." 

"Where are you tonight, little bird? The dorm or the music building?" 

"I'm in Plumm," Sansa replied. 

"Thank fuck," Sandor growled. He shifted around—on the sofa, presumably—clinking bottles together and taking one last puff. Then came the click of his belt buckle, the unmistakable sound of an unzipped fly. After that Sandor breathed hard, the way Sansa usually made him, except she wasn't there to help. "Tell me what you're wearing, sweet girl." 

Sansa blushed. She couldn't help in person, but Sandor really liked if she helped over the phone. It was probably the next best thing. "Well, I only have one plait today," she began. She always started with her hair, and worked her way down. Sandor liked that. "I woke up late actually, so I didn't even have time to comb it, really. It's a little messy now, all falling out, and I haven't bothered to fix it." 

"Sounds pretty," Sandor said. 

"Maybe," Sansa replied, knowing full well that her loose curls would drive him wild. "I didn't spend much time picking out my outfit, either. I'm wearing my Lady Lioness sweatshirt, the really big one, over a white button-up. The blouse isn't anything special, I've had it since I was thirteen, I'm pretty sure. It used to be part of my school uniform. My skirt, too." Sansa tugged at her skirt. She pictured Sandor's hands on the skin she left exposed and smiled. "I think you'd like the skirt. It's plain grey wool, but I've probably outgrown it." 

"Is that so?" 

"Mhm." 

Sansa loved the sound he made in reply, one of those low rumblings deep in his belly. "How short?" 

"Really short. So short that when I sit down, it comes almost all the way up. I have to be careful." 

"Are you being careful now, little bird?" 

Sansa made him wait a bit, listening to the soft rhythm of flesh on flesh. He wasn't going fast, not yet. When Sandor grunted a warning, Sansa replied, "Not particularly, no." 

She smirked, because then Sandor did go faster. "Naughty girl, roaming around her little school with her legs out for everyone to see. You have pretty legs though, so soft and white. And so long. Gods, they're perfect. If I had my hands on you, I'd bend you over and see just how far that little skirt rides up." 

Sansa bit back a whimper. He had put a flush between her legs, as usual. She smoothed a palm over the front of her skirt, but didn't dip beneath. She wasn't bold enough for that. She would have to wait until next time she had her room to herself, which wasn't often, sadly. 

"What are you wearing underneath?" he asked. "The plain ones?" 

"Mhm," Sansa replied. "Plain black. The boring ones." 

The boring ones were a new acquisition. Sandor's reaction to Uncle Petyr's gifts had Sansa tottering off to Pence's to get a whole drawerful of the most simple, high cut briefs. She never, ever wanted to have Sandor ask after Uncle again. Sandor liked the plain ones well enough. He would be imagining them now: tugging them aside, putting his hand on her wetness. That's what Sansa was thinking of, anyway. 

"I want your hands on me," she told him. "I want them in me."

"Of course you do, little bird. I know you like that. You like them in your pretty wet cunt, and you know what else you liked? You liked them on your ass, too. You especially liked my thumb, do you remember that?" He paused to make sure Sansa blushed extra hard, then growled, "I know you do. You finished so quick with my thumb inside you. Next time I'll put my cock in. How does that sound, little bird?" 

"Sandor," Sansa gasped. "I can't—I don't know if—"

"Little bird…" 

Sansa sighed. "I could try." 

"Good girl. I know you can take all of me. And don't worry, I'd grease you up real nice." 

"Sandor," Sansa whined. Grease? That sounded dreadful. But Sandor was already laughing at her, as if he could see her pout from so many miles away. 

"You know when you say my name like that it only makes me harder." 

Regrettably, Sansa sighed again, louder. So Sandor got loud too. He made a noise that was part-animal, and his strokes practically turned into slaps. Sansa squeezed her thighs together and wished his warmth could be inside her, even if it was the wrong hole. "Grease makes it sound like I'm a rabbit on a spit," she moped. 

"Maybe that's what I want," Sandor came back. "You'd taste so sweet, little rabbit." 

Sansa's clit throbbed like a wild creature, and she pressed a hand down between her legs. Before she could stop herself she whimpered, "You think so?" 

"Gods yeah," Sandor rasped. "I'd suck all the meat from your bones, and then I'd come for your marrow. And when that's all gone, you know what I'd do? I'd turn your bones into broth, and drink that too—every last drop." 

This time it was Sansa who sounded like an animal. She let out a high-pitched squeak, nothing better than small game in a steel trap. She tried to keep it in with a palm clasped to her mouth, but it was too late. Her blood was too hot in her veins, and Sandor, that did him in. He panted, "Little rabbit, fuck," and then he groaned loud enough to wake up all of Sow's End. 

He muttered some more curses after that, then there was rebuckling and zipping, and then a few extra curses for good measure. "You're too good," he grumbled at last. "You know that?" 

Sansa did know, because he told her all the time. Still, she answered, "I like being reminded." 

Sandor grinned on the other end. "Then be a good little bird and play me some music." 

"Which song?"

"All of them. Start with that one I like, the one about the bear." 

"Honeycomb?"

"Aye, Honeycomb. Play it twice." 

While Sansa unfolded and set to work adjusting her filters, Sandor started rolling himself another joint. By the time his lighter sparked and he let out his first mighty cough, Sansa was ready. With the receiver placed delicately beside her synth, she began to play. 

She lost time this way. This was when the whole world disappeared. Every problem, every sorrow faded into thin air. There was only her, her Minimarq, and so many miles away, Sandor. But he didn't feel far away when she played. Just as Sandor pictured her in her skirt, bending over for him, taking him any way he liked, Sansa pictured Sandor in the practice room, listening. 

He would listen for hours, nursing a pitch-black ale, swallowing hemp smoke until the whole tiny room became a hazy cloud. That fantasy kept Sansa singing, kept her fingers twisting knob after knob. That fantasy was her whole world. 

She ended up playing every song twice, and Honeycomb four times. When she started yawning too much to sing, she had to stop. She stayed on with Sandor, like always. She fell back into her corner, hard wood panelling at her back and stiff floorboards beneath her. A terrible bed that made her bones ache, but better than the one in her dorm. 

"You're going to be the best one there," Sandor told her. "Not even close." 

"But what about Heartsbane?" 

"Not even close," he said again. "Did you make those tapes?" 

"I'm working on it. How many do you think?" 

"A hundred, two hundred. Hells, maybe three hundred. You could make a fat stack of stars off of this lot, I'm sure." 

Sansa could never get away with making three hundred tapes, but Sandor's confidence made her ribs feel much too small a home for her heart. She hoped there would be that many people there. Her friends from Archer's party, and some new friends, too. People that understood her. People that understood her and Sandor. Together. 

"I'm excited," she whispered into the receiver, tucked between her shoulder and ear like a hard plastic pillow. She yawned again, and her eyelids fell shut. 

"I'm excited for you, little bird. You're so talented. You're so good." 

Sansa knew that already, but she liked being reminded. Sandor's sweet words put her to sleep every night, the softest lullaby. She would dream sweet dreams, of crumbling keeps in high places. Wide rivers hemmed by buzzing meadows. Orchards of white trees crowned in red. And everywhere, smiles. A home. 

"Little bird," came Sandor's voice in a soft rasp some hours later. "It's time to wake up." 

Sansa roused, rubbing her sleep-filled eyes and unsticking herself from the phone. She tested out her joints with a few cracks and pops, then got up on shaky feet. She liked having Sandor on the line while she put her Minimarq back in its sturdy leather bound case. Then she took everything back to the little phone nook. 

Some nights she was tempted to curl up in that stinky armchair and never let Sandor go. But the ghost of a too-white smile and bright scary eyes kept Sansa upright. 

"Well, good night," she said, her voice thick with exhaustion. "We'll talk tomorrow?" 

"Aye. 'Til then, little bird." 

And then Sandor was gone, replaced by a string of monotonous beeps. Sansa put everything to rights in the corner, then tiptoed down the corridor and out into the courtyard.

Campus was different so late at night. A hearty half moon commanded the sky, lighting up the empty pathways and painting the grass an eerie shade of blue. The stars watched Sansa trek back to Hetherspoon, their whispers a stout breeze that lashed her skirt to and fro. 

She had a hand on the cold iron door handle when a flicker of light caught her eye, too close to be a star. Sansa squinted across the quad to see two shining stars, earthbound.  

Eyes. 

Seconds later, a crescent moon appeared beneath them. 

A figure stepped out from the shadow cast by Estren Hall, clad in the dark uniform of a watchman. He lifted a hand and held it there. Stunned, Sansa waved back. 

Be careful, said the wind, tickling the fine hair on the nape of her neck. Be very careful.

Chapter Text

The week leading up to Wylla's house show was miserable. Everything set Sansa off—Margot, staring too long during piano class. Jeyne, hovering like a nervous septa. Then there was her weekly phone call with Uncle Petyr that dragged on for so long. She hadn't been to court often enough, he told her. She needed to be seen. She would go to Casterly for the Warden's name day celebration with one of the Mormont girls, or at least a Prester. 

She needed a match. 

Then he told her of all his meetings, all the boys he met, all the boys he would throw in her path at the next gala. Sansa received his words with a wooden smile. Of course, Uncle. He sounds lovely, Uncle. I'd be delighted to have an introduction, Uncle. 

And finally, I love you too, Uncle Petyr. I love you ever so much. 

The words tasted like sticky decay in her mouth. Had they ever been fresh? 

Sadly, the day before the show, Sansa learned the root of her misery. 

Moonblood. 

She cried in the shower for over an hour, thighs sticky, pink water and red hair swirling into the drain. When she got too weak to stand, she staggered back to her room, made herself as small as possible in bed, and cried some more. Her belly was alive with flame and sharpness, a churning volcano of discomfort. 

When deep light fell, she unstuck herself from the covers and took up residence in her favorite armchair—the one next to the phone. Sandor told her everything would be okay. That a little bit of blood wouldn't ruin the show, and it especially wouldn't ruin Sansa's plans for them after. He said it would make their game more realistic even. He didn't mind one bit. 

Then Sandor sang to her, gentle versions of her favorite Heartsbane songs. He grumbled along to electric melodies, like steady waves on craggy shore. He sent her to bed with a dozen more reassurances: You'll be fine, little bird. Get some rest. It'll be better in the morning. It was enough for her to sleep soundly. 

The next day really was better, a balmy spring day with shy sunlight budding through whipped cream clouds. The best part of the day was that it turned to night. Jeyne was almost helpful as Sansa fluttered around the room, tossing clothes like a veritable tempest until she found the perfect outfit. Well, it probably shouldn't have been her outfit, but as soon as Sansa pulled on the mint-green satin nightgown, she knew it wasn't coming off. 

Jeyne gasped when she saw it, but her wide-eyed look was one of reverence. She would never dare to wear a girlhood gown, low and tight on the chest, with a lacy hem flirting dangerously at the thighs. 

But Sansa would. 

She fussed over her hair a bit, then decided a crown of plaits would work best. It wouldn't get in her eyes that way. Two dozen hairpins later, she was ready. She swiped on a bit of mascara, tested out Wylla's eyeliner technique, but didn't bother with lipstick. Sandor would steal it all away within minutes. 

She stuck on her boots, latched up her Minimarq, grabbed her backpack brimming with demo tapes, and headed out. 

Darkstar's pick-up truck was waiting for her at the station. Acrid black clouds of exhaust seeped out below a dented tailgate painted with the word WARHAMMER in peeling block letters. Sandor jumped down, got all Sansa's things tucked away, then fell on her. His heavy hands crushed the delicate satin puffs at her shoulders as his tongue forced its way inside her mouth and stayed. He only stopped when Darkstar tapped the horn. 

"We're coming," Sandor shouted. Then, to Sansa, "That little dress is nothing but trouble." 

"I know," she said back. 

The way Sandor's eyes narrowed and shone, Sansa knew what he was thinking. He wanted to toss her in the bed of the truck and grind her to pulp against its rigid steel lining. He didn't even need to undress her, and he certainly didn't care if his bandmate sat three feet away. 

But he would have to wait. 

Sandor helped Sansa up into the front seat then slid in by her side, so big that he squeezed her between him and Darkstar. The drummer didn't seem to mind Sansa's bare thigh flush against his own, covered in soft black leather. He greeted her with a nod, eyes lingering south of her chin. Sandor slung his arm over Sansa's shoulder and nudged Darkstar back to the wheel.

Sansa snuggled into the shelter made by Sandor's armpit, and they were off. 

The truck's tight cabin could fit a lot of smoke and sound. Sandor lit a joint as soon they turned onto the highway, and metal blared from two tiny speakers in the center console. The lightspeed pounding of drums and guitar had the dashboard shimmying. The silver sword pendant dangling from the rearview mirror slashed at the hazy air. "Dawn," Sandor told her, when she asked what they were listening to. Dornish metal. 

He took a long drag, then curled a hand beneath Sansa's chin and pressed into her mouth. His smoke spilled into her, and she swallowed all she could. She gave the leftover wisps back to him. Sandor grinned against her lips, and shaped her two favorite words. 

"It would be more polite to share," Darkstar said, sticking them with wicked amethyst eyes.

Instead of passing the joint, Sandor claimed another lungful for himself, then leaned into Sansa and gifted the spoils to her. When she was full, he pulled away and gestured with a tick of his head. "Go on, little bird," he said. "Share." 

She hesitated for a split second, but Darkstar had already come to meet her halfway. So Sansa opened up for him, dropping her breath into a soft-lipped kiss that tasted like lemon and new skin. She liked his mouth, smooth and calculating, so she explored it, smoke seeping through the cracks of them. 

Darkstar swerved suddenly and they parted, laughing when he got the truck straightened up again. Sandor laughed too, deep from his belly, even louder than the music. Then he treated Sansa to his hand on her cheek, thumb tracing her blush. This time his good girl made it out into the open air. 

Sansa had never known air so sweet as this: swirls of hemp lit by stars and streaks of lamplight, vibrating to the relentless bass. It danced for her. It danced for Sandor. He held Sansa so close she could scarcely tell where she ended and he began. They were vibrating too, matching the air, breathing it all in and spitting it back out. We're the same, Sansa thought. She set her lips to the only part of Sandor she could reach—the edge of his chest, where a ring of sweat had seeped out to the R on his Oathkeeper shirt.

She kissed him there, over and over. It was either a million kisses or just one. A forever kind of kiss. 

Wylla's house was one of many stone houses stacked in a tottering row, great tangles of ivy binding them all together. Her house was distinguishable by the bright yellow light and heady bass that spilled from its wide front windows. Darkstar wedged the truck into an impossibly small gap down the block, and Sandor hopped out to start unloading. 

He was off with a couple of amps and his Silvertongue before Sansa's feet met the pavement. She tried to fish out her Minimarq from the bed of the truck, but her arms weren't nearly long enough, so she frowned instead. 

"I'll get it," Darkstar said, throwing himself over the tailgate to navigate the mess of cases and cables in his trunk. He hoisted the synth and passed it off to her with a smirk. "There you go. A big machine for a little bird." 

Sansa blushed, and Darkstar gave her a full, silver-toothed smile before picking out two round canvas bags and dropping them to the curb. He walked with her towards the house. Sansa couldn't think of anything to say—he had a dangerous beauty, all-consuming like a black hole—but luckily he spared her the effort. 

"Sandor's smitten." 

Sansa almost wished the silence back. "H-he is?" 

Darkstar tipped his half-head of white blonde hair back and howled a laugh. "Oh, I can see why. Those big blue eyes could charm the king out of his crown. Of course he does. Won't fucking shut up about you, quite frankly." 

Then Sansa really blushed, so heavy that she hung her head and watched her boots, moonlight shining in the toes of them. She wondered what sorts of things Sandor had to say about her, and what it meant for a hound to be smitten. 

"You should stick around," Darkstar went on. "I've never seen him like this before." 

"Like what?" Sansa asked, climbing up the well-worn stone stairs to Wylla's doorstep. They both stopped there, and Darkstar waited to hook her with his bone-deep purple stare before answering. 

"Alive," was all he said. 

The front door flew open, and Sandor appeared, big and dark as ever. "I'll get that for you, sweet girl," he said, taking the Minimarq from her. 

"What about me?" Darkstar asked with a teasing smirk. 

With a ragged sigh, Sandor scooped the two drum bags into one massive hand, and pushed back inside. Sansa followed. 

Wylla's house was something else. Black oak floors and matching wood panelling stretched down the main corridor and spread into each adjoining room, but they were the backdrop for much more extraordinary things. Sansa knew Wylla made art, they had talked about it over the phone, but she didn't expect this. 

Sansa might have been under the sea. A scary sea. Paintings of bare-chested mermaids in twisted black frames lined the corridor, but they weren't the pretty mermaids you saw in children's cartoons. They were vicious, some sinking tridents into the lifeless bodies of crowned men, others simply using pointed teeth. 

Sansa kind of liked them. They made her palms prickle.

The main party was out back, on a sprawling patio hemmed in by a thick stone fence. Torches blazed along it, showering the scattered crowd in orange light. Sansa was taken in immediately. 

First she saw Wylla, then Willow, and Melly, and Puddingfoot. They all loved her hair and her dress. Green was Wylla's favorite color. "Everyone here needs to wear more color," she griped in between puffs of her cigarette. It was a funny thing to say, since she was wearing a frilly black gown, something that screamed Witch Queen of Harrenhal. She looked quite pretty though, so Sansa held her tongue. 

Unfortunately, she had to drink more Blue Rose. Wylla promised her mead from the cupboard later, but not before she towed Sansa around for more introductions. She met new people and reacquainted with others. Some of Sandor's friends from up North were there, and they loved Sansa's dress too. They could hardly lift their eyes to find her face.

Sansa talked to Gorne for a very long time while Archer played a lackluster set on his Quester, the sight of which made the beer in her belly bubble. She passed her can to Gorne, who sipped two beers at time and regaled with the story of his namesake. By the time he finished, his beard was rather foamy, and Sandor and Darkstar had taken over the stage.  

The stage area wasn't even a stage, just four tall candelabras around a patch of stone at the back of the patio. Even so, Sansa went right up front. She watched and smiled as Sandor set the equipment to rights, lining up his pedals and fiddling with his wires. He would smile back at her when he could, then shake his head and keep working. 

He had to put on a much sterner face to play his music. He scowled and kept his head low, so that his hair made shadows on his scars. His hands were the best part, always. The runes on his knuckles and the thick veins beneath flexed and shifted with every chord. His rings shone. There was such power there, summoning dark sounds for the old gods and sending them back into the heavens. As ever, Sandor knew exactly what he was doing. 

Sansa danced, careful in her too-short dress not to flash her boring black panties and the stupid rag between her legs. She guarded her belly too, still achy from her moontide. Thankfully she had used enough hairpins to keep her plaits up while she rocked her head, chasing Sandor's sweet melodies. 

It was over too soon. 

Sansa went to Sandor the second he set down his Silvertongue, tiptoeing over tangles of wire to throw her arms around him. "You played so well," she said into his shirt, soaked through with sweat and clinging to his swollen muscles. He let Sansa stay there, dropping his heavy arms to tuck her close, putting sweet kisses on her woven crown. 

"Are you ready for your set, little bird?" 

Sansa nodded against his chest, unwilling to lose his warmth on her cheek.

"Good. Do you need help setting up?" 

Begrudgingly, she peeled away to shake her head. "I can do it on my own. I know how." 

She did know how, but as soon as Sandor let her go, her heart began to flutter. He kept watch of her though, a shoulder propped on the wall, a fresh joint between two inked knuckles. Every time Sansa glanced at him while she plugged in this or that cable or tested her connections, he knew to smile. Just small ones, mostly in his eyes. He knew to be soft. 

The scariest part was when everything was set up: the Minimarq, on its stable enough metal stand, and a microphone, poised right at its center. Sansa gave it a couple taps, and went white as a sheet when dozens of eyes fell on her. 

She swallowed, hard, but that didn't stop her heart from slamming against her ribs. 

"Hi," she said, forcing herself not to grimace when the word echoed harsh across the patio. People descended on the stage like puppets on slow strings. Introduce yourself. You have to introduce yourself. She hadn't thought of what to say, and she couldn't think of anything now, not with bright candlelight nipping at her vision. 

"I'm Lady—" she began, but the rest—Sansa Stark of Winterfell, Daughter of Eddard Stark and Catlyn Tully, Granddaughter of Rickard Stark, Great Granddaughter of Edwyle Stark. Descendant of the First Men, Daughter of the North—got stuck in her throat. 

She couldn't possibly say all that. So she tested out her throat again and said, "I'm Lady. Just Lady." 

Finally, she remembered to smile. 

A few odd cheers broke out, alongside some whistling and tepid clapping. Wylla and Willow were up front, holding hands smiling back. Sansa had to check one more time—Sandor, to her right, stowed safely in the shadows. He gave her a nod. Go on, little bird, he seemed to say. Play your pretty songs.  

With shaky fingers, Sansa brought her first flower to bloom. It was only right to start with Another Nova, the song that a good third of the party had already heard and loved. They loved it this time too, stirring to life and moving to each electronic dip and bend. Not a single petal was out of place. 

Next up was False Spring, then Honeycomb, Maiden's Melancholy, Soft as Snow, and Wolves in the Night. Her garden drew all sorts of attention, bodies filling gaps and laying wide-eyed stares on Sansa as she sowed. She had to dance to her own music too, it was only right. She swayed like a frostfire in the wind, with no purpose but to grow bigger and brighter. 

Every now and then, she looked to Sandor, just in case. He was always there, always soft. He took extra care to keep his scars hidden behind black hair, but when Sansa caught a glimpse of them, her knees went weak. They mirrored the night sky—dark, fathomless, almost frightening. 

But beautiful instead. 

At the end of Two Silk Ribbons, every part of Sansa's body was weak, because there was only one song left. A new song. A special song. 

A song Sandor hadn't heard. 

She wrote it one night after their call, when her heart was too full for sleep. It slipped straight out of her, and she had played it every night since. She kept it a secret, until now. 

Sansa clutched the microphone with a damp palm. "I have one last song to play. I call this one Pretty." 

She floated in silence for a few long breaths, listening to her pulse sing, fingers idling on the volume knob. When she came back to solid ground, she twisted that knob, and her precious flower took root. The words were honey on her tongue, slow, heavy, and ever so sweet. Sansa had never written a song as true as this. 

"Talk to me," she sang. "Tell me any story. See me, you don't have to be alone."

It was a song for late phone calls, for singing each other to sleep, for secrets whispered in the dark, for being a secret, together. For being close. 

So close. 

Close enough to be the same. 

She sang for Sandor and only Sandor. But he didn't give her softness in return. His eyes were wide and bright white, shiny like stars. He held his face so tightly his jaw shook and his lips trembled. Sansa was a ghost to him, and her lyrics were her response, a reassurance. See me, you don't have to be alone. 

But is that what a ghost would say? 

Sandor was a ghost too, or maybe a shadow. As soon as the song finished, and Sansa delivered a stream of thanks to the tune of thundering applause, he disappeared. There wasn't enough time to even worry about it, because a swarm of admirers swallowed Sansa up. Wylla hugged her and pinched her cheeks to ruby redness. Willow hugged her too, and then everyone wanted a hug. Gendel practically snapped her spine in two as he lifted her clear off the ground, meaty arms binding up her entire body. He gave her a good hearty shake and roared his approval. 

When he set her down, he raised up a can of Blue Rose. "To Lady!" he shouted. 

Dozens of arms shot up and called back, "To Lady!" 

Sansa didn't know what else to do other than curtsy and smile a smile so big it became a laugh. She received everyone who wanted a little bit of her, even Archer. She only let him have her hand, upon which he placed a clammy kiss. "Well played, my lady," he said. He tried to move his slimy lips up her arm, but Sansa snapped it back. 

"Don't try that ever again," she hissed. "Please."

Her manners worked, because he left with nothing but a bow. Then people started asking after tapes. They wanted to take her music home with them, just as Sandor predicted. 

But she needed to find her tapes. 

So she started on a quest to find Sandor. 

He definitely wasn't on the patio—he would be the tallest one there, and one of the widest, too. After one frantic loop outside, she took to the house. 

Wylla's house was a labyrinth stuck in the last century. Sansa opened door after door, greeted with macabre nautical decor behind each one. A mermaid statue, weeping. Two mermaid statues, kissing and weeping. Then a tapestry of a seascape, hordes of merfolk dislodging a warship, Laughing Lion. None of the lions aboard the ship were laughing—there were only screams. 

Where there weren't bloodthirsty mermaids, there were grim antiques. Pitch black urns, iron chandeliers and sconces, set with candles just as dark. More like Witch Queen of New Castle, Sansa thought, after discovering a water closet with two blood-tipped golden tridents mounted on the wood panelling. 

Sansa found a room with a half dozen people, all of them mostly naked and kissing, then a room with a dozen people, sprawled out with a bowl of blue punch in the middle. She trekked across, careful not to step on outstretched limbs, and opened what must have been the last door in the whole house. 

When a cloud of hemp smoke fell out from the frame, Sansa dared to hope. 

A whole bunch of big burly Northmen stared as she stepped inside. They were all passing around a glass tower again. Darkstar sat in a red velvet armchair, with two pretty girls on his lap and Bodger rubbing his shoulders. But most importantly, there was Sandor. 

He was in the far corner, in the biggest, plushest armchair of all. He was scribbling something on parchment, but he stared with the rest of the men, and set his pen down when Sansa slid into his lap. His hand wrapped around her thigh instead, as high it could go without flashing her smallclothes to the whole room.  

"I was looking all over for you," Sansa said, kissing the hollow of his lighter cheek five times in greeting. "You disappeared." 

Sandor grunted, then nipped at Sansa's lower lip the next time she came in for a kiss. He needed a longer taste after that, long enough to clear the last traces of Blue Rose from her tongue and replace it with the bitterness of scorched hemp. He pulled away eventually, and put a gentle hand on her belly. 

"Are you feeling better?" 

"Um…." Of course it was better with Sandor's hand there, all big and warm. So Sansa answered, "Much better, yes.” She looked to the parchment on the side table and pointed. “What're you working on?" she asked. 

"Nothing special," Sandor replied. He picked up the drawing and put it in her hands.  

"Oh," Sansa puffed. 

It was beautiful. No—it was fearsome. Sandor had penned the head of a direwolf, fangs bared, ready to snap some poor creature's bones in its mighty jaw. And above it, in pretty medieval calligraphy, was the word Lady. 

"It's you," Sandor said. "A proper wolfling." 

"I thought I was a little bird," Sansa replied. 

"You were a Stark first." 

That made Sansa's insides glow red hot. The glow reminded her of something else. "Did you like my song?" she asked, looking up to Sandor. 

"Of course I did, little bird. I like all of your songs." 

"No, I mean my last song—Pretty." 

Sandor's fingers twitched on Sansa's belly, then he ran that hand through his hair. "The new one?" he asked, his voice suddenly much thicker. "I liked it a lot. It's pretty. Really pretty." 

"Sandor, sweetling," Sansa said, picking up his darker cheek this time. "I wrote it for you." 

Sandor's eyes got all glassy again, and his lips pulled up at the burnt corner. In an instant, he descended on Sansa's chest. Truthfully, she should have expected it. Her little gown squished the entire top half of her breasts together, and it was too snug for a bra, so her nipples poked straight through the satin. They were begging to be devoured, and Sandor was eager as ever to clear his plate. 

He cupped beneath her breasts as he worked his mouth over them, pushing their softness past his teeth. He sucked the tops of them so fiercely, with so much tongue, that it tickled. Sansa giggled and squirmed, but every shift of her legs only made him grow hard beneath her. When he was done with her breasts, he came for her armpit, but that was even worse. Sansa couldn't breathe for all her giggling, so she buried her fingers in his hair and used all her might to pull him away. 

"Sandor," she mewled. "Sandor, please." 

He came up for air, but only because he wanted to. He tugged Sansa's lips to his with a fist curled around her locket. "You're the sweet one," he growled into her mouth. 

A sudden flash at their side split them apart. Sansa blinked in the sight of Wylla, a square instant camera hanging from her neck. "Gods, you two. This one is gonna be good." She extracted a white small square and shook it. After a minute, she held it out to Sansa. "Truly steamy, I must say." 

It really was. Their lips hovered, with Sandor's hand tight on her locket and Sansa's in his hair. Their very first picture together, nothing short of scandalous. She showed it to Sandor, but his response was an annoyed grunt. Sansa pressed it to her chest. 

"Can I keep it?" she asked Wylla.

"Hah, definitely. You think I need that?" Sansa blushed, but Wylla didn't care. "No, I mostly came up here to lure you out. Everyone is asking about your tapes. If you come downstairs again I'll find you some mead, and we can scare up some coppers." 

That sounded delightful, but Sansa was still on her quest. With one look to Sandor, it was complete. "I have them," he said. He groped over the arm of the chair for Sansa's overstuffed backpack, then dropped it in her lap. "But first—" He unbuckled the bag and took out a tape for himself. Then he folded up his drawing into a tidy rectangle, slid it into the case, and put it into Sansa's hands. "How's that?" 

For a split second, her heart left her body and joined the stars. 

"It's perfect," she replied. Her thumb smoothed over the clear plastic, and the ferocious shewolf snarled back at her. There was a small red smudge in the corner, a fingerprint. Blood, somehow. But what did wolves do, if not draw blood? 

"It's perfect," Sansa repeated for good measure. "Will you hold onto it for me?" 

Sandor nodded, pocketed it, and sent Sansa off with a long kiss. Wylla navigated for them, dragging Sansa all the way into a musty cellar, shelves lined with glass jars, cans, sacks of root vegetables, and a whole wall full of green bottles. Sansa wondered if Wylla didn't have a rich uncle too, or a checkbook that made money and mead appear whenever she wanted. When she asked her question aloud, Wylla laughed. 

"Not an uncle. You can thank Grandpa Manderly for this." 

Wylla plucked up a bottle, blew some dust off it, and they set back upstairs. Sansa got to drink her mead—a cyser from 780—from a true mead glass as she fluttered around the house. Wylla passed out the tapes and collected coins, whatever people were willing to give.

Sansa felt a little guilty. She didn't truly need the money, though it would be nice to have some stashed away that Uncle Petyr didn't know about. 

Just in case. 

Sansa decided to give it all to Sandor, since she wouldn't be here without him, and that was that. 

"So you and the Hound are getting pretty serious then," Wylla said casually as they stepped back onto the patio. Sansa shivered a bit from the brisk night air. She filled her mouth with mead, then swallowed.  

"I think so," she replied. It certainly feels serious. 

"If a man looked at me the way he looks at you, well, I think I might actually date a man." Wylla cackled to herself, then grabbed a passerby and put a tape in their hand. They exchanged coins and went on. "What are you going to do about him though?" she asked, handing out another few tapes to a sullen looking group with makeup dark as the dead. "Like are you going to take him to court?" 

There wasn't enough mead in the world for that question, let alone in Sansa's glass. "Do you think I could?" she said in a small voice. 

"You're too cute," Wylla said back. "Gods, I wish were as cute as you. Listen." She stopped in her tracks and set a hand on the side of Sansa's head, just beneath her crown. "If you brought the Hound to court, I'd go back for sure. No doubt about it. Hells, I'd even bring Willow. Fuck 'em." 

They shared a quick smile before Melly came over to get a tape, bringing along Una and Ursa, the two sisters that made up the appropriately titled band Dark Sister. Ursa was the dark one, with hip length black hair and sunken blue eyes. Una looked almost like a Lannister, with golden curls and a puffy crimson dress that looked like it belonged to a doll. 

Sansa half-listened to their gossip—Archer was in trouble with more than one girl, Toefinger had red bumps where the sun didn't shine—but mostly she thought about court. Wylla hadn't been to court since the end of the war. Since her father found out that she liked girls instead of boys. He told her not to come back, and Wylla said he could eat shit. 

Arya couldn't come to court either. Not unless she became more of a girl again, or at least that's what Uncle Petyr said. But she was nowhere near court, and Sansa doubted she'd want to go, even if she did sail back across the sea. 

And Sandor—would he want to go? He had the right papers of course. A retired Ser was still a Ser, even if he loathed nobility. 

Sansa imagined a different court, a new court with Sandor, Arya, Wylla, and Willow, too. That would be better. She'd be brave enough to storm the gates of Casterly and face every Baratheon, Lannister, and Tyrell with Sandor on her arm and her sister at side. 

No one could stop them, really. 

So Wylla's questions became Sansa's own questions. What was she going to do about him? 

But mostly—are we serious?

Sansa had to excuse herself for more mead. She reclaimed her bag, now empty except for a handful of tapes and a change of clothes, then headed inside. A few people loitered in the kitchen, smoking cigarettes and picking at a platter of cheese on the marble countertop. Sansa said hello to them and poured herself a double portion of cyser. She nursed the top of it, then added some more.  

We are serious, Sansa decided. Very serious. She didn't want to ever go a day without talking to Sandor. If she had her way, she'd see Sandor every day too. She'd wake up to Sandor, go to sleep with Sandor, shower, eat, sing, and have sex with him. Every single day. 

That was how serious Sansa was. She was so serious about Sandor that she would go find him right now. 

Sansa had to open a lot of doors again, and close just as many, because a lot more people were kissing. But eventually she found the room with the bowl of blue punch, the one that would certainly lead her to her sweetling. There were still plenty of people on the black sofas, looking half-dead with blue spit dribbling from their lips. 

One of these creatures latched onto Sansa's wrist as she passed by. A stranger, a human being, although he looked closer to a wight—ghastly pale with darkness etched into the cracks. 

"You're the Hound's girl, aren't you?" he drawled, lids heavy over bright blue eyes. "Come on, take a seat. We've got enough to share." 

He patted the cushion next to them, but Sansa shook her head. "No thank you, I really shouldn't—" 

"Don't be a downer." The grip on Sansa's wrist tightened, so cold it froze her bones in place. The wight fumbled through the pockets of his tattered black jeans and extracted a vial of milk-white liquid. "How about this? A good time, guaranteed." 

All the color left Sansa's face, until she resembled what she knew was in the vial: poppymilk. She was at a party where people were taking poppymilk, and not because a maester told them. For fun. But it wasn't fun, it was a sin. It would rot your mind. It would take over your mind, until all you wanted to do was drink poppymilk. Then you would die, mad as a hatter. 

"What's that look about?" the wight asked. "No need to be afraid, pretty one. Your boyfriend's no stranger to milk. He won't mind if you have a sip or two. Or three." 

Cracked blue lips pulled up around a toothless smile. Sansa tried to get her wrist back, mead sloshing as she struggled. He's not my boyfriend, she thought. He's my sweetling. And he doesn't drink milk. But the wight didn't get to know all that. The wight got the loudest, sharpest, "Let me go, now," that Sansa could manage. 

"Suit yourself," he said. But when he released her, Sansa went flying back against the wall, spine cracking against the thin lip of a credenza. Her glass slipped straight from her hand and shattered into dozens of fizzing and glittering pieces on the floorboards. Sansa clasped a hand over her mouth to keep a whimper from falling out, but no one batted an eye.  

They may as well have been dead. 

So Sansa fled, stumbling over a wrinkle in the rug and only finding balance when her hands locked around the knob of the door that would take her to Sandor. She threw it open, and squinted through the smoke. 

Sandor.

He was there in the same old armchair, and his eyes immediately found hers. Sansa wanted to go to him, really, but she could only shiver. The wight's touch lingered on her skin like millions of tiny icicles, poking holes in every pore. Sansa summoned Sandor the only way she could think: a hand wrapped tightly around her locket. 

Sandor stood. He clapped Darkstar’s shoulder, gestured, whispered, pulled him up. Darkstar surrendered his leather jacket to Sandor’s outstretched palm, and both of them came to Sansa’s side. 

Sandor put her in the jacket, gave her nice words and kisses to her crown. They left through the same door, and Sansa braced for the worst. But when they crossed the threshold, there was nothing. The room was empty. No punch, no people, and certainly no wights. 

Everyone was gone. 

Sansa shuddered and shrunk into Sandor. 

I must have gotten lost.

Sandor held her so close she was almost able to forget. She had drunk too much mead, and she was still under the influence of her moon. Besides, there were much better things to think about than wights and witches. 

They still had a game to play back home.

Sansa's game.

Chapter Text

Sansa shifted her wrists against the soft binds of silk rope. Tighter knots this time. Less forgiving. The rope went up from her wrists to the rafters, around a thick oaken beam, worn from age. With each wiggle, dust spilled down like grey snow and tickled Sansa's eyelashes. It was probably piling up in her hair, too. 

Sandor had already taken out her plaits. "Down," he had said, in his I'm in charge voice. He put her in a new nightgown, knee-length white silk with long billowy sleeves and crisscrossing ribbons at the neck. Then he tied her up. "Higher," Sansa told him, and again, "Higher," until she balanced on the balls of her feet. Sandor lingered a minute, most likely for Sansa to tell him it was too much. She told him to leave instead. 

So now she waited. A hot, dusty, sticky waiting. 

This game had taken a whole week of convincing. Sansa had dreamed it up the very day after she discovered Sandor's Kingsforce armor: a knight and his princess. It was perfect. 

But Sandor had grumbled about it. "I don't know, little bird," he would say. "I'm no knight in shining armor." He didn't understand though. That's not what Sansa wanted either, not in bed. He was her knight in shining armor any old day of the week, in any grubby band t-shirt. Sansa wanted something special. 

"I don't want you to rescue me," she had to explain on the phone, so late at night it was already a light purple morning. "I want you to take me." 

"Take you where?" 

"Not where," Sansa corrected. "I want you to take me—” she threw many long glances around the abandoned common room “—by force." 

Sandor was quiet for an eternity. He breathed heavy, even though he wasn't smoking. 

"I won't play nice," he answered at last. 

"I won't either," was Sansa's reply.  

So now she was here, an imprisoned princess, strung up from the ceiling. The prince was cruel. He didn't love her, and the evil queen loved her even less. They kept Sansa in the tallest tower, away from her family, all alone except for the maids that brought her supper. 

And the knights. The whitecloaks he would send to beat her, whenever he was feeling particularly roth. 

So Sansa spent all her time waiting. 

Waiting for the worst. 

The worst came well after dark, so late that when the door creaked open, Sansa knew it wouldn't be another cold bowl of porridge. It was the biggest knight on the Kingsguard, the scariest knight, with half his face a burnt black mess. His helmet spared Sansa the sight of it, but she didn't look at him for long.  

One glimpse of the Hound had the princess's heart pounding where it shouldn't, thighs sticky where they should be dry. In his full suit of armor he was as big and golden as the sun, his cloak a white ray of light fixed to two stag-stamped rondels. He was as dangerous as the sun, too. Too close and he would light Sansa ablaze. 

"You," she whispered as the Hound's immense gravity drew near. She talked to her feet, toes pink from the exertion of staying upright. When two massive sabatons landed across from them, she lost her footing and swayed. 

"Me," the Hound breathed down. He smelled like ale. He only drank ale as black as his ruined skin. Sansa caught a splintered crevice in the floorboards and crept back on pointed toes.

"Did the prince send you to hurt me?" 

"Might be. Might be I came to see your pretty face." 

A massive gauntlet went for Sansa's cheek, and she pulled herself just out of reach. That hand could hurt. It could mash her jaw to paste. It turned to a fist instead, and dropped beside a metal-clad thigh. 

"So that's how it's going to be."  

Sansa said nothing. She decided she was done talking to the Hound. Talking to him was another thing that could get her in trouble. He liked her words. They fed the fire that made him run so hot.

The quiet was supposed to make him leave, but instead the gauntlet invaded again. Sansa scrambled back, until her spine collided with cold stone. Then she had nowhere to go, except into the Hound's unyielding touch. Steel fingers picked up the ribbons at her chest and tugged them loose. Fresh air slipped beneath her silks and two hard points poked through. 

The Hound noticed, of course. He traced over a nipple, softly at first, but then he bore into it with the sharp end of a scaled fingertip. Sansa gasped, so he dug in deeper. She scolded herself for being so stupid—she shouldn't talk, and she shouldn't make noises either. So as the gauntlet got bolder, warm metal swallowing up an entire silk-swathed breast, Sansa bit her lip. She stitched herself together so well that not a single sound fell out. 

The Hound heaved a sigh. 

"You're awfully quiet, little princess. And you won't look at me. Why won't you look at me?" 

The hand on her breast curled tighter, steel joints pinching skin and silk alike. "Look at me," the Hound rasped, but Sansa closed her eyes instead. A metallic squeak sounded out—a visor lifting. "Look at me."

Sansa refused with silence, but the gauntlet hated that. It gripped her fiercely enough to make her breast burst to bloody pulp, so she let go of her lip and cried out, pushing herself against the wall as if she could turn to smoke and slip through stone.

"Don't make me repeat myself, girl." 

Another gauntlet landed on her chest, and there was another squeeze far more powerful than the first. Fire bloomed in both her breasts. Fire fell down her with each of the Hound's ragged breaths. The princess hid from the flame with eyes shut so tightly stars danced in the darkness below. 

She wanted the heat to go away, but she was a silly girl. She chose words that would give her more. 

"You're awful." 

Metal crunched, sunk deeper into her softness. "What did you just say?" 

"I said, you're awful." 

The gauntlets went away in a flash, steel clinked against steel, and something heavy clattered to the floor. Sansa's thighs tensed together—the helmet. Then a hand came for her chin. The scales on the Hound's fingers pinched worse with no silk barrier. His breath was much smellier with no visor in the way. 

"Look at me," he growled a third time, flecks of spit dotting her forehead. Then, a roar, "Look at me! " 

The gauntlet clamped hard enough to bend bone, and Sansa's eyes flew open. A dark monster stared back, a nightmare creature from some horrible fairy tale. And Sansa was just a princess. She wasn't used to seeing men with half-melted faces, faces that cracked and weeped crimson, sparsely concealed by lank, black hair. His bones made cruel angles at his brow, cheek, and jaw. His grey eyes stung. 

He was scary, and the princess wanted him gone. 

Without words or noises, there was only one choice. 

It wasn't ladylike, but the Hound wasn't being honorable. So Sansa took in her cheeks and spit. She spit all over that scary face. It withdrew, but only long enough for the Hound to smear the mess off with a grunt. He came back, closer, eyes aflame. 

His crooked nose fell onto hers and he started making weird noises with it. Animal noises. He grunted, and grunted, and twisted his already twisted cheeks around. Two sharp fingers hooked beneath Sansa's tongue and pried down her jaw. No, she thought. Oh, no, no, no.

But it was far too late. 

The Hound opened up. A huge, sticky mass plopped inside Sansa's mouth, so huge it filled her up and seeped from the corners of her lips. She tried to whimper but gagged instead, stickiness clogging up her windpipe. 

"Swallow," the Hound barked. He forced his sour breath straight up Sansa's nose. "Good little princesses swallow." 

She was a good little princess, so she had to do it. The gross glob of spit slunk down her throat like warm, salted gelatin. She hated it. She hated it so much her knees quivered, and a trail of her own water slid out from between her legs. 

She hated it. Princesses hate spit. 

To make extra sure the Hound knew how much Sansa hated it, she frowned. 

The Hound grinned. He had sharp white teeth. Dangerous teeth. "That's right," he snarled. "You're going to look at me when I tell you to, aren't you?" 

Sansa nodded. 

"Good." Finally, his face left. But his gauntlets got greedy again. The Hound was a wild beast, so all it took was one swipe of his steel paw to rip Sansa's gown straight down to her belly button, exposing a bouquet of red marks that fanned out on her breasts like angry petals. She whimpered, and warm steel came for her in a heartbeat. 

"You have such pretty teats," the Hound growled. "Small ones. New ones." He brushed over Sansa's hardened nipples and prodded the tender marks of his making. "You're pretty all over." His hand roamed lower, down her belly, until his fingers tangled in her maidenhair. 

Sansa gasped and stuck her legs together with all her might. "Please, Ser," she whined. "Not there. I'm a maiden." 

"Ser, is it? Are we going to use our manners again?" 

He came one step closer. His feet landed on either side of hers, and his shadow fell on her like a dark cloak. "Answer me, girl," he said. He picked up her hem, then slid it up over her hips. A plated palm found rest over her maidenhair. A threat.  

Sansa's silence lured in the heat. Two fingers slipped between her thighs and parted her petals, and then the Hound learned her shame. Steel glided over her wetness. It traced over her aching bud and rosy center, and lingered there. 

"No," she whispered. The princess didn't want that. Nothing was supposed to go there. 

"No, Ser." 

The Hound shoved his finger inside her, and its stiff scales tore tender flesh like honed flame. "Ouch," Sansa whined. Maidens didn't know such fire. So she dropped her lip, lower than it had ever gone before, and made it tremble for added effect. She put a pool of water in her eyes.

The Hound swam there, caught.  

"You're hurting me," Sansa wailed. 

His nostrils flared and twitched. Hollow cheeks clenched. Grey eyes flashed so brightly Sansa almost went blind. 

And then, flame. 

Another finger shot inside her flower with force enough to lift her toes from the ground, and that wasn't the end of it. He withdrew, metal ridges rippling along her walls, and he thrust again. This thrust had Sansa bouncing on her rope, so the Hound braced her against the wall with a gauntlet flat on her collarbones. 

The poor princess's toes dangled as he rammed his steel hand inside her softness. She hated this too. She clamped her thighs around his rigid wrist. She constricted around his fingers, because surely that would push them out. Surely it wouldn't stoke the sticky heat that collected deep inside her. When Sansa moaned, the Hound took his warmth away. His dewy fingers ran up from her maidenhair along her belly, but he left behind more than dew. 

A redness. 

Blood.  

Sansa mewled—he had torn her apart, savaged her flesh to ribbons. Even worse, he still wanted more of her. That hungry hand went back up to her breasts and got so bold as to steal a lock of her hair. 

“You’re not a knight,” Sansa told him. “You’re a monster.” 

The snarl that spilled out of him proved the princess's point. “That’s no way for a maiden to talk,” he rasped. 

“Why does it matter? You’re going to take me anyway.” 

“Why?” He slammed an armored knee between Sansa’s legs. It nestled into her bud and ignited her pulse. Then his face dropped low enough for inky black hair to blot out the lamplight—a grim sunset. His fangs lit up her night. 

"I'll tell you why, little princess." He twirled the end of a curl around a golden finger, newly cracked with crimson. "You're like a butterfly—soft, colorful, pretty." 

The finger snuck up her neck and pressed its point beneath her chin. "But you're weak," he breathed. His fangs advanced on her. "Ephemeral." Charred lips pushed into hers, and barely retreated. "Small. So, so small. And do you know what I am?"  

Sansa shook her head. The finger on her chin turned to an entire hand, a steel spider that dragged down her jaw. Into her gaping mouth, the Hound whispered, "Big." 

With that, he pushed off, sending Sansa to swing limply from her oaken beam. He put his back to her and buckles clinked. Before Sansa even had time to regain her footing, he was back, and he brought something much worse. Something the princess had never seen. 

A man’s staff. 

A different monster. Bright red, as big as her forearm, and alive with blood. It hunted for the princess's shameful pulse. It prowled between her petals, soaking up blood and dew. That creature shouldn’t go inside, and it simply couldn’t. There was no way something so large would fit inside an undefiled maiden. 

But she had already been defiled. The flaky brown trail on her belly was proof of that. 

She was ruined. 

Tears welled in the princess’s eyes. The Hound was right. She was a monarch, pinned in a glass case by a monster. This was the worst thing that could happen to a girl of gentle birth. She needed the monster to know that too, so she sniffed and snivelled, and made her jaw quake. The Hound looked up and gave a feral grin. 

“Tears won’t spare your maidenhead,” he hissed. Sansa shook her head, refusing to give him words. She gave him a tear instead, which he caught on the steely pad of his thumb. He pushed the salty droplet between Sansa’s lips and drew close. “They’ll only make you wetter.” 

Two pulses throbbed together. “Please,” Sansa begged, squishing that horrible monster between her legs. “Please, Ser.” 

“Please what?” 

“Please be gentle. I beg of you.” 

The Hound pounced. He spun Sansa around and shoved her chest-first against the wall with his plated fingers sunk into her neck. The other gauntlet gripped her hair in one commanding handful and yanked to force her eye back to him. 

He pressed his nose to hers and growled, “No. ”

The monster plunged inside her to the root, and Sansa screamed. She had to. She was so small inside, an unfurled blossom. She wasn’t suited to be torn apart by a red-hot rod of iron. Her sounds were fuel though, food for a ravenous beast. She delivered a whole banquet, crying out every time her belly was split. 

It was split, absolutely broken in two. Her center ached like smith’s forge, a churning and bubbling of things once solid. The molten drippings oozed out of her and cast her legs. They were bright crimson. The princess didn't want to look, but the monster had her hair. He forced her eyes down so she could see it: a bloodied man's staff, lancing her flower until it disappeared into her tummy, then resurfacing, coated in clumps of flesh.  

The Hound was turning her inside out. 

He was crushing her, a sweet butterfly. 

Steel-plated thighs crashed against hers. Heavy breastplate mashed into her back, grinding her breasts into unforgiving stone. The cold friction scorched her nipples and rubbed them raw. Her bound fists slid feebly along the wall with each stab. She melted, faster. She was a monarch under a mountain, a new mountain, sheets of callous rock sprouted fresh from the earth's crust, an angry stone goliath come to swallow her whole.

The gauntlet on her scalp would drag her to white liquid depths of hell. 

The princess wept. She had screamed so much that tears were inevitable. But the tears only made her wetter. They made the Hound grunt and find his way deeper into the forge. They brought the weight of the mountain closer, bending her ribs and wringing the very air from her lungs. 

“Cry all you want, little princess,” the Hound rasped down to the crown of her head. “No one will come. You’re mine.” 

“You’re a monster,” Sansa cried. 

“What kind of monster?” 

Sansa held her tongue, so the Hound stopped moving. He left himself buried to the hilt inside of her. When he looked down on Sansa, she shut her eyes. “A big one,” she said. 

“A big one,” the Hound echoed. “What else?” 

“Smelly,” Sansa replied. And then, in the tiniest voice, “Scary.” 

The beast hidden inside her reared its head. The Hound groaned, but it came out as a snarl. “I’m scary, is it? What’s so scary about me?” 

Sansa drew her face in as tightly as she could, a reckless plea. She earned flame across her scalp from a tug fierce enough for her eyes to fly open. The Hound thrust his face into hers, his burns smoldering. “Speak, girl,” he spat.  

“S-scars,” was all Sansa could get out. The princess couldn’t stand the sight of his mangled flesh, because she didn’t know that the worst monsters were the pretty ones. Her hands were bound, so she couldn’t reach out. She couldn’t touch his black cheek, and learn the light hidden in his shadow. 

So she furrowed her brow, and she frowned. She was afraid. 

And the Hound—he was furious. 

He stabbed straight through Sansa, maybe all the way to her ribs. They cracked into stone, cushioned by her heaving lungs and pounding heart. “I’ll tell you something, sweet little princess,” the Hound said. His hand left her hair and snaked between the wall and her belly. “This monster has half a mind to put his ugly seed inside of you. Would you like that?”

The grip on her neck tightened. He gave it a shake. “I said, would you like that? Do you want me to put a bastard in your pretty belly? A little monster to take to court?” 

When the steel dug just deep enough into her windpipe, Sansa answered, “No, Ser.” The Hound grunted, then put a wet kiss on her cheek that was mostly teeth. When his mouth moved over hers, she whispered into it, “I want you to take me away.” 

He froze there. His rough lips took in Sansa’s sweet breath and replaced it with his bitterness. “What did you say?” 

“Take me away,” Sansa repeated. “I don’t want to bring our bastard to court. I’d rather run away.” 

Her punishment was his eyes. He cut into her for one long minute, but this time, his face was the unsteady one. His lips quivered so badly it shook his entire jaw. He couldn’t even clench it to stillness. 

The princess wasn’t supposed to want rescue, not from the prince’s dog. 

But this wasn’t rescue. 

It was something much worse, something that wasn’t written into songs, not yet. 

The Princess and the Monster. 

When the Hound straightened, when he released his hold on her throat, and reached back to the hilt of the golden greatsword strapped between two broad shoulders, Sansa knew: she would be singing that song right back to him. 

“Tell me again, little princess. Tell me what you want.”

He didn’t even need to unsheathe his blade. His stench fell out from his armpit over Sansa’s face, gross and warm enough for her to reply, “I want you to take me away from here. Away from the prince. You can spill your seed inside me, please, just take me away.” 

“I don’t want your permission, girl,” he rasped. Hard fingers sunk into her overstuffed belly. “I want you to beg for it.”  

Oh, it was so wrong. So, incredibly wrong. It wasn’t supposed to go like this at all. But the princess had invited the monster in. Every word, every whimper, every tear. They all lead to this—her body, ablaze. Split up from the spine, her breasts two sore burdens. What else did she expect? When a big scary dog mounted her, the result was obvious. 

He was going to plant a bastard. A mongrel. 

“Please, Ser,” she began, her voice a tremor. “Please take me away."

“And?” 

“Put your seed in me. Put your bastard in me, Ser, please.” 

The weight of the sun fell down on her. At her back, at her sides, atop her head: flame. White flame. Rigid flame. Sheets of gold wrapped around her like a heavy metal cloak and drove her into stone. The fire flared up into her belly to her heart. Molten ore throbbed in her veins. 

She wasn’t a butterfly crushed by a mountain. 

She was a butterfly who had flown directly into the sun. 

The princess welcomed every lick of heat. She let that pulsating rod of iron invade her center. She let it boil up her insides to smelted stew. And now, it would turn her inside out. She would surrender into the sun. 

“Please, Ser,” came her last words as a monarch, wispy, fluttering things. “I want your seed inside of me. I want to have your baby.” 

“I’ll do that for you, little bird,” the Hound grunted into her hair. He added a few kisses. They were too soft. “I’ll give you a pretty baby, I promise. Not a monster. Not like me.” 

But after his last strokes, after Sansa collapsed on her favorite beast, he didn’t give her what she asked for so nicely. He went away. 

He left her empty. 

Instead of filling up her belly, his stickiness landed on her back. A warm disappointment. He fixed himself up with the click of a few buckles, and Sansa sagged in her knots. Her toes taught her of her own weight. She was heavy. 

She was empty. 

Rough wool soaked the sad seed from her silks. With one expert swish of a golden blade between her wrists, Sansa was free. Free to crumple to the floor, where she belonged. But a sturdy arm caught her waist. “Easy, little bird. Easy.” 

Sandor came to the floor with her. He took her into his steel-encased lap. He covered her tattered scraps with his cloak, his long ray of light. Sansa leaned on his breastplate, but she couldn’t feel his heartbeat. She couldn’t reach his weirwood pendant, wherever it was buried. 

“You didn’t do it,” Sansa whispered, her breath a fog on Sandor’s steel. Her eyes were wet. She raised them up, so Sandor could see too. After all, he was the one who had put the water there. But he shook his head at her. “No,” he told her. And again, harsher, “No. I’m not playing, little bird. You don’t want that.” 

Sansa frowned. It was only a game. Right. That was the princess’s song, not hers. 

It was only a game. 

Still, Sansa’s pout didn’t go away, even after Sandor got her to stand a good ten minutes later. She pouted much harder when he herded her into the bathroom, and she got a horrifying look at her reflection in Sandor’s grimy mirror. 

Her face was a disaster. She was the monster. Eyes puffed to twice their usual size, ugly black streaks running down her cheeks. Worst of all was the brownish-red smear on her jaw. 

Moonblood. 

She glanced between her thighs and made a noise like a wounded kitten. “Oh, sweet little bird,” Sandor said. He scooped her up and helped her into the tub. “You’re alright. I’ll wash it all off for you. Do you hear me?” 

Sansa was still doing a great job of frowning, but she nodded. Sandor would clean up his mess. He always did. 

He gave her forehead a really long kiss before leaving to take off his armor. Sansa settled into her bath, and by the time steamy water filled the tub to the brim, Sandor was back. No more Ser Clegane. He was just Sandor, wearing a pair of yellow and black flannel shorts, snug on his legs and backside. Snug on him. In truth, Sansa didn’t even know he owned any underwear, but the sight was quite the treat. 

She got to look at his big beautiful muscles and all his tattoos while he knelt by her side and scrubbed her to sparkling. He talked to her while he worked, gentle things. “Let's get under your wings, little bird. And now your pretty legs, and down to your feet.” After he rinsed the soap from her toes, he started putting kisses all over them. Unfortunately, that got a giggle out of Sansa, so he escalated to nibbles. When he stuck his whole face on the underside of her foot and started rubbing his scruff all over it, Sansa giggled and thrashed so fiercely she nearly slammed her heel straight into his jaw. 

They both laughed it off, and after that, Sansa remembered how to smile again. She smiled so wide when Sandor reached into the cupboard above the sink and pulled out shampoo and conditioner. The kind she had requested, or rather, the kind she had berated Sandor for not having in the first place. He washed her hair. He massaged her tender scalp with strong hands, until no trace of hurt remained. 

After drying her off and combing her curls, he carried her to bed. He put ointment and a lot of kisses on the redness around her wrists and breasts. He bundled her up in her blanket, and gave her an illustrated copy of The Loves of Queen Nymeria to keep her busy while he went off to the kitchen. 

The best part was when he came back. He brought a plate with four small cakes on it, and a mug with whipped cream and a bright red cherry sticking up from its brim. 

“What is it?” Sansa asked, when Sandor settled next to her in bed. 

“Something I made up. Let's call it sweetmilk.” 

He held the mug up to her lips, and gave it a little tip, enough for one warm mouthful. A sweet mouthful. “Honey,” Sansa smiled. 

“Aye,” he replied. “A little cardamom, too. Just a pinch.” 

The cakes were lemon cakes, which was a true delight. Sansa didn’t share a single bite with Sandor, but he didn’t mind. He said he already ate an entire leftover ribeye he had in the fridge. He didn’t need any of that sugary shit. Food for little birds. 

That turned Sansa into an annoyed bird. She picked up a fingerful of whipped cream and smeared it onto Sandor’s right cheek. She grinned, and he gave her his angry wolf eyes. “Little bird,” he scolded. “You better clean that up.” 

Sansa waited long enough to get a growl out of him, then she leaned over and licked his cheek clean. He had tricked her, though. Once she was close, he plucked by her by the waist and set her on top of him, barely managing to get the cup out of her hands before it spilled all over the covers. 

But then she was all his. They got to kiss for a very long time. Ambling kisses, with no purpose whatsoever. Kisses for the sake of kissing. So Sansa could chart every corner of Sandor’s mouth, and then explore his face. She showered him with kisses on his scarred side, in case he still remembered the mean little princess. 

“You’re so handsome,” she told him, so many times she lost count. “You’re the most handsome man in the whole world. Did you know that?” 

He told her he liked to be reminded, so like a good little bird, she did just that. "You're so nice, and sweet, and smart, and talented, and funny," she would say, delivering a kiss with each word. "And very, very, very handsome." Her lips tingled by the time she ran them all over his dark skin, and the one bright patch of bone. She kissed that spot a lot. Her favorite spot, she decided. 

The kissing faded to cuddles. Sansa dropped onto his chest and curled up with their legs intertwined. Strong arms held her close. She kept one ruby in her palm, and another pulsed just beneath her head. Its steady rhythm lulled her into the sweetest sleep.  

Sadly, Sandor’s sleep wasn’t as sweet. In the deep of night, he was restless again, so restless he threw Sansa off of him and woke her up. 

“Sandor?” she whispered, groggy. “Sweetling, what’s the matter?” 

She reached for his shoulder to pull him back to her, but he called out, “Leave me alone. Gods, please, leave me alone. Leave me alone. Let me go. Let me go.” Then he twisted away and began to shiver. 

Surely his words weren’t for Sansa, so she pulled onto her knees and scooted closer. “It’s a nightmare, sweetling,” she soothed. “It’s not real.” 

She went for his shoulder again, but his hand clamped her wrist. She winced, still sore from the rope, then his eyes shot open. Their sharpness pinned her in place. 

“You’re not real,” he hissed. 

Sansa whimpered, and one blink later, Sandor’s eyes were soft starlight. He looked from Sansa’s face to her wrist, then let her go. “Little bird?” 

He pushed himself up. “What happened?” 

“A nightmare,” Sansa whispered. 

“Fuck,” Sandor grumbled. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, then tugged his hair over his scars. "I get them all the time. Are you good?” 

Sansa didn’t want to lie, but she couldn’t tell the truth either. “I just want you to hold me,” she replied, which seemed like a fair compromise. Sandor drew her into her armpit, so she could rest on her favorite pillow and sink into his atmosphere. She groped for the weirwood at his neck. 

I’m real, she told the gods. I’m here. I’m real.

Chapter Text

Sandor had to convince Sansa to go downtown with him. After the house show, he told her the same thing every night. "We need to go to Sevenstreams, little bird. Drop off a tape and see what happens. You could have a record deal by the end of the moon." He might have just been saying that to make Sansa blush, which she definitely was, even if he couldn't see it. 

He was saying a lot of things that made her blush lately. Things like, "Everyone's talking about your show," and, "Luke wants to know when you can play at the Den." Her favorite was, "You're incredible, little bird. You make the prettiest songs. You have the prettiest voice, and the prettiest lyrics, and the absolute best skill with the synth." 

He told her he wished he could watch her play in person, every single night. He just wanted to watch her sweet little hands twist and turn. He wanted to watch her brow wrinkle up just-so as one track melded into the next. He wanted to watch her dance. 

He wanted to see her smile. She had the prettiest smile, all pearly whites and pink bow lips. Did she know that? 

She did, and she definitely wanted to be reminded.  

But her smiles were squandered in solitude. They were between her and quiet places cast in cold moonlight. She wished that she could share them with Sandor instead. 

Thankfully, the weekend before their trip to the mountains, she got her wish. They rode downtown on a sunny Smithsday afternoon. Sansa clung to Sandor's middle and breathed the fast floral wind as they shot down the highway, lined with redbuds in full bloom. Sandor had gotten her a helmet, because he'd hate to see her pretty head smashed up. He put her in a pretty helmet instead, a sparkly white one that glittered like opal in the sun. He gave her a leather jacket too, to protect her pretty elbows, her pretty chest, and her pretty back. 

He rode much safer with her, he said. It was just in case some other cunt fucked up.  

When they got off the highway, he zigzagged down side streets and squeezed the Courser through a maze of narrow alleyways. He turned a corner to dead end, hemmed in by two towering stone buildings, and pulled all the way in. 

After he hopped down and took off his helmet, he helped Sansa with hers. He didn't help her down, though. He trapped her waist and went for her mouth, and he must have been starving. His kisses were extra strong and slobbery. He pressed her into the wall, softened by a thick layer of weathered posters, as he moved from her mouth to her nose, up to her forehead, down to her cheek, then finally landed on her ear. 

Sharp teeth gnawed at her earlobe, then came his tongue. He ran it along the outside edge first, then he buried it inside. "Sandor," Sansa puffed in between giggles. "That tickles." The more she wriggled, the more he licked and nibbled, until she was positively breathless. 

She was so distracted she didn't notice that Sandor's hands had snuck up her skirt—her plaid wrap mini skirt, very mini. They rested right at the crease of her hips, and his thumbs dropped to stroke the front of her panties. It was innocent enough until he pulled aside the boring black cotton and went for her clit. 

"Sandor," Sansa gasped. She grabbed his muscled forearms as if she had any chance of prying them away. "What are you doing?" 

"Having a snack," he replied. One of the hands pulled back, but only so he could undo his silver belt buckle. Sansa tried to stop him with a weak tug.  

"You can't," she said. "What if someone sees? We could get in trouble." 

Sandor threw a very deliberate look down the empty alleyway, and a cheeky look at the dark dead end. When he turned back to Sansa, he was grinning. 

He knew what he was doing. 

And maybe Sansa did too. She folded her arms. She furrowed and brow and pulled her lips to a cross pucker. "Ask nicely," she told him. 

"Little bird…" he warned. 

That wasn't going to work this time. Sansa pressed her thighs together, and crossed her ankles to keep herself locked up. Sandor cursed. He rubbed at his jaw, and glanced down the alleyway again. He shook his head and made his brow all angry. None of it helped his cause. 

Sansa clamped down on the hand between her legs. "Sandor," she warned him back. "Use your pretty manners." 

He let out a sigh that was mostly a growl. "Please," he grumbled down to his boots. Sansa toed his shin to get his eyes up. He rolled them, hard. 

"Pretty please," he tried again.  

Sansa smiled. She opened up her legs. "That's better. You can have your snack, but be quick." 

Sansa had underestimated just how quickly Sandor could move. His cock came out from his fly already rock hard, and two thrusts of his fingers had Sansa ready, too. He plunged inside of her, stuck his mouth on her neck, and he thrust. Ten quick, bone-deep thrusts. That's all it took. He would bury every inch inside Sansa, draw all the way out, and somehow go even deeper. He didn't waste a single scrap of warmth. 

After the tenth stroke, he pulled out, and spilled a puddle of seed all over the dirty pavement, steadying himself with a hand on the wall. "Fuck," he always had to say after finishing. Then he zipped back up, smeared his mess around with the heel of his boot, and finally helped Sansa down. 

He helped fix her skirt and plaits too, smoothing rogue curls back behind her ears. "Let's go get a treat," he said with a soft smile. 

He was talking about a treat for little birds. He took to her an ice cream shop, the pretty, shiny kind with bright red booths and sparkling white tile floors. A girl in a crisply pressed white dress and matching smile took their order. "Banana split," Sansa whispered into Sandor's ear. 

They squeezed into a booth together. Sandor squeezed because he was so ridiculously large, then Sansa had to squeeze right next to him. Not across, because Sandor said so. It was nice being so close though, especially because the ice cream gave Sansa the shivers. She burrowed into Sandor as she ate bite after slow bite. 

The ice cream melted before she could finish, and she had gotten too sticky. Not her hands or her face, she was a very neat eater. It was between her legs. Sandor's afternoon snack had drenched her panties and slipped out to her thighs. They were nearly glued to her vinyl-covered seat and made a gross tacky noise every time she shifted. 

She tugged Sandor's sleeve to bring his ear to her mouth. "I'm a mess," she told him. "I need to change." With a pointed glance down to her skirt, Sandor understood. He waited while she went to the bathroom to tidy up—though she came back to a suspiciously clean ice cream dish—and he didn't even grumble when Sansa said they needed to do some shopping. 

Sansa towed Sandor five blocks over to The Nightingale. She knew where it was, because Uncle Petyr had taken her here no less than ten times during Sansa's first weeks at Oxcross. She didn't tell Sandor that, though. 

Sandor was nothing like Uncle Petyr. He didn't want to pick for her. He sat, arms crossed, in a plush heart-shaped loveseat in the back of the shop while Sansa browsed. She touched nearly every set they had to offer. Floral lace cut in every shape, in every color. A veritable bouquet of undergarments. Uncle liked Sansa in lace. Feminine, he would say. Ladylike. What your mother would have worn. 

That's how Sansa ended up with a whole armful of satin. Satin was ladylike, too. 

Sandor would dutifully peek into the fitting room to assess Sansa's selections and call them pretty. She knew which ones he thought were the prettiest, because she was watching his reactions. One of them in particular, a black satin one piece with scalloped edges and sleek darting on the bodice, really stirred him up. 

"Seven hells, little bird," he said. He ran a hand through his hair, eyes bright. "That's...that's really fucking pretty." 

That was the piece she wore out of the store. She had a whole bagful of other glossy satin sets for Sandor to carry, but she wanted to wear her special one. The one she had chosen.

It gave her the extra confidence she needed for their next stop—Sevenstreams. 

The label had their office along the Golden Promenade. There was a certain splendor about the Promenade. It was a wide avenue, aptly paved with gilded brick. Manicured hedges lined the walk, cut into shapes of lions and kings. At the end of each block stood a fountain with a lifesize, golden sculpture of a Lannister at its center. Water shot up from gilded cannons in loops and spirals to herald the blessed noble’s likeness. 

Perhaps it was a little excessive.

Was there no better use for Lannister gold? 

The Sevenstreams building was modest enough, with a warm limestone facade and simple gold lettering above a revolving door. There was only one desk inside the lobby, occupied by a dark-haired girl in a bubblegum pink sweater. Sandor gave Sansa a friendly shove forward. Her boots squeaked across the polished marble floor, and much louder, squeakier squeaks followed behind. 

The girl at the desk only looked up when Sansa landed right in front of her, and a great big shadow fell over her desk. She blew a large, pink bubble. Pop. Then came a bored, "Can I help you?" 

"Um…" Sansa started. A hand dove into the bag on her back, then slipped a tape into hers. When Sansa looked down, Lady snarled back at her from beneath her plastic cage. Sansa swallowed. She smiled. 

"I'm Lady," she told the girl, curtsying. "I'm a musician. I work with the Minimarq mostly, and I've brought a sample of my music. I'm hoping to get signed." 

When she presented her album, the girl reached for something beneath her desk. She pulled out what looked like a wicker wastebasket, except it was full of tapes. "Put it in here. It'll get it where it needs to go." 

Sansa concentrated very hard on keeping her face steady as she set her hard work, her beautiful music, in a sordid pile of other people's hard work and beautiful music. Her face didn’t collapse until they made it back to the fresh, gilded air. Sandor tried to cheer her up with his fingers laced in hers, just the way she liked. 

"That was good," he told her. "We did what we came to do." 

Sansa meekly nodded, and they set out down the walk. She realized she ought to smile again when people started staring. Not just any people—they were lords and ladies in sharp designers suits, with jewels on their fingers and designer sunglasses shielding their mean eyes. Eyes that devoured odd sights like gold-dusted truffles. 

Sandor was an odd sight, here. A big, dark man in a ratty Nightfall t-shirt, with runes stamped into his skin and flame on his face. But he was Sansa's man, so she gripped his hand extra hard. This is how it would be if we went to court together, she thought. 

The Lady and the Hound. 

My Hound.

It wasn't a cold day. It was warm, even. Sansa's dark leather jacket soaked up plenty of spring sunlight. But she shivered. A snake made of shadow slithered along her spine. Not even pressing into Sandor's side could take away the chill. Not today. 

The smartest thing to do would have been to leave downtown and head back to Sandor's apartment, where they could hide, and be Sandor and Sansa together. But when they passed by Barneby's Books, they simply had to stop. Even Sandor agreed. 

"It's a nice little shop," he said as he pulled open the door for Sansa. "We can stay however long you like." 

Oh, it was wonderful. And it wasn’t small—Barneby's had the best selection of both old books and new. There were five stories stuffed full of lofty bookcases, connected by spiraling stairs and narrow walks. Dust and the scent of old paper filled the dimly-lit air. The books padded any sound and cast each aisle in silence. A magical place. A sacred place. 

Sansa went off on an adventure. She liked to look at the collectibles first, all the crumbling manuscripts from ages long past. Barneby's had a copy of Kin of the Stag, Lives of the Four Kings, and even a first edition of A Caution for Young Girls. Sansa knew about that one—Sandor had a reprint. She might do well to read it. 

Next she went off to the floor with all the fairy tales, then the song books, and she even crept down the aisle with the romances. She wanted to see if there were any books about the kinds of things she and Sandor did together, but her cheeks got so flushed she ran away. 

Well over an hour later, she carted an armful of books down to the ground floor. She would check out first, then go find Sandor, wherever he had disappeared to. But just as she reached the counter, a glimmer of gold flashed in the corner of her eye. 

Living gold, set with emeralds. 

Joffrey. 

Sansa dove into the nearest aisle, but it was too late. 

"Sansa?" came that terrible, beautiful voice. "Is that you?" 

Joffrey turned the corner and smirked at his discovery. "Are you hiding from me, shewolf?" 

"No, I—" 

There was nothing to be afraid of here. He was just a boy. A very pretty boy, with ringlets of spun gold and a sparkling golden crown to match. Joff always wore his crown, inlaid with rubies and emeralds. It paired perfectly with his King's University blazer.

But he was just a boy. That close to the throne. 

Nothing to fear. 

"It's good to see you, Joff," Sansa answered at last. She curtsied. She gave him her hand, but after he kissed it, he came for her mouth, too. His lips were two soft, pink pillows. They lingered. 

"W-what are you doing here?" Sansa asked, with the hope that it would give his mouth something else to do. He retreated, but stayed close. Close enough for Sansa to remember the way he smelled, like sunlight. Sunlight and strawberries, ripe to bursting. 

He laughed at her; he had always found her so funny. "Gods, mother really was right about you," he said. "It's my great uncle's nameday at the moon's turn. You may have heard of him—the Warden of the West?"  

"Oh, of course," Sansa replied. 

Joffrey ran a slender finger along the front of her jacket, then picked up her locket. He flicked it open and grimaced. "That's ugly." He clicked it shut, then stole one of her plaits. "Do Oxcross girls not know how to dress?" 

A solid hand landed on Sansa's shoulder—rescue. 

Or trouble. 

"What's this?" Joffrey dropped her hair, thank goodness, but his sparkling eyes went to the shadow at Sansa’s back. He would notice the rings and runes first. Glory. Then perhaps he’d notice the two-inch tear in Sandor’s shirt, just beneath his ribs, the one Sansa ought've mended by now. Then there was the splatter of bleach on his right front pocket, and the scuffed black boots. Boots that said I work. 

And no one could avoid the scars. Joff’s eyes stayed there, and his poreless nose crinkled. 

"I know you,” he scowled. “You're the Mountain's brother, the ugly one. The Hound. The cowardly dog, more like.” Joffrey made a dissatisfied sniff, then looked back to Sansa. "No wonder no one's heard from you—it seems you've courted a junkie mongrel."   

"He's not—" A mongrel, she could have said, or a junkie. But all that came out was, "Not courted. Just friends." 

Sandor’s hand left Sansa's shoulder. "I'll be off, then," he said.

The bell above the door jingled before Sansa had even blinked twice. How rude. She didn't have much more time to choose—stay with Joffrey, or go after Sandor. 

She certainly couldn't stay with Joffrey. 

So she foisted her armful of books onto the nearest shelf and managed only the messiest curtsy goodbye. Then she stumbled out onto the street, just to see Sandor disappear around the corner. 

Sansa followed, as quickly as she could without attracting attention, which wasn’t nearly as fast as Sandor. He had no reason to be so rude, storming off like this. Joffrey had been rude of course, but not that rude. Sansa would let Sandor explain everything about being a cowardly dog and a junkie. They were all lies, anyway. He didn’t have to run. 

Sansa managed to keep him in her line of sight until he began weaving through the maze of narrow alleyways. 

“Sandor?” she called, breathless. 

When she rounded the next corner, she slammed straight into a crook-backed stranger that smelled a lot like pee. So she ran faster. “Sandor?” she tried again, but her shout only echoed against the buildings that loomed like stone giants. 

Her heart nearly flew from her ribs when a motorcycle roared from behind. Sansa spun to see Sandor, mounted on his Courser, face shielded by his big black Hound’s helm. He revved up. He was growling. 

Sansa fluttered to his side and latched onto the sides of his leather jacket just as he zoomed away. 

He wasn’t safe at all. He rode like a bat in a twisting cave, all sharp turns and swerves. He dipped so slow rounding a curve that Sansa nearly toppled straight onto the pavement. Worse, she almost broke a nail from how hard she had to clutch at his jacket. 

He hadn’t even put on her helmet for her. 

He was so rude. Sansa could scarcely believe it. 

She almost flew off his bike again when he screeched to halt in the alley beside his apartment. And when he shot up to standing, he really did send Sansa tumbling onto the street. Her left wrist and hip ate the impact of hard stone, then Sandor jerked her upright by the elbow. He didn’t bother to fix her skirt. He didn’t put one curl into place.

That was the final straw. 

“I want to go home,” Sansa whined. 

Sandor ripped off his helmet and threw it to the ground. He stooped to put his forehead against hers and hissed, “Then go.” 

Sansa whimpered, but he was already gone. The heavy front door slammed shut behind him. 

He left her all alone. 

Sansa pulled in her lower lip. She couldn’t go home, not that Oxcross counted as much of a home anyway. If she went home, she and Sandor wouldn’t be able to go out later like he had promised. She’d have to walk all the way to Butcher’s Station, wait for the train, ride for over an hour, just so she could sit alone in her room. All night long. 

Sansa decided she would rather get an apology out of Sandor and set things right. 

He had left the door unlocked, so Sansa slipped inside. She followed weird noises coming from the bedroom and discovered Sandor, crouched in front of his safe, twisting the combination lock back and forth. He wasn’t breathing right. It sounded like he was drowning in sand, sucking in dry air and choking on hot dust. 

Stranger knew something was amiss, because he was at Sandor’s side, whining and licking at his hands. When the bloodhound ran over to Sansa instead, Sandor turned. His face wasn’t right, either. The unscarred side was flushed and sweaty. His eyes were wide and white. His jaw shook. Without a word, he stood. 

“S-Sandor?” 

Sansa inched closer. “What’s wrong?” 

When she reached out, Sandor advanced. He pushed his chest into her hand and pressed forward until Sansa had no choice to step back. Once, twice, then she tripped backwards over her heel and landed against a soft tapestry. Sandor loomed like a stormcloud. His breath thundered down on her. Worse was his stare, so bright Sansa wilted into herself. 

"You don't fucking touch me," Sandor spat. "You don't come close." 

And then he was gone, again. 

Sansa wasn't going to follow him this time. She was going to crumple into the floor and stay there until Sandor was done being rude and scary. 

That's when the crashing started. Begrudgingly, Sansa crept to the kitchen. 

He was rude, scary, and angry. So angry his hands weren't working anymore. They trembled, lightning-struck. He wrestled with a bottle of beer above the kitchen sink, but when he popped off the cap, the neck snapped. Then the whole thing shattered in his grip and burst to foamy shards. 

"Fuck! " he shouted. He threw down a handful of glass and slammed the end of his fist into the cupboard above. Its top hinges sprang free, and Sandor wanted to put them back in place, but he was too shaky. It wouldn't work. He rammed the cupboard door over and over, shouting "Fuck, fuck, fuck," until it splintered into boards and only a tiny golden knob remained in his hand.

"I'm so fucking pissed,” he roared. He pitched the knob against the wall, and it sent a framed piece of his grandmother's embroidery crashing to the tile. "So fucking pissed." 

His hands cooperated long enough for him to fish out a bottle of amber liquor from the now doorless cupboard. He pulled the cork out with his teeth and drained the dregs in one mighty swallow. He dropped the bottle into the sink and leaned over it, arms stretched wide over the countertops. He breathed ragged fire. It flared from his lips and smoked through his nostrils. 

He had gone mad. 

Maybe Joffrey and the wight had told it true. 

He was a junkie dog, mad from milk. 

But Sansa should be the mad one. He was a liar. She folded her arms and scrunched up her brow. "Stop," she told him, closer to a whine than she would have liked. 

But Sandor didn't want her touch or her words. He lunged across the kitchen, and Sansa forced herself against the doorframe before she became the next mess on the floor. She shielded her face but that didn't stop Sandor from squeezing in front of her, leaning close, and growling, "Fuck you, princess," before leaving her a third time. 

He stopped breaking things, but his boots thudded on the floorboards, restless. He was muttering to himself, evil curses than Sansa didn't want to make out. She only left the kitchen because she needed to remind him that she was one who should be cross. That she was the one owed an explanation and an apology. 

Sandor wasn't going to give her that. She had turned invisible to him. She watched from behind as he fell onto the sofa, cradled his head in his hands, and shuddered. Stranger wasn't invisible though. When he came to his master's side and lapped at his face, Sandor opened up. He pulled the bloodhound onto his lap and rocked him. He buried all his mean words in black fur. 

He had a lot of mean words. But by the time he straightened up, and shooed Stranger back to his bed, his breath was almost normal.

His hands could work again. 

He unscrewed a jar stuffed full of hemp and put a particularly purple bud in the bowl of his own glass tower—water pipe, he had told Sansa with a laugh over the phone, when they still laughed together. He filled up the tower with dark brown smoke, gulped it all down, and exhaled a stinky cloud. 

"Friends," he breathed out bitterly. He dropped back on the sofa, and smeared sweaty hair down over his scars. "Just friends." 

Sansa blanched—that was why he was mad? 

That had the simplest explanation in the world. 

"Sandor," Sansa started, taking two bold steps forward. "It's just Joffrey, you see. He knows my uncle, and—" 

"Oh, this is about your uncle is it? The rich pervert?"

"Sandor, no—"

Sandor turned and cut her with a razor-sharp stare. "Have you been bad, little bird? Are you a bad girl, hanging around with a bad man?"

“Don’t say that,” Sansa mewled. She flocked to Sandor's side and landed on her knees. She groped for his hand, but he put both his palms up high, far out of reach. 

"What is he going to do to you?" Sandor hissed down. "Does he touch you, little bird? Does he like to put his hands down all those pretty panties of yours?" 

"Sandor," Sansa whined. "He doesn't touch me, not like that." Never like that. "B-but he pays for my college. He pays for everything. He could take me out of school. He could—he could—” turn me into Arya. 

The thought broke her. 

Sansa would never bring her knight to court. Uncle Petyr would have to be six feet under before letting that happen. He would ruin her. Far worse than she had already ruined herself. 

If Joffrey ran his pretty mouth, if they crossed paths at the Festival of the Falcon— 

Sansa opened wide. She gathered air in stunted wisps until her lungs ached. And then, she wailed. It was over. It was all over. Everyone would know she had been bedded by a bad dog. A junkie. A monster. She was a stupid girl, as stupid as Joffrey said. Stupid for stealing away to Lannisport. Stupid for finding her way to Sow's End. Stupid for going to Sandor's stupid show, and even stupider for going home with him.

The stupidest part was that she came back. That she called Sandor every night and visited every weekend. That she dreamt of him, wrote songs for him, and whispered his name to soothe herself to sleep. She thought of him and only him. She didn't even care about school, that's how stupid she was. 

She was so stupid. 

She wanted to stay.  

"You're his, aren't you?" 

The way Sandor looked down on her, Sansa knew. She wasn’t invisible—she was a ghost. 

But she was still his girl. 

She reached over his lap and fumbled with his belt buckle. 

“What are you doing?” Sandor rasped. 

Ghosts weren’t so great at keeping their hands steady, and all the sobbing and moaning turned the world to a watery imprint of itself. But ghosts were quick. Every time Sandor tried to bat her away, Sansa came right back. “No,” he kept saying. “Little bird, don’t.” 

But he didn’t want to touch the ghost, not hard enough to mean stop. He nudged her shoulder, tugged her elbow, and even tried to push her back, his fingertips to her collarbones. All too gentle. The ghost’s sorrow weighed her down. Huge, hot tears darkened Sandor’s jeans and she tried harder with the buckle, fingers quivering. 

“Stop, little bird. Stop.” 

The touches got rougher, and the world got wetter. The ghost lost her grasp on his belt and had to search for him over his jeans. “No, little bird.” A rough hand swatted hers away, but she came right back. “I said stop.” He caught her right wrist, but she could prove herself with just one hand. She could still play.

When Sandor trapped her left wrist, it hurt. 

“Nightshade,” he growled down to her. “Fucking nightshade.”

There was nothing left to do then but cry. Sansa decided she would drown. She had more than enough tears for that, and she couldn’t find nearly enough air. Yes, that was what she would do. She tried to sink to the floor, where she would rest forever, but Sandor wouldn’t let her go. He was saying something but Sansa couldn’t hear him underwater. She didn’t want to hear him. 

She wanted to drown. 

Her stupidly handsome, half-mad knight dragged her to the surface. All the way up, until he held her in his lap. Sansa’s world was miserable, but this world was better. Sandor’s air filled up her lungs. Soft cotton soaked up her tears. His arms were a home, warm and dry. Stronger than storms. His words were nice ones. Old ones, in a tongue that soothed Sansa’s blood. 

The kisses he sowed on the crown of her head were petal-soft. 

“I’m yours,” Sansa mumbled into his shirt. She found his necklace and grasped it through his shirt. “I promise.” 

Sandor sighed. “I could kill, little bird,” he said, so gently it hurt. "I'm so fucking mad. I could kill.” 

“Please don’t,” Sansa whispered back. She pulled away from his chest and got her first dry look at him. Her heart fell like a flower trampled by cruel hooves. 

He had spoken honestly. 

His eyes were grey lightning that flickered and cracked. They didn’t need a reason to drop down and strike. They simply would. 

Because he was mad. 

“Is it true?” Sansa asked. “Are you a junkie?” 

“I was.” 

That drove her heart further into cold earth. “Why?” 

“Why?” Sandor shifted his hold of Sansa, but only to bring her closer. She pressed her ear to his heart and listened, because it hurt less than watching his face. “To escape, little bird. War was hell—nothing but fire and blood. That doesn’t go away so easy. Milk made it go away.” 

“But you stopped?” 

“I stopped. Got clean with Gerold’s help. I haven’t had a drop of milk in two years. Haven’t touched it in two years.” 

Sansa nodded against his chest to let him know that she heard, but didn’t know what else to say. Sandor did, though. He always did. 

“I’m sorry, little bird.” He petted her whole head, smoothed a large palm from her crown down her plaits over and over. “I should have told you, but I was afraid. Afraid you wouldn’t come back.” 

Sansa squeezed his pendant even tighter. “I’m not going anywhere, I promise.” 

“I want to believe that,” Sandor said. “I want to keep you.” 

He kept her for a very long time. The living room was pink and purple when Sansa unstuck her face from his shirt, now damp and slick with an unfortunate amount of snot. He cleared the rest away with his thumb, and he even left his hand there, to give her cheek a home.

“Are you still mad at me?” Sansa whispered. 

“I am,” Sandor replied. “Are you still sad?” 

Sansa nodded, then frowned. “Does this mean we can’t go out?” 

“Little bird...” Sandor’s thumb brushed her downturned lips. “Where would you have us go?” 

“I don’t know...the Cell?” 

Sandor needed a few deep breaths to think on it. Then he answered, “We can go to the Cell if you like, sweet girl.” He took one more deep breath, resolute. “But we’re going to confess.” 

Sansa brushed Sandor’s hair from his scars, and tucked her hand beneath his jaw. 

“I’ll confess.” 

They got ready in near silence. Sandor went to change his shirt. Sansa rewove her hair into two perfect milkmaid’s plaits, then she tiptoed over shards of glass and wood into the kitchen. She drank a glass of lemonade, and ate a quick spoonful of the whipped cream in Sandor’s fridge. She waited for him by the door, backpack on, jacket zipped. 

Something clicked down the hall. Then something heavy squeaked. It squeaked one more time, and ended in a thud. Sandor appeared, in his Oathkeeper shirt and his big leather jacket. He got the door for Sansa and guided her out with a palm set to her low back. 

As she stepped into the hall she caught a wink of silver starlight at Sandor’s hip. He tugged his jacket to put it out, but Sansa knew that shine. 

A hilt. 

Whatever they were going to confess, it would require a dagger.

Chapter Text

The Black Cell writhed with smoke and scent of human stickiness in all its forms. Black leather, black cotton, black silk, and black makeup shielded skin and morphed into one, pulsating aliveness. Sandor went straight through the heart of this creature. His fingers locked with Sansa's, so they could be one, too. 

Amayana stood a head above the others, at height with Sandor in platform boots that glittered like black diamonds. She greeted him with a nod. One glance to Sansa, and she knew. 

She floated to a black oak door between the Maiden and Mother's altars and led them down a close corridor. Orange flame licked at Sansa's face as they passed door after dark door. Stifled moans and shouts pushed through the stone walls and echoed. They had entered the belly of the beast. They were swallowed whole. 

Sansa's hand was sticky. Sandor's wasn't. That meant he could hold her all the tighter. Every so often, he would put the back of her palm to his lips. Sansa prayed. 

I’ll confess, she told the Gods. But please, tell me what you want to hear. 

In the depths of the creature's bowels, Amayana pushed a key into the gaping mouth of an iron skull. It clicked, hinges squealed, and the heavy door creaked open. "May the Gods grant you mercy," Amayana said with a bow. She gathered the wisps of black gauze that made up her gown, and drifted into darkness, graceful as a swan. 

This was where they would confess. 

It was a twisted mockery of a confessional booth, no bigger than Sansa's dorm room, with dark wood paneling draped in crimson velvet. There was a chair in the center of it, a funny thing that looked like a two-tiered step stool, oversized and upholstered to match the curtains. Behind the stool was an altar. A black marble Stranger commanded the spread, face hidden, skull perched in a bony hand. Flickering torchlight gave the hollow sockets life. 

Sandor had to let go of Sansa. "Let's get you ready," he said, pulling off her backpack. He came for her jacket next, then he tugged her blouse loose, wrestled off her boots, and saved her skirt for last. He spent a few seconds stroking her satiny one piece. "This really is so pretty, little bird. But it has to come off, too." 

So she was naked, down to pale skin and her treasured collar. Sandor put all her pretty things in a black armoire, and exchanged them for a coil of black rope. 

Rope was fine. Sansa could handle rope. 

The stool was for her. Sansa knelt on the first step, and leaned over the second, so her breasts gently pressed atop the edge of the cushion. She and the Stranger's skull stared at each other as Sandor began his knots. He tied her forearms together, a woven ladder that ended at her wrists. He had her palms rest flat against one another. Prayer.

"How's that?" he asked. He hooked a finger between her wrist and tested his work with a tug. 

"Good," Sansa replied. 

"Good." 

Sandor went behind to the armoire. He returned to split Sansa's legs apart. Warm leather wrapped around her ankles, right, then left. "And that?" 

Sansa strained to look over her shoulder. This was new—black leather cuffs separated by an iron bar. Cold air lapsed at her sacred skin, and tingled. She was wet. When had she gotten wet? 

Instinctually, Sansa tried to press her thighs together. 

It wasn't happening. 

When she looked up at Sandor, he smirked. "That's better than good," he replied on her behalf. 

Sansa waited, resting her face in soft velvet, while Sandor retrieved something else. She looked up when a shadow fell over her. Sandor held a ball of dragon glass, strung through with leather, a buckle on the end. 

"I need you to listen very closely, Sansa. You won't have your pretty voice tonight. This—" he stretched out the length of leather, pressed the ball gently to her lips. "This is going to keep you quiet. Understand?" 

Sansa's breath fogged the black glass, a hair's breadth from her mouth. How can I confess like this? But she nodded, and made more fog, answering simply, "I understand."

"Good girl. That means if you need to stop for any reason, if it's too much, we're going to use a new signal. Here." Sandor molded her hands until only her two pointer fingers stood upright against one another, then held her in a tight fist. He shook it. "This means no. This means stop. For any reason. Do I make myself clear?" 

"Yes, perfectly clear." 

"Good. Now you show me." 

Sansa practiced twice for good measure, then laid her palms back together, so Sandor would know she was ready. He eased the ball into her mouth. The glass was cold on her tongue, hard against her teeth. It spread her lips into a silent scream. Sandor buckled the strap tight. Words couldn't escape, but spit could. It dribbled from the corners of her faster than she could swallow. She couldn't help it. She couldn't stop her tongue from lapping up the last trances of Sandor's touch. Salt. Skin. Warmth. When he came to face her again, he wiped a wet string away with his thumb. 

"That's a pretty bird," he said. He gave her one last smile. 

Sandor moved slowly to the altar, as if his muscles had turned to marble. He breathed slowly, too. He made every breath count. A soon-to-be statue, savoring each drop of oxygen. He pulled his lighter from his pocket, click. 

"I should be dead, little bird," he began. He dragged the little flame over the wicks of wilted candle stubs, until twelve more flames appeared. The pewter candelabra was a gnarled tree, ablaze. "I should have died the day Gregor stuck my face in the hearth. I should have died the day Elinor drowned, or the day my mother killed herself. I should have died just as my father did. But no—I went off to war, to chase death myself." 

Sandor filled another candelabra with fire, then lit a series of candles that wept directly onto the altar, molded together like black swamp muck. The whole table was a ghastly bog of molten wax, branches dripping, inky black ponds bubbling. Sandor pocketed the lighter. His shoulders blotted out the Stranger, but firelight spilled past him and lit up the silver at his hip. 

Sansa watched that shining hilt. A metallic hound's head on the pommel watched her back. 

She worried, then. This wasn't her knight: it was a scorned beast.

The Hound. 

"I should have died during the war, a hundred times over," he went on. "I should have done for myself like the weirwoods. I should have walked into a burning grove, and never looked back." Sandor pulled off his shirt. He set it on the altar, and took one of his halted statue breaths, muscles rippling like flame-kissed water. 

He held it, then turned.

"But I didn't."  

Sandor took one cautious step forward. "I came back, and I still wanted to be dead. I've lost track, little bird. I've lost track of how many times I've tied a noose. How many times I've hung one from the rafters, and put it snug around my neck." 

He took another step. Cruelly, the bulge in his black jeans was eye level. Sansa's bud pounded in kind, but Sandor dropped to a crouch. Then he gave her his face, cast harshly in shadow. His scars glimmered wet in the torchlight. Sansa was reminded of sharp-toothed stars, if stars were liquid and dark, alive. 

"I should be dead." 

Sansa whimpered into her gag. She wanted to dip her hand in that star to drag him to earth, to reassure him of a beating heart. She wanted to say, Stay, Sandor. Stay with me. But she couldn't use her words. She couldn't reach out. She could drool, and she could make sounds that were no more dignified. 

So she whimpered. Sandor understood her—he was one who had turned into such a pathetic creature, after all. He gave Sansa his hand, cupped on her cheek. 

"The Gods spared me," he said, tracing the line of her nose. "I'd thank the Old Gods, but they know my black heart. It was the Stranger. He doesn't want me, not yet. Even worse, it was the Maiden." His fingers turned hard, trenched in her jaw like mighty claws. "I see her, you know, in my nightmares. She's the most frightful creature of all." 

Sandor added a softer hand, one to stroke her plaits. "Stay, she tells me, but she never says why. She never leaves me alone, never gives darkness. Just that milk white skin, cold blue eyes. And her hair—" his hand curled to a fist around a thick auburn braid, and pulled until pinpricks of pain dotted Sansa’s scalp. "It's so bloody bright. It's the sun." 

Sandor straightened so the dagger flashed before her eyes. He took it from his belt, almost presented it to Sansa, as a lord does for a knight. It was a beautiful weapon, perhaps a foot long, with a black leather scabbard, and that immaculate silver hilt, capped with a snarling hound. But what is it for? Sansa wondered, willing her water to stay inside her. A cold confessional breeze proved the wetness between her thighs, and she knew. 

He wants to play with a knife.

Shining grey eyes watched Sansa's bound hands. Fingertips to fingertips, she held her prayer.

"I did what the Maiden told me," Sandor went on. He skirted the leather-sheathed blade along Sansa's arm to her shoulder, birthing fresh gooseprickles, and a full body shudder. "I stayed, and I suffered. But one day, a girl comes to see my show. A pretty girl. The prettiest girl I've ever seen. She stands right up front, and she looks me straight in the eye." Cool leather dipped beneath Sansa’s chin, and lifted. 

"She looks at me, right down to my pitch black guts, and she isn't afraid." 

There was no hope. Water trickled down to Sansa's knees and soaked into the cushions beneath them. She was the pretty girl. The girl who right now, was staring straight into steel, staring past steel and beyond smoldered skin.

Pitch black guts—was that what she was seeing? 

The ball of dragon glass caught another whimper. It made Sandor go away. 

Behind her, wooden legs scraped across stone. They creaked. Warmth returned. A leather edge slid up her thigh, collecting her dew. Now Sandor would know her secret. Sansa knew less. She didn't know why Sandor was telling her all this. She didn't know why he needed that dagger, or why she needed to stay quiet. All she knew was that she was wet. 

And Sandor knew too. 

He was gentle, though. His fingers replaced leather and swept up her inner thigh. So close.

"The girl comes to me," he said, mercifully sliding a finger along her glossed petals. "She chooses. She says she found my flyer, and she wants to talk about the Old Gods." His finger circled her clit, then sunk inside her. The gag ate another mewl. "She's a sweet little songbird who wants to put her hands on me. She wants to ask after my scars. So I take her home. I let her put her hands everywhere she wants, where I've never let anyone before."

Just like that, he took back his fingers. But icy metal came instead—the hilt, the silver hound. It traced her woefully exposed sex and put fresh gooseprickles everywhere else. 

"I take her to bed—" The hound buried its head in Sansa's center. She tried to close her legs, but her ankles fought a losing battle against the bar between them. It was too cold, too wrong, too good. "—and she leaves." 

The twisted goodness disappeared. 

"But she comes back." 

And so did the metal hound. Deeper this time, down to the guard. Down to that spot, that beautiful, terrifying spot that could steal all her heat and unleash a flood. 

That was exactly what Sandor wanted. 

"She comes back, again, and again, and again," he said, thrusting the hilt in time to his words. He pulled out a tide of dew. He forced spit to leak from Sansa's lips, but he couldn't see that, not yet. It was her new secret. "She sings the sweetest songs. She smiles at me, really smiles at me. She almost, almost" —the hound wound against her walls, savaging her— "makes me wish I wasn't dead. I give her everything I have left in me, anything good, anything sweet." 

Sandor sighed, bone-deep. 

"And after all that, I'm just a friend." 

The silver hound abandoned her. He gave her emptiness instead. 

"A friend."

Sansa's thighs quivered. Her knees ached, grinding past sodden velvet cushions to hard oak. 

She had been bad. 

She had been horrible. Cruel, even. She was the rude one. The one who owed an apology. But how could she? Her arms strained against silken rope. Words withered in her mouth. She couldn't give Sandor anything but this—her body, open. His. 

It was enough. Leather snuck between her legs. The scabbard’s tip pressed into her clit. 

"I never learned how to take care of something so small, so delicate." The tip dropped to her entrance and lingered for a mere second. 

Then, the sheath. 

All of it, inside her. Warm, yielding, but only enough to let Sansa know of the rigidness beneath, of the wicked edge millimeters away from parting her softest, most sacred flesh. It would drain her blood. Every drop. It would take her heat, too. It would gut her entire pulse. 

Her heart was his. 

Sansa relaxed on the blade. He can have it. 

And Sandor took her offering. The sheath dove deeper, searching for her end. "I know I don't deserve a girl like you," he said. "I've told you that before. But you're more than a girl, more than a little bird, and certainly more than a friend." 

He twirled the blade, scraping her nerves, reminding them. Sparks scattered up Sansa's spine and she arched, biting back another moan. You are more, she would say if she had her voice. You're my sweetling. I'll tell all of court. I don't care about them. I care about you. 

I promise. 

But without words, there was only stiff leather. It plunged to Sansa's center. It struck her core. It left, but only to come back deeper. Sansa squirmed. The cuffs at her ankles clattered and chafed. She would surrender her heat. 

"I should have known, though," Sandor said, his voice thick. "I should have known I'd earn the Maiden's ire. I deserve it. For a lifetime of killing, and cursing, and rotting my insides with whatever I can get." He pushed the dagger all the way to the guard, and Sansa throbbed there, teetering on the brink of dire release. "It shouldn't be, little bird." The blade twisted, and Sansa whimpered. "It's too good to be true." 

She was done for. 

"You're too good." 

With a palm braced on her low back, Sandor extracted his blade. 

The emptiness hurt. 

Memory wasn't enough for Sansa to finish. To show Sandor. To prove herself to him. 

When the distinct ring of drawn steel echoed across the room, Sansa knew. He needed more. 

A sharp point landed between her shoulder blades. "Am I mad," Sandor began, steel trickling down her spine,"if I try to hold on to this one last thing? Is it cruel to clip your wings and keep you in a cage?" 

The edge ran back up to her neck, but left no trail of warmth, only a bittersweet sting. "You don't want this poison, this ugly black heart of mine. I've told you what I am." Sandor pushed out of his chair. Boot steps rounded the stool, and all the blade went along her bent arm, up her ropes until Sandor stood before her.

Sansa hated that she noticed him first. That he was hard, and close, but her hands were bound. Her clit ached, weak, greedy. 

"I'm a dog," he rasped down. "A loyal fucking hound. I'm not going anywhere." Sharp steel slipped beneath her chin and flicked open her locket. "It's you, pretty little bird. You're the one with wings. With a fluttering heart and a whole sky to live in. I wonder every day when you'll decide to fly away. Maybe that day is close." 

It's not, Sansa thought. But she was too scared to let the words swell in her throat—the point was close on her neck. Her fingers itched, wondering. Would he? 

Have I been that bad?  

But her hands stayed in place. Sandor's eyes were there, watching. It was still a game. A dangerous game. A game that made her blood so hot it hurt. A game that would have her heart burst. Tears welled in Sansa's eyes. She nodded to Sandor, so he would know. Keep playing.

Sandor heaved a sigh. "I wouldn't blame you, little bird, if you went off and lived your pretty life without me. Gods know what miserable company I make." He picked up Sansa's cheek, brushed away her spit, then gave her face a little shake. "I only ask you one thing—choose. Make a choice and make it quick. I won't have you drag me through the mud. I'm too old for silly love games, and far, far too tired." 

Sansa knew he was tired. She had seen that in the creases in the corner of his good eye, the wrinkle in his brow. She heard it in his voice when he talked of battle, and she heard it in his voice now. That thickness. As though his throat were closing up, turning to stone. 

But she didn't feel that with him. He wasn't miserable with her. 

He was soft. He was sweet. 

His forehead fell to hers. "If I'm just a friend," he whispered. "This is over." The steel left her neck, but only so it could stroke her cheek, skim off wisps of hair from her tear-soaked skin. He breathed his slow words to her glass-parted lips. "I don't have it in me. I never did, but somehow, with all your sweet words, you drew it out. All the parts of me I thought were long gone. If you go away, they'll go away too. I can live with that, though I'd probably do better to die. I think if you left, I'd be strong enough to step down. If you left, I'd know for certain that I'd get nothing good from life, ever again. It would be a nightmare come true, in a life that's nothing but nightmares." 

The dagger slid back to her neck, but not just the point. Sandor pressed the blade’s length across above her collar, and all Sansa could think was, Take it. Take it all. You can have my blood. You can have my heart. A tear escaped and dripped down Sandor's knuckles. 

"Aye," he breathed. "It would only be proper to end it."

Steel flashed—her life was over, and she was to blame—but instead of slashing her throat, Sandor swept his blade between her forearms. Rope fell to the cushions, and he trapped her wrists in one large palm. 

"I'll let you choose, sweet little bird," he rasped. "But first, I'm going to fuck you, because that's what you deserve." 

Her ankles were next to be freed, then Sandor hooked an arm around Sansa's waist and hauled her to the altar. She perched on Sandor's shirt in the swamp of black wax and bright flame, her hands still pressed together, as if by invisible bounds. After Sandor undid his belt, and set his hardness against Sansa's tender flower, he took up her face. 

Sansa would have been embarrassed. All the drool, and snot, and water pooling in her eyes could only be a terrible sight. But Sandor wasn't a statue anymore. His blood was too hot; he had softened. His first gentle words were, "You have the prettiest eyes, Sansa. Like sapphires." He stole a tear from her lashes, and held it on his thumb. "But they're more precious, and far, far prettier." 

He spread that tiny gem of moisture along his swollen length, then eased inside of her with a groan. 

This would have Sansa weeping. 

Nothing compared to this fullness. An impossible beast, baring right into her womb. It forced the air from her lungs—there was no room. There had never been room for him. And yet, he was welcome. Her loyal hound. 

Sansa was wet. The tears made her wetter. 

They were all she had. They fell in abundance as Sandor moved inside her. He stole her wrists in one clenched fist. He watched her hands, waiting. The dagger flirted along her waist, and the Stranger guarded her spine. Each thrust pushed her against the outstretched marble skull. If her head fell too far back, her eyes would land on the hollow beneath its hood. 

But Sansa didn't have a prayer. 

Her prayer was inside her, carving out her ribcage.  

Sandor tugged her upright—he wanted her sapphires. He always did. He was always lost in them, digging deep. Sansa wondered what he saw there. She wondered what her guts looked like. Pretty, maybe, because Sandor smiled. A quick one, a small flicker in his eyes. 

"Look at all those tears," he told her. The dagger's sharp edge scoured her cheek, gathering a stream. "I put them there. My cock put them there." His tongue ran along the blade to drink her up.

"But you're not frightened," he whispered, leaning close.

Sansa shook her head. 

"I make you feel good." 

She nodded—he knew. Oh, he always knew. Maybe her eyes gave it away. Maybe it was the tears that polished them to sparkling. She gave him more. She gave him a flood. The gag drank up her sobs, and pushed out spit instead. Sandor liked that, too. He dropped his dagger in the candle wax swamp and took her hips instead. He went to the hilt of him, each stab paired with a thundering grunt. 

"You make me feel good, too," he panted. "Did you know that, little bird?" 

Sansa's answer was a timid hand on his broad, bare chest. Her fingers slid through dark hair and ink to curl around the chain at his neck. She pulled him in. Sandor's lips landed at her crown, so he kissed her. He cradled her head, shielded it from the cold marble Stranger. 

"It's a mire, little bird," he whispered. "All my life. I've been stuck, choking, breathing in black mud and spitting it back out. But not with you." His hand slid along her plaits, and he inhaled, deep. "You're fresh air. Sweet air. You carry me somewhere else, somewhere better. Somewhere safe." 

His breath shattered onto her head, a drowning sound. "Is that friendship?" The word was poison on his lips. "It hurt, little bird. It burned." 

He pulled away, and he was burning. He looked like he did in his bedroom—he had lightning in his eyes, flashing bright behind lank strings of black hair. It touched down, and Sansa drowned a gasp in her gag, but her sounds made Sandor stronger. His strokes came faster. His hand curled around her throat, and his breath lapsed over her face like flame. 

"It fucking hurt, " he snarled. "All my life, I thought fire was the worst of it. But that, Sansa. That was far fucking worse." 

His fingers bore into the sides of her neck. They trembled, so she trembled too. Water dripped from her chin and landed in her maidenhair. It would join the water between her legs, and form a pond on Sandor's shirt. She would drift away, if only his hold wasn't so blissfully tight. I'm sorry, her tears said on her behalf. I'm so, so sorry.  

Sandor believed her. His mouth came to clean her up. He lapped the salt from her chin, the snot from beneath her nose. He lingered with his right cheek stuck to hers. "Please, little bird," he whispered to her ear. "Please don't go. I know I'm ugly. I know I'm scary. But I'm scared, too. I'm scared you'll leave me all alone." 

Sansa's heart writhed, plunged back into worm-filled dirt. Her sobs blinded her, but she found Sandor's tattered cheek. Her fingers traced familiar cracked planes, ridges slick with blood. She knew his cheekbone, high and proud. She knew his jaw, razor-sharp, that ended in a jut of bone. Her favorite part of him. 

Her touch said stay.

It said, I won't go. You're not alone. I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm yours. I promise. I won't let you go. 

His breath got heavier. He started cursing. "Fuck, little bird," he kept repeating. "You feel so fucking good." She knew what came after the curses. He was close. He could choose to stay, too. He could fill her up. Make her whole. 

Make her stay. 

Sansa clenched around him. She drew him in, thrust after thrust. His pulse joined with hers. She imagined him bursting, putting her heat back inside her, where it belonged. She imagined being full. 

When she came, she grasped Sandor's necklace to keep him in place. So he could feel her, truly feel her. His grunts were feral. They were a landslide. A tide of boulders sloughed off a mountain, cracking into one another, false thunder. But it felt real. Sansa's bones rattled. She held tight to what was unstable. Stay, stay, stay.

"Fuck," he groaned. It was happening. "Oh, Gods, fuck," he groaned again, louder. But with loudest fuck of all, he caught himself. He pulled out just in time for seed to spurt all over her flower. 

Close, but not quite. 

He was mad about it too. "Fuck," he howled again. He shucked off his seed and sent it to the floor with a splat. He muttered more curses, broke free from Sansa's grip and zipped up. He wouldn't meet her eye while he undid the buckle at the back of her head. His face had turned sweaty and half-red in the torchlight. Cords of muscle bulged from his neck. He couldn't swallow them away. 

He couldn't stand still. 

When the gag came free, it quaked in his hold. He shifted from one boot to the other, then pitched the ball of dragon glass against the wall. "Fuck," he shouted, as it shattered into shiny black dust. 

Then his breath took over. It split him at the seams. His back heaved and fell, chiseled muscles surging and crashing. He couldn't take in air. He could only make those noises, boulders tumbling down, cleaving. He staggered to the wall, slumped back-first against it, then collapsed to the floor. He dropped his head in his hands. His chest rose, high enough to rupture his ribs, and what came out was devastatingly human. 

A sob.

A sob that opened up the earth's crust. A sob that dragged Sansa's heart into white hot oblivion, to burn, to become grey ash. But Sandor's heart was there too, gone from its dark mire. It found light with Sansa's heart. It flared with Sansa's heart. It lived with Sansa's heart, ablaze, in the center of the earth. They would burn together. 

There was a song for this feeling. 

Sansa slipped unsteadily from the altar to find stone footing. "Sandor," she called, her voice a tremor. "Sweetling, I'm here." She took his shirt and fluttered to him, landing with her knees between his, skin pricked by shards of dragon glass. She pried his hands from his face, but he didn't look up. He was wetly sputtering, trying to find air, and finally, Sansa could give it to him. 

"I love you, sweetling," she sang. She pressed the driest patch of the shirt to his slick scars. "I love you." She cupped his light cheek and pulled up his face. "Did you hear me? I said I love you, Sandor." 

His eyes stayed shut, but a tear slipped down his cheek. Sansa caught it with a kiss. "You're my whole world," she whispered. She pressed their foreheads together, rested her nose on his. "My whole universe. You're the moon, the stars, and the blank space in between. You're everything to me, Sandor. I love you. I love you to the end of the earth." 

Sansa set her lips to his and offered up her breath. Sandor calmed. His eyes opened. They shone. 

"I love you too, little bird."

Chapter Text

There had never been an embrace like this—an eternal embrace. An embrace as big as the universe. Centuries passed in the span of minutes, but Sansa had no need for time. 

She had Sandor.  

He kissed her crown a lot. He tried out their new words to each other, turned them to hymn. "I love you, sweet little bird," he'd say into her hair. "I love you so much." But he was the sweet one. He put the honey in the air. Sansa drank it in, and she stayed.

But her knees rested in sharp specks of dragon glass. Her jaw ached from when the glass had been a ball in her mouth. She shivered in her shelter, and Sandor understood. 

"Time for home," he whispered. Sansa agreed with a drowsy nod. He helped her redress. He put on his disaster of a t-shirt, tearstained, bloodstained, comestained, an absolute filthy wreck. He zipped his jacket all the way up with a wink to Sansa. She blushed. 

The streets of Sow's End had never seemed quieter. The moon hung heavy in the sky, almost as bright as the streetlamps. Louder, somehow, than the bustling bars, and the clubs that throbbed like beating hearts. Sandor's heart was loudest of all. Sansa nestled her head there as Sandor guided them home. 

He needed food first. "I could eat my own arm, little bird," he told her. "I'm goddamn famished." They went to the nearest chip shop, and Sandor bought two greasy paper bag's worth of fish and chips to take back. He got toffee pudding for Sansa—the best in the End—and they set out. 

Home was perfect. It always was, after a long night out.

Sandor took Stranger around the block while Sansa got settled. She frowned at the sight of the kitchen, a rather tragic reminder of their afternoon. So she found a broom wedged beside the refrigerator and swept up bits of glass and wood. She rehung Grandmother Clegane's hand-stitched family crest, framed in ragged glass. Scooping the shards from the sink was a challenge, but Sansa found quilted oven mitts and managed to get most of it into the waste bin. 

The cabinet door would need replacing, of course, but Sandor could figure that out. 

By the time he got back, Sansa had arranged his fish and chips on a big pewter dish and poured a pint of black ale. She gave herself a few chips and the entire mound of pudding, extra whipped cream, plus a huge glass of milk.

"Little bird," Sandor said, when he found her in the kitchen. "You didn't have to do all this." He brushed a hand over Sansa's plaits before falling into the chair across from her. "This is perfect, sweet girl. Thank you." 

As usual, he ate like a hungry hound. He only stopped to chug ale and smile at Sansa. She picked at her plate, savoring each sticky pecan and perfectly mushy glob of pudding. Sandor asked how the hell she wasn't starving. She shrugged. She felt very, very full. She just liked the way it tasted.  

After dinner, it was time to smoke. Sandor rolled a joint and Sansa curled up beside him. He wrapped his arm around her as he lit up, and Sansa even took two daring drags for herself. "This strain will have you nice and relaxed," Sandor said. "Promise." At the very least, he was relaxed. He leaned back on the sofa, and traced aimless patterns on Sansa's arm.

"Will you do something for me, little bird?" he asked.

Sansa perked up, and Sandor tipped his head toward the floor. "Will you get my boots?" 

Sansa nodded and shifted down between Sandor's legs. Her arms were sore and near useless, but she wrestled off both his boots. Sandor stroked her cheek when she finished and smiled sweetly down at her. "Good girl," he said. "I need your help with one more thing." 

"Anything," Sansa replied.

"I need you to rub my feet." 

Sansa had promised, so she pulled off his damp wool socks, and tried her best. His feet were tough on the bottom and hairy on top. Kind of smelly, but they reminded Sansa of her father's feet, only much bigger. Father would have her rub them after long days at court. The days got sadder and longer towards the end. Sansa always tried her best. 

Sandor liked her work. His hand lingered on her head, a sweet gift. "More," he would say. Or, "Just like that. Perfect." He was relaxed before, but he was so relaxed after. His smile didn't even go away. He spent a long time looking at Sansa. Her eyes especially. She could give him that. 

She looked back, and grinned. "What is it?" Sandor asked. 

"You're a mess," Sansa replied. She put a finger to a dark splotch on his already dark shirt, rimmed in reddish flakes. "We need to clean you up." 

Sandor agreed, so they stepped into the shower together. Messy hounds were a lot of work, especially big ones. There was so much muscle to clean. Sansa scoured every inch of him, craning to reach his shoulders, and crouching to scrub between his toes. To her delight, she discovered Sandor was ticklish when she lathered up his hairy armpits. She would have tickled him a lot more if he hadn't come after her instead. Sadly, she surrendered. 

Then she forced Sandor to kneel so she could wash his hair. He grumbled a bit. "Careful with my scars," he said. "It's not pretty." Sansa didn't care about pretty, she cared about clean. And she was very careful. She swept all his hair over to the right side, and didn't let any stray suds into his burns. She raked in extra conditioner and made him wait five minutes before washing it out. 

He did smell pretty when she was done. Like a big field of lavender. 

Then it was Sansa's turn. Sandor knew her body. Gentle hands soaped up her skin and lingered on her breasts. "They're perfect," Sandor told her. "The prettiest I've ever seen." After he rinsed them off, he started in on her hair. He had plenty of nice things to say about her hair, too. "Your curls are like flame, little bird. The only flame I'll ever love." 

After they dried off, Sandor combed her hair. She returned the favor, standing on tiptoes to get all Sandor's tangles out. He showed her how he tended his scars. His medicine cabinet was full of boxes of cotton gauze and little brown jars of ointment. Homemade, he told her, from herbs that grew on his land. It helped with the pain.

He sat down on the toilet so Sansa could practice. She started by patting his skin dry with the gauze. Then she scooped up a green fingerful of ointment, and dabbed it on his cheek. Sandor's mouth twitched up, but he told her to keep going. It didn't hurt him, it just always surprised him. How good her touch felt. Nothing felt good on his scars. Only her.  

When she finished, she combed his hair back the way he liked it, but not before giving his dark cheek a kiss—for the pain. It worked, because Sandor smiled, then pulled her in for a much longer kiss. 

Finally, finally, they made it to bed. 

This was always the best time of night—when they could lay naked, laced in each other's arms. Sansa watched Sandor's tattoos come to life with each swell of breath. Sandor gave them even more life. He explained every rune and battle scar as Sansa traced their lines and committed them to memory. So they would be her stories, too. 

When he finished, and silence fell between them, Sansa had her opportunity. Her heart had weighed heavy since the Cell. 

"I'm so sorry, Sandor," she whispered up to him. "I should have told Joffrey we were dating. He just makes me so nervous, I didn't know what to call you. It's always felt different, like something more, way more. And—and—" 

"It's alright, little bird," Sandor soothed. He cupped her cheek so she knew he truly meant it. "I know I'm not much of a boyfriend. And I wouldn't expect you to take your pet dog to court."  

"But Sandor, what if I could?" 

He barked a laugh. "I haven't been to the Rock in years, little bird."

Sansa sighed. This was backwards, but she was going to do it anyway. She laid her palm atop Sandor's, her fingertips brushing his rings. "Sandor, would you be my escort to the Warden's name day ball?" 

"Little bird, I don't know if—" 

"Pretty please?" 

Sandor's eyes danced like faceted grey diamonds across Sansa's face. "I would be honored," he said at last. Yes! Sansa's heart soared. A knight to escort his noble lady—it was a dream come true. But Sandor thumbed her smile, unmatched. 

"What of your uncle?" he asked. 

"Uncle isn't going." 

"But he'll find out. 

"He'll find out," Sansa breathed, and her lips wilted down.  

"Come now," Sandor said. "We don't have to worry about that tonight. You're a smart girl. You're a Stark. We'll figure something out." 

Sansa nodded—he was right. She had fangs, sharp ones. 

At least Lady did. 

"We'd make quite the spectacle, wouldn't we?" Sandor said, chuckling. He gave her chin a little shake. "A junkie dog and his sweet lady. Fuck, that's good. I'd do it just to make Lord Lannister shit his golden breeches. Oh, don't make that face, little bird. I know what I am." 

"Joffrey was so rude," she pouted. "I hate him. He's so ugly."

"No worse than the rest of them. And he wasn't wrong, little bird. He made me into a liar." 

Sansa sighed. That truly was the worst part of all. "Sandor," she started, smoothing her hand over the crop of hair on his chest. "Do I know everything about you?" 

"Most things," he replied. "More than anyone else, that's for damn sure. Why do you ask? Do you want me to give you something new?" 

Sansa nodded. She loved to learn. 

Sandor exhaled, thinking. "Here's a good one. Me and Gerold—we've fucked." 

Sansa clasped a hand over her mouth. How on earth had she not known that? But Sandor only laughed at her, belly-deep. "Don't worry, sweet girl. We haven't done it since I met you. Only often enough to keep him in line." 

"But—but—I didn't know you liked boys." 

"Little bird," Sandor teased. "I like whatever he likes." He gave a pointed glance downward, and Sansa blushed. She certainly couldn't argue with that—she knew the beast's appetite. 

"He likes me," she huffed, almost indignant. 

"He loves you," Sandor corrected. "You're his favorite treat of all. The sweetest one."

"No," she came back, now fully indignant. She stuck her finger to his chest. "You're the sweet one." 

Sandor's arm dropped to her waist and he hooked her close, breasts squished to his skin. "No," he growled. "It's you." 

He turned Sansa into a midnight snack, nibbling at her neck, her shoulders, and down to her breasts. "No, you are," she panted as she writhed beneath his teeth. She pushed at his head and shoulders, and even thumped her knees against his abs. "You're the sweet one," she repeated. "It's you." 

That made Sandor even more voracious, though. He sunk his teeth into her breast, then lapsed his tongue over her nipple. As soon as it swelled, he latched on and bit it to red-hot achiness. Sansa tried to twist away, and she tried again to tug Sandor up by his hair, but her hands were useless. 

"You're my sweetling," she said, exasperated, fingers tight on his scalp. "Mine."

Without hands, she had only one option. She opened up her mouth and clamped down on the nearest part of Sandor—a muscle that bulged from his shoulder. Mine, she thought, sucking in his skin, licking up soap and sweat. All mine. 

When Sandor tore away, she knew she'd gotten herself in trouble. "Hungry girl," he growled. He pushed a thumb into her mouth and ran it along her teeth. She snapped at him again, and he glared. "Do you really think you could take me?"

Sansa scrunched her nose and bared her teeth.  

"You’re a ferocious little wolfling, aren’t you?" Sandor uncoiled from her waist, and slid down between her legs. He spread them wide. "But you’re still the sweet one.”  

And then he descended on her.  

Mistakenly, Sansa had thought he already kissed everywhere that could be kissed. But his lips had never trailed down her belly. They hadn't followed the lines of her hip bones, or buried themselves in the auburn curls at her apex. His heavy breath spilled down and tingled her clit. Sansa would have closed up, but strong hands pressed apart her thighs. 

His mouth went there too, and he licked the softness around Sansa's sex, all the skin he had so gently scrubbed in the shower. His hands had cleaned every bit of her, and now his tongue was following suit. He dipped below her entrance, down, down, and down some more, until he reached that part he simply shouldn't. 

But his tongue was so strong, and so warm, that Sansa couldn't help but whimper. She pushed herself higher onto his shoulders so he could press harder against her. Strange, how that spot linked with her pulse and made her clit pound. 

Of course, Sandor knew the strangest things. 

He stayed there a moment longer, then came back up to her flower, where her dew dripped. He drank what had already puddled, then plunged his tongue as deep as it could go. It came alive inside of her, lapping at her walls as if to learn each secret ridge and dip. He learned so much, licked every nerve to tenderness. He licked until Sansa's clit screamed for attention. 

She reached a hand down—she could pleasure herself just fine—but Sandor caught her wrist and held it against her belly. From this angle, his stare was nothing short of predatory. His arched brow sunk low over narrowed eyes. 

A kindly beast, his mouth went north and wrapped around her pulse. He watched Sansa squirm as his tongue flickered in all directions. His lips moved with him. They ground into her swollen flesh and drew tightly as if to swallow that tiny heartbeat whole. He sucked, and pulled, and grazed her with his fangs. Their enameled edges were delicate, but it didn't matter.

Each swipe was perfect agony. Whether the hardness of his teeth, or the warmth of his lips, or the strong pressure of his tongue, Sansa was consumed. She threaded her free hand through his hair, but only to push him closer. To feed him the blood that thrummed beneath her skin. 

"Sandor," she moaned. "Oh, sweetling. Please, yes, oooh—"

She underestimated how quickly his tongue could swirl around her. Spit churned with him, trapped by lips that dragged her pulse deep into his mouth. It throbbed there and grew stronger, and stronger, and then—

"I'm coming, Sandor," she whimpered. She reigned him by his hair and ground against his hooked nose. "Oh Gods. I'm coming. I'm coming." 

She rode her climax to completion, and only let go of Sandor because he pried her fingers from his scalp one by one. He licked her back to cleanliness, then pulled up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He swallowed.

Everything. 

"What about me?" Sansa moped. 

Sandor grinned. "Sorry, little bird. I was thirsty." 

He fell over her, and Sansa puckered up for a kiss. At the very least he could give her a taste. But he didn't come in for her lips—he scooped up her waist and flipped her so that she straddled him. She really did straddle him. He was warm and achy beneath her, eager. 

Sansa giggled. Such a ridiculous creature. 

"What's so funny?" Sandor asked, skirting his fingers along her waist. 

Sansa didn't answer him. She stole her kiss. It was a silly thing—she ran her tongue along his lips, from rough skin to smooth. She licked the underside of his nose, then licked up its length. She kissed both his eyelids, both his brows. She worked her mouth across to his good ear and nipped at its lobe. 

She would never forget the dark side of his face, though. She kissed up herbal bits of ointment and little black flakes of skin. She kissed it back down, too, on his cheekbones and jaw. She nuzzled that little patch of bone in the corner. Her bone. 

But after that, there were so many places she had yet to kiss. 

Sandor's tattoos guided Sansa. Her lips tracked across faded inky branches, down a weeping trunk, and across the snarling mouths of all three hounds. She kissed runes. She kissed each puckered bullet wound, and the faded white line above his hip. She kissed the trail of hair down to his belly button, slipping between his legs to kiss all the way down to the dark curls that surrounded his manhood. 

She kissed them, and breathed them in just as Sandor had done to her. She smelled herself on him, and his own musk tangled up with it. Their shared earth. 

Sandor's manhood wanted her attention, heavy on his belly, but Sansa ignored him for now. She kissed all his dark hair, down along the sack that hung beneath his length, to his inner thighs. Grey hairs hid between black, and Sansa tried to kiss them all. 

When she moved back up, he was fully hard. Redness pushed up from its sheath, and the tip was almost purple. Sansa circled her fingertip lightly across that dark flesh, and his cock lunged. "Little bird," Sandor softly growled. Sansa grinned. She made another airy circle and Sandor gripped her upper arms. "What are you doing, sweet girl?" 

"Exploring," was her reply. 

So Sandor let her explore, even though he kept a tight hold on her. She didn't give him pressure, only the pads of fingers, soft on his bulging veins. She learned that he didn't need a firm touch to throb. The most gentle swirl of her fingers had his cock swaying wildly over his abs. 

She especially liked to tease that ridge beneath his head. When she did that, Sandor's face would pull in on itself. His breath would snag, almost as if he had been wounded. But most importantly, his manhood would thrash. 

Sansa giggled every time, and Sandor couldn't even do anything about it. His hips bucked up into open air. His hands sunk harder into Sansa's arms, but only to keep himself steady as he writhed. Mercifully, she gave him more frequent touches, though she kept them featherlight. She cupped his balls and wrapped her other hand loosely around his shaft, then gave him little ghost strokes that made his cock bounce against her fingers. 

"Little bird," Sandor breathed. "You can't—I need—"  

Sansa cut him off with a squeeze. He choked out a groan and shuddered into Sansa's hold. 

"What do you need, sweetling?" she asked, blinking up at him. 

Sandor looked back down with low-lidded eyes. "More," he replied through gritted teeth. 

"More what?" 

His nostrils flared, and Sansa took her hands away. She nestled them in his curls instead. Cords of muscle worked at Sandor's neck as he swallowed something down. Something big. 

"Anything," he rasped. "Give me anything." 

That was close, but not quite what Sansa was looking for. She tapped her finger against her upturned lips, waiting. Sandor let out a sigh so loud it could have woken stone. 

"Please," he forced out. "Give me more, please." 

Oh, what a pretty word. Sansa curled her fist back around his girth. She added some pressure for his good manners, and his cock immediately reared its head, the great greedy beast. 

But as it happened, Sansa liked this beast, so she lowered her lips and dropped a slimy mouthful of spit onto him. Then she glazed it on, fingers closed in on that wild pulse. She painted him slowly. She savored every throb. 

And truthfully, her mouth missed her spit as she watched it glisten on reddened skin. So she brought her tongue to his tip, and swirled it all around. The beast liked that, and it especially appreciated when her tongue hooked along his ridge. He was turning savage. Blood simmered beneath Sansa's lips. 

She wrapped them all the way around his head, and sucked in. 

"Oh, fuck," Sandor groaned. He moved a hand up to Sansa's hair and found a solitary curl to hold. "More of that, little bird. Please." 

Sansa delivered. She slid her tongue down his length, spread wide to catch as many nerves as possible. When she came back to his tip, she opened wide and dropped him down her throat, one inch at a time. He raged there. So Sansa gave him more. She pushed him further inside until she ached with him. Until his heartbeat crawled toward hers. 

Then she drew out, and did it all over again. She repeated the process until Sandor's grunts turned to curses. He swept her hair over her shoulder and scooped it into one big handful that he clenched in a fist on his thigh. His other hand petted her cheek. It didn't land, just fluttered, restless. 

The next time Sansa pulled him in, his cock slammed against her throat. "Sansa, fuck," Sandor panted. "Just like that, I'm gonna—" 

But Sansa withdrew. 

"What?" she asked. Her lips hovered, bound to Sandor by a string of spit. "Are you close?" Sandor growled, and the heat of his frustration collapsed on Sansa like a wave. She smiled. "I think you're close, sweetling. I can" —she swept her tongue along his length— "feel it." 

To prove her point, his cock jerked towards his belly. Sandor adjusted his grip on her hair, but didn't tug. "I want to come, little bird," he got out. 

"You do?" 

Sandor clenched his jaw so fiercely Sansa thought it might snap. But he answered, "I want to come, please."

Good boy.  

So good that he earned Sansa's tongue again. She licked all over the tip, then worked over his shaft in great, wet laps. The beast drowned in spit and throbbed, untethered, with only Sansa's tongue for guidance. She ran it from the base all the way up, pinning him against Sandor's stomach.

"Sansa," he moaned. "Sansa, please." 

She lingered at the tip, then swallowed it up. 

"Fuck, just like that, sweet girl." He laced his fingers behind her ear. "I'm so close." 

Sansa tightened her lips around him and let her tongue roam. Sandor made new noises—sharp, breathy inhales punctured with low moans. Sansa loved those noises, and she knew how to make more. She shoved him down her throat, once, twice, until Sandor's hips canted with him. 

"Sansa, I'm—"

The beast quaked. Hot seed jutted straight to Sansa's belly, wave, after wave, after wave. He had so much heat to spare. So much life. Sandor rode Sansa's mouth as she milked every drop from him. 

She swallowed it all down. Her treat. 

Then she cleaned up. 

Sandor cradled her head as she took back her spit and his saltiness. He winced when she lapped the last of it from the tip of his softening cock, but straightened out his face as soon as Sansa glanced up. She smiled, wide. 

“Did you like that?” she asked. 

Sandor picked her up by the elbows and tugged her onto his chest. “You’re nothing but trouble, little wolf,” he told her, tucking a damp curl behind her ear. “But I liked it.” 

They kissed for a while, soft and slow. Sandor’s lips were home. Their tongues tasted of each other, blended to sweet perfection. They drank each other down. 

When the lamplight surrendered to moonlight, Sansa rested her head on Sandor’s heart and clutched his necklace. He kept her close, his arms crossed over her back, fingers nestled in her hair. His breath was a gentle song, punctuated by the occasional kiss to the top of her head. Now she was truly home.

“I love you,” Sansa said into the night. 

“I love you too,” Sandor replied. “I have for a while now.” 

“How long?” 

“Honestly?” He exhaled, slow. “Since the night we met, the night you first touched my scars. But I didn’t know what to call it, little bird. It’s a strange feeling.” 

“It’s hot,” Sansa said. 

“It burns," Sandor replied. 

“It glows.” 

“It aches. Is it supposed to ache?” 

“I think so,” Sansa said. “It opened up the earth.” 

“It did, little bird,” Sandor said, setting his lips into her hair. He took in a lungful. “It really did.” 

And because Sansa loved him, she whispered her worst fear. "You scared me, Sandor, tonight, in the Cell. I don't want you to die."

"I'm so sorry, Sansa. I'm scared too. But I'll do better, I promise. I'll be good for you."

Chapter Text

They took the Gold Highway west into young mountains that burst fresh from the earth. Oak and pine alike sunk their roots into rocky faces spotted with spring-green grass and wildflowers. Blooming goldencups passed in furious streaks of yellow, mile after mile. 

Sandor drove one-handed, with the other on Sansa's thigh. He was borrowing Gerold's truck for the weekend, so Sansa curled up in the front seat with Stranger. The bloodhound had spent the first part of the drive clambering over her, desperate for the wind in his jowls, but he had finally settled down to nap. His face rested on Sansa's other leg, in a dark puddle of drool. 

Sansa scratched behind his floppy ears and listened to Oathkeeper's first demo tape, The Gallows Knight, as it blared from the stereo. Sandor explained each tape he played for her in detail—the lyrics, release date, context, and the distinct riffing techniques of each guitar player. He would teach Sansa more on the Silvertongue, if she wanted. She'd pick it up quick. 

Sadly, the Silvertongue stayed in Lannisport. The Minimarq, too. The only instrument Sansa had brought along was her lyre harp. Sandor didn't pay for electricity at the keep, "Not that it had been shit to begin with." It would be them, the trees, and chopped up trees to keep them warm. Crumbling walls and bright stars, if Sandor told it true. 

Honestly, packing for the trip had been a bit of a nightmare. 

Jeyne fretted. Oh, could she fret. "Don't go," she kept whining. "Really, you should come dress shopping with me and Lyra and Jory. It'll be so much fun. Promise." 

But Sansa had made these plans with Sandor weeks ago, and she had already told Wylla that they would go dress shopping together. They would be going to the ball together, too. Her, Sandor, Wylla, Willow, and Ser Gerold Dayne, the fallen star. She couldn't wait to see the look on Joffrey's stupid face when she arrived with the Hound on her arm, Ser Sandor Clegane. 

Joffrey would make a banquet of it, undoubtedly. Sansa could already hear the words dropping from his fat lips— with the Hound, can you believe it? A rather vicious pet dog if you ask me. Not suitable for a lady. They would laugh, oh how they'd laugh at her. And they'd tell their friends, and call up other connections, and then—

Well, everyone would know. 

Sansa had rehearsed the outcome already. 

She had stuffed her leatherbound suitcase and fled, if only for a weekend. She packed her extra pair of jeans, her dad's old flannel button-up, a nightgown, and her new lingerie, just because. She wore the black one piece under her clothes now, with her Lady Forlorn shirt and black jeans. A nice little secret. 

Sandor already had her figured out, though. He felt her up at the gas station while the attendant filled up the tank. His hands made it under the t-shirt to her satin-sheathed breasts, and he might have gone further if an annoyed tap on the window hadn't torn him away. He paid up, and they left. 

His hand stayed on her the entire drive. By midday, they had exited the highway onto a winding route along a mountain ridge. Down below, the Silver River raged. Dirty clouds of sheep scrambled along sheer stone outcroppings to get a taste of the water and then clamber back to safety. There weren't sheep at the keep. The mountain lions kept them in check, Sandor told her with a wink. 

But three hours into their trip, Sandor's belly rumbled. "Perfect timing," he said, and he pulled off the road into a gravel parking lot. "The blueberry pie here is to die for." 

They had landed at Mama's Mountain Cafe: a quaint, lopsided log cabin stuffed with more log furniture. Faded black and white pictures lined the walls, alongside cheeky religious needlepoint. Seven Bless this Mess, read one. Or Sansa's favorite, Mother Knows Best, with a picture of the Mother, menacing, with a long wooden spoon in her palms. The Father knelt at her feet. 

"Well I'll be darned. Is that you, Sandy?" called a wrinkled old woman—Mama, presumably—as she waddled out from a pair of swinging doors. She wiped floury hands on an equally dusty apron, and pushed thick rimless glasses up her nose. She gave Sansa a once-over. "You've brought a pretty girl." 

Sansa dipped into a slight curtsy, mostly a bob of her head. "My name is Sansa, if it pleases you." 

The old woman put a white palm over her heart. "A lady. Lucky boy. Sit, sit. You're at Mama's now, no need to be all fancy-like. Your booth's open. I'll have everything right out." 

They squeezed through the cafe, receiving and reciprocating the nods of plainly dressed locals. Sandor's booth was in the far corner. He had Sansa slide next to him on the wooden bench. As soon as they had settled, the food came piling in. 

Everything was an understatement. Mama dropped down mismatched platters of egg, sausage, and bacon. A whole stack of hotcakes and a pitcher of amber syrup. Then she brought out a giant steak, a plate of country-white toast, two coffees, and two glasses of purple juice. And of course, there was blueberry pie, two thick slices loaded with stiff puffs of whipped cream. 

"That ought to do, young man," Mama said as she set down cream and sugar. "Save some for your lady." She passed Sandor a parcel wrapped in butcher's paper with a toothless smile. "For the pup. Some good bones in there."  

Sansa ate the pie while Sandor ate the rest, and he ate all of it. He must have been famished, and truthfully, Sansa was too. After the first slice, she started in on the second slice. Sandor pushed a glass of juice in her direction. "Try this," he told her, mouth full of bacon and hotcake. She did, and she grinned. 

"Lemonade," she said, smiling. 

Sandor smiled back. "Blueberry lemonade."

She drank both glasses. She finished the pie, too. 

Mama gave both of them hugs on their way out, and made them promise to come more often. Sansa agreed, of course. 

She fed Stranger a hambone when they got back in the car. "Sandy, hm?" she asked, a teasing brow quirked. 

"Oh, hush," he grumbled. "I've known Mama Lydden my whole damn life." 

"It's sweet," Sansa said. She snuggled up under Sandor's armpit and gave the damp cotton a kiss. "I like it." 

She earned a kiss to the top of her head. 

"You're sweeter," Sandor simply had to reply. 

From the curling ribbon of road,  they turned onto a gravel road, or what would have been gravel if it hadn't been washed off to the sides and replaced by dry brown ravines. The truck crawled over swells of dirt and jutting rock. Once, Sandor accelerated out of a rut so quickly they almost skittered off into the trees and crashed down to the valley below. He recovered of course, but Sansa went ghost-white. Sandor had a nice laugh at her expense.  

"I know these roads, little bird," he told her. "You're fine." 

Sansa gripped Sandor's forearm extra hard for the rest of the drive, which wasn't long. The gravel road took them through a maple grove, around a bend, and then a low stone wall cropped up on their right—crumbling, as promised. 

"This is it," Sandor said. 

He steered down a narrow lane, nothing but two tracks of smashed down grass that wove through another tangle of spring-bright maples. The stone wall followed them to a rusted gate, its two doors bound together by a heavy lock and chain. Sandor hopped out to unlock it, pulled forward, and locked back up behind them. 

After another half mile or so, they surfaced into a clearing. Sansa blinked in the sudden sunlight, and then, there was the keep. Clegane Keep. A two-story farmhouse that wilted into the ground. Both the thatch-roof and stone facade had gaps and holes where they shouldn't. All six front windows were smashed, and the splintered ruins of wooden shutters flapped in the breeze. 

Home. 

Stranger knew the land. He bounded from the truck and went exploring while Sandor helped Sansa down. A cobbled path swallowed up by moss and clovers led to the front door, which only required the slightest tap to open. 

"It's not much," Sandor said, guiding her in with a hand on her hip. 

The first thing Sansa noticed was the emptiness. The main room was cleared except for a dingy spring mattress, two chairs, and a fireplace. Cobwebs hung in the corners and draped themselves from beam to beam. Broken twigs and dried leaves had blown in and peppered the weathered wooden floor. Dust covered the rest. 

Every room was empty, it turned out. Sandor towed her upstairs, and Sansa peeked through doorways that were missing their doors, into rooms that were missing everything but the floorboards. "Gregor's work," Sandor grumbled, after he showed her what was once his childhood bedroom, now gutted to dust. "Him and his pet rats made kindling out of everything." 

They truly had. Downstairs, the kitchen cabinets had been ripped from the walls. The butcher's block counters had been sacrificed, too. Only a little iron wood stove and enamel basin remained. Instead of lamps, ragged glass rings sat in the sconces. A scrap of lace dangled from an opened window, one stout gust away from being sucked into the forest. 

It felt sad, the hollowness of it all. Sandor's family, gone. At the very least Sansa had a sister. 

He didn't even have that. 

He had salvaged one thing, though. Above the fireplace sat a small photograph in a wooden frame. Sansa picked it up and blew off a thick coat of dust. She coughed, then smiled. It was a picture of Sandor as a boy, maybe ten or eleven. He stood in front of the keep in nothing but a pair of too-small overalls that showed off his calves and ropes of lean muscle. His arm was draped around a little girl in a plain linen dress with dark curls to her shoulders. Elinor. 

She was looking up at him, a smile on her pudgy cheeks, bright delight in her eyes. 

"She's so darling," Sansa hummed.

Sandor sniffed behind her, and she turned to see him with a hand over his face, rubbing the heel of it over his eye. She pulled down his elbow, and her heart twisted. 

"Oh, sweetling," she cooed. She reached up to wipe a budding tear from his lashes. "I'm so sorry you lost her. She must have been so special." 

Sandor cloaked Sansa's hand with his and pressed it against his cheek. "She was," he whispered. "She really was." 

Sansa stepped up onto Sandor's boots and tiptoed to put a kiss on his jaw. He dipped his head so she could reach his lips, then he pulled her into a rib-bending hug. Sansa didn't mind, he could have them. She took his heartbeat in exchange. They stayed like that for a while—her perched on his toes, Sandor's chin nestled in her hair.  

Eventually, Sandor released her. "It's time for some fresh air, little bird." 

He gave her two options: hike up the mountain, or a special surprise. They were going to do both of course, but Sansa got to choose which one they did first. She chose the surprise. 

So they set out through the remains of the back door, now a yawning stone archway in the kitchen. It led to an overgrown garden, hemmed in by more piles of mossy rock that had once been a fence. "Poppies," Sandor told her. That's what his mother grew.  She sold them at the local market in the summertime. She grew vegetables too, and raspberries. They were only the thing that still bloomed. Sandor pointed the bushes out to Sansa as they passed—a nest of mostly-naked twigs with fledging green tips. They smelled like promise. 

Past the garden they followed a muddy foot trail through another patch of woods, and out into a meadow. Oh, the meadow was perfect. It teemed with life. Fat bees and periwinkle butterflies danced in crops of sweetgrass and sedge. There were goldencups, columbines, fairy trumpets and lady's lace. Stranger lunged after bluebirds and groundhogs, trampling flowers as he went. 

Sandor laughed his full-belly laugh when a little brown mouse popped out from beneath a rock and scared Sansa half to death. She clutched weakly at Sandor's shirt and tried to climb him to safety. He helped her out, picking her up behind her knees and hoisting her onto his back. 

"How's that?" Sandor asked. 

"Much better," Sansa replied, nuzzling his neck. 

Sandor had the best views. Sansa peeked from his shoulder as he trekked through meadow, over whispering brooks where dragonflies buzzed and tiny lizards darted from rock to rock. She was glad to be above ground when a black snake poked out from a tangle of prairie rose. Sandor nudged it away with his boot and got another laugh when he noticed Sansa's pout. 

"Timid little bird," he teased. 

Sansa gave his shoulder a playful bite to prove herself. "I'm still a Stark," she teased right back. 

Sandor carried her until they came to the edge of the woods. On foot they followed a game trail pebbled in green light, through thickets of oak and pine and ironwood. A soggy carpet of brown leaves and needles mushed underfoot as they walked. Stranger knew the way best, Sandor second best, and Sansa trailed at their heels.

It was hardly a path—just shattered bits of leaf and twig that wound through stretches of fern and sprawling tree roots. They climbed over fallen trunks whose soft orange insides splintered and dissolved back to dirt. They ducked under other trunks that stooped and sagged to collect sparse sunlight. Sandor shooed Stranger away from the hollow roots of a giant oak, home to a rabbit's nest. 

After that, they turned. 

Then there was no path at all. Sandor helped Sansa through a mass of brambles, prying up thorny branches so she could pass first. They scrambled up one boulder, then another. They slid down a rocky face and landed in a bed of moss. A stream guided them from there, scarcely more than a trickle of clear water over blackened leaves. It took them to another outcrop of rock, four great slabs that stuck up from the ground and leaned into one other against the mountainside. 

Sandor took Sansa's hand. Together they slid through a small gap in two towering sheets, their backs flush against lichen-draped stone.  

They emerged to magic. 

It was a glade, blanketed by soft emerald grass and pearly moonbloom. A spring bubbled out of the mountain’s stone face and filled a crystal clear pool, an inverted dewdrop colored bright mossy green. Beside it stood a tree. A young tree, white-trunked, red leaves like hands on scrawny branches. An eye on its bole wept sap. 

Red sap. 

A weirwood.

Home.

Sansa stumbled forward, ankle-deep in clotted blades that dragged dew across her boots. At the tree’s slender base she fell. Soft flowers caught her knees. Father, was her first and only thought, so dizzying she hooked handfuls of stalks and stems to stay herself. Earth was soft beneath her nails. 

I’m here. I’m home. She beheld the Gods through blurry eyes. Are you there? 

Can you see me? 

Warmth eclipsed her side, and a hand smoothed along her spine. "Little bird…" 

She withered into that warmth. It welcomed her gladly as the night.  

"I’ve got you," Sandor said, running a palm down her plaits. 

Sansa gripped his shirt with a weak fist, the faded word Oath in her palm. "Is it real?" she murmured into shadowed cotton. 

"It's real," Sandor replied. "Very real." 

"But how?"

Sansa peeled up from Sandor's chest. She needed his eyes. They flickered, bright. 

"I stole it, little bird. When I came down from the front. Managed to get a whole pouchful of seeds before they burned the last grove. This is the only sapling that took." Sandor reached out to finger a low hanging leaf. His mouth twitched into a sad smile. "Do you like it?" 

"I love it," Sansa answered. "It's—I can't believe it. Can I touch it?" 

"Go ahead." 

She remembered the feel of a weirwood's bark from when she was a girl. Paper soft, as though the trunk were made of compacted clouds. So soft that Sansa was surprised her fingers couldn't sweep straight through the trunk and strike its sticky core. She settled for easing a drop of sap onto her fingertip. It smelled like red fruit, boiled down to a jewel. It tasted like death. 

The blood of the Gods, she thought. She smeared it back onto its bark. 

"Can they see us, Sandor?" 

"Of course." 

"Should we pray?" 

"If you like." 

Suddenly Sansa lost her words. So she thought of her father, stretched against his favorite oak in the Godswood at Winterfell. He'd sit there for hours, watching the heart tree rustle in the breeze, listening to its whispers. Sometimes he sang, but mostly he sat in silence. He never shared his prayers with Sansa. When she asked him what she should tell the Gods, he always answered, "Whatever needs telling." 

"I'm sorry," Sansa whispered to the tree. "I'm sorry I left you behind. But I'm here now. I'll never abandon you again. I'll listen." She kissed beneath the sticky eye, then turned to Sandor. "What's your prayer?" 

"Already said it," he replied. He tapped his forehead. "Kept it in here." 

Sansa frowned, so Sandor sighed, "I thanked them, little bird. For bringing me you." 

Sansa's heart swelled. She threw her arms around his middle and rested against Sandor's chest. He pulled her close. "We can see the Gods too, if you like."

"How?"

"I can make us weirwood paste." 

Oh. Sansa had heard of paste. It's what the free folk did that made them so mad, so violent. They talked to trees and cut down the king's men, claiming higher purpose. "I don't want to go mad," Sansa said. 

Sandor laughed. He picked up her shoulders and found her eye. "You won't go mad forever. It's temporary. It's a chance to see the past, or the future. Gods' pick." 

"Could I see Father?" 

"Might be." 

"Um..." Sansa glanced to the weeping trunk. She knew what the New Gods would tell her—shame, shame, shame. But what did the Old Gods have to say? 

What would Father say? 

Sandor took Sansa's chin and sealed his offer with a kiss. "You don't have to decide right now, or even this weekend," he told her. "Just something to think about." 

They lounged in the glade for a good long while. Sansa liked the watch of the weirwood, she decided. She picked handfuls of moonbloom, because Sandor said it was okay, and wove them to a crown. When it was finished, she set it atop Sandor's head. "Little bird," he warned, but Sansa only smirked. "You look very pretty, Ser Clegane." 

Naturally teasing led to kisses, but just as the make out became a little too heated, Sandor pulled back. "Let's go finish our hike," he said. 

Fair enough. 

Sansa said goodbye to the magical glade and they rejoined the scraggly game trail. Stranger greeted them with a squirrel in his jaw, jowls dripping red, tail wagging. "Good boy," Sandor said, patting the hound's head. "Now take it home." 

Stranger obeyed. 

They turned the opposite direction, uphill. It was a steep climb over stones covered in gnarled roots. More often than not, Sansa used her hands to lift herself from rock to rock, digging her nails into mud and moss. She gobbled up great lungfuls of green air, warm from the spring sun, sweet from the leaves. 

Sandor had more breath to spare. He explained the plants as they encountered them, different herbs and flowers, shrubs, trees, and fungi. Sansa met nettle and tansy, wild onion, mugwort and lion's mane. Sandor said if they found hen-of-the-woods he'd fry some up for dinner. Otherwise they'd be eating steak. 

The closer they got to the top, the more Sandor had to help her. He braced her arm as she scrambled over boulders. He hoisted her up by the waist to get her over even bigger boulders, dormant stone giants cloaked in ferns and lichen. Then Sansa would watch and wait while Sandor conquered the giants by himself, muscles testing the seams of his shirt, half his face red from exertion as he scaled walls of rock. 

He always won, of course.  

At the summit, they were both spent. Black shirts blacker with sweat, lungs bordering on collapse. But oh, what a view. 

To the left, the meadow. A rectangle of rotten thatch over a doll-sized keep. To the right, the woods dipped to a valley, split in two by the mighty Silver River. And all around them, the Westerlands. The hills that forfeited their spoils to the Lannisters. The hills where Sandor was born and raised. The hills that Sandor left, but came back to. 

The hills he had chosen to show Sansa. 

His hills. Theirs, now.

She shared her smile with all of the west. It carried on the wind. She stepped up onto a rock to match Sandor's height. "It's beautiful," she called down to the valley. "More than beautiful. It's everything." 

"I know," Sandor returned. He gave her hand a squeeze. 

Sansa explored the summit, a big pile of rock with plenty of crags and crannies to climb. The rocks were alive. Shiny black beetles crawled in tufts of yellow grass. Water bugs skied across tiny pools carved in stone. Warblers and wrens came for both of them, but fluttered away as soon as Sansa drew near. 

She ended up at Sandor's side. He sat with his feet hanging off the ledge, over trees that looked like bushes from so far up. Sansa scooted over, dragging her back pockets across rough stone, then laced her arm in his. 

"I love your keep," she told Sandor. He let out a soft chuckle. 

"This is my land, sure, but not my keep. The keep is down there, and the keep needs work." 

"Well I'll help," Sansa declared, resolute. "I'm very helpful." 

That turned Sandor's chuckling into full-blown laughter. Sansa would have hated it more if his teeth weren't so straight and pretty. "Oh, sweet girl," he got out. "Have you somehow learned carpentry since I've known you? Or was it masonry that you’ve mastered?" 

Sansa's lips fell to a pout. "I can do lots of things," she huffed. "I can sew. I can even do lacework. I could make all your drapes and placemats and doilies. Napkins, too. And—and—the garden. I helped in the greenhouse at the Sevenschool. Maybe I could replant the poppies." 

Sandor quieted. He sighed, the kind of sigh that comes from deep in your bones. He picked up Sansa's hand and curled it up in his like a white kit in oak roots. "You'll be busy, little bird," he said softly. "You'll be studying. Then you'll be working on your next record, landing a deal. Touring, maybe. There's so much you could do. You don't need to waste your time here." 

"I can do all those things," Sansa replied, looking up at Sandor. "I’m your girl, forever." 

He looked back at her like she was as distant as the moon, but smiled anyway. "I hope so," was all he said. 

Sansa stole his dark cheek and brought him in for a kiss. The kiss became lots of kisses, faster kisses, kisses that had Sandor towing her onto his lap, the open west at her back. He dropped into a bed of rock, and Sansa came with him. His hardness ground against her as their tongues moved in together. Sandor reached for his buckle, eager as ever, but Sansa grabbed his wrist. 

"Wait," she whispered, catching his bottom lip between her teeth and dragging it down. 

"Wait what?" Sandor growled. "Don't make me beg, girl." 

"I have an idea, is all. A game." 

Sandor let out an exhale that rattled Sansa's ribs. "Tell me, then," he rasped. 

Sansa grinned. She had the perfect idea. What good was the game trail if they couldn't play?

Chapter Text

Sansa was a rabbit. 

A rabbit in white silk skin, plucking blackberries from the briar by the stream. She collected them in her skirts to bring home to the kits. The day was half done, and they'd be hungry by now. They'd be waiting for her in the hollow. Still, her hands—already spotted with red scratches—moved delicately through the tangled thorns. It wouldn't be any good if she crushed the berries. 

She assessed her skirtful. Would it be enough for little Mary, Merlon, and Mysie? Merlon had been growing near quick enough to outgrow his fur. He ate twice as much as the girls. Hm.

Sansa went on picking. 

She kept her big ears alert and her pink nose sharp—everyone wanted these berries, and she was already sharing the briar with Lady Warbler. Her beak click, click, clicked as she clipped through the twigs. The stream swirled just beside them, singing its pretty wet song. Frogs croaked along. A woodpecker on the next oak over pounded out a stiff beat. The late afternoon sun was so golden it hummed. 

The song turned sour with one snapped stick. 

Freeze. 

Don't look. 

Sniff, sniff, sniff. 

All her fur stood on end—   

The wolf. 

"Little rabbit," he called across the creek. 

What a dangerous voice he had. Mother had taught her that. Wolves' voices soothed prey straight into their jaws. They gave pretty bunnies an earful, and then tore those ears to tatters. A smart rabbit would have run. 

Sansa turned her head. 

Mother had warned her of this, too. 

The wolf was handsome. Dark-haired, muscular, a black denim skin on brawny legs. He showed Sansa all his fangs, bright white, pointed. There was a darkness on half his face. He was a survivor. 

He was big. 

So, so big. 

All of Sansa would fit in that maw, down to the last whisker. Her little heart thrummed.  

The wolf grinned wider. "Hop on over," he rasped. "Get your sweet bunny paws wet." 

Sansa looked, she listened, but she didn't make a move. It was a trick. He was trying to trick her. Her hand trembled in the briar. Thorns tickled her knuckles, and berries shivered in her skirts. The wolf stepped closer, close enough for clear water to lapse at his big hairy toes.  

"I'm awfully hungry, little rabbit. Starving. It's been days since my last meal. Don't make me wait." 

Those toes curled into loose stones and mud. A fist clenched and released at his side. 

He pounced. 

One lunge and he was across the stream. Sansa tossed her afternoon's work in his scary face and bolted. She thought of the kits first. Her feet carried her toward the hollow, through soft fern and phlox and milkweed. Run, she told herself. Just run.

"I'm coming for you, little rabbit," the wolf growled from behind. He was running too, following her tracks through lightly crushed greenery. He was strong, but slow. Sansa could outpace him. But the hollow was so far away—past the pine grove, around the mossy boulder, up the hill, down the hill and through the cloudberry bramble. If she took the trail there, she'd lead the wolf straight to the kits. 

She needed to be a smart rabbit. She needed to lose him. 

Then she remembered—a red oak had toppled over onto the boulder during last week's thunderstorm. Its trunk made the perfect bridge. It was narrow and splintering, but sturdy enough for a rabbit. If she could climb up and scramble over the hillside, she could be in the hollow before dark. Perfect. 

Sansa darted through the pine grove. Fresh needles pricked the soles of her feat and buried themselves in the crooks of her toes. She ducked beneath the lowest branches, squeezed between tight trunks. The wolf lagged. Sansa knew him only by his breath, as persistent as summertime rain. His voice was the night sky, endless, and dark. He wanted to lure Sansa into a very long sleep.

"I'm going to get you, little rabbit," he snarled, snapping a low-hanging pine bough and casting it back to earth. "Give up now, and I promise I'll be gentle. I just want a taste." 

He's lying, Sansa reminded herself. Wolves can't be gentle.

Thankfully, after weaving around a cluster of black hawthorn bushes, she spotted the boulder. A solid boulder, at least five times as tall as the wolf, as wide as the river, tilted down to earth. Good shelter in the rain, but impossible for a bunny to scale without help. The storm had helped—the lightning-split red oak angled up to its peak.  

She padded up the oak's trunk on all fours, paws in a line. She couldn't go too quickly or the trunk would roll side to side. She couldn't go too slowly or the wolf would catch her. Sansa glanced over her shoulder in time to see him burst from the hawthorn thicket, his powerful lungs heaving, eyes ablaze. They locked on hers. 

He grinned. 

Sansa's right foot slipped off the trunk and she collapsed. A hard burl forced the breath from her belly. Her nails dug into damp bark, but she couldn't regain her footing fast enough. The wolf was closing in. She dragged herself up the trunk, nails bending, toes dangling in the air. But she reached the top—her palms landed in soft moss. She pulled her belly over the shattered wooden end of the trunk and eased herself onto the boulder. 

Everything but her feet made it. 

A strong hand caught her ankle. "Got you," the wolf rasped from below. He gave Sansa a tug and moss slipped through her fingers like water. She latched onto a small stone ridge and her legs thrashed the air, heels bucking wildly. 

"Easy now," the wolf hissed. He was getting angry, but the rabbit was angrier. Wolves were horrible lonely creatures. She had a family to feed. She gripped her rock hold and thrust all her weight behind her. Her heel cracked against the wolf's nose and he howled, staggering backwards. 

His hands went to his face. Black blood spouted from his nose, he cursed, but was Sansa free. She scrambled to the trunk, gave it a good shove, and watched it thump to the leafy ground. The hill was all hers. She ran. 

Wolves were cunning. They had their ways. So Sansa had to be fast. Her ribs ached from her fall, and her palms were rubbed raw, but her legs still worked. She pumped up the hill, leaping onto rocks as high as her hips. She winced when the rocks were so high she needed to use her hands for help. Black dirt clung to sticky red skin. It painted her silks and her cheeks. It filled out her nails. 

But it didn't stop her. 

She crested the hill and ran downward, faster than she had ever run before. So fast the leaves on the ground turned to a great orange and brown blur. Her foot hooked beneath a hidden root, and she flew. She tumbled down, hips striking hard rocks and swirls of ground cedar, skull bouncing on her spine. A tree stump to the belly jolted her to a stop. 

"Ouch," she whimpered. 

Get up, she told herself. Go home.

Sansa crawled to a nearby poplar with a branch in reach. She hauled herself to standing and winced—her ankle wasn't right. Not broken, but tender and puffy from being snared by that root. She wouldn't be as quick anymore. So she leaned back on the poplar's wide trunk to gather her breath. A little rest wouldn't hurt. The hollow was so close, then she would be safe. 

A gnarled paw clamped her shoulder.  

"Mine," the wolf hissed from behind. 

He came around the trunk, smirking, dragging his claws across her collarbones, but there was no need to pin his prey. 

She froze. 

Or rather, her mind froze. Rabbits didn't always need to be thinking. They had their heart to guide them, and Sansa was all heart. It quivered against her sore ribs. It pounded in her palms, and glowed in her left ankle. And between her legs—

It burst. 

Liquid warmth trickled down her thigh and spread a wet darkness onto her silks. The wolf liked that. She knew he would. 

"Oh, little rabbit," he growled, hoisting her hem to watch her warmth patter and puddle into the leaves below. It crept down to meet his toes. They shifted, closing in on hers. "Don't be frightened," he said down to her. "I'm a nice wolf." 

He plucked the dead leaves from her skirts and brushed off a crust of dried dirt. Then he smoothed out the silk so it fell back down to her knees. That was awfully nice. Wolves loved to talk, but maybe this wolf would listen. Sansa had to try. 

"P-p-please," she stuttered. "I have kits." 

"Kits, is it?" 

The wolf picked up Sansa's chin and went hunting in her eyes. She blinked away the water that had gathered there. Don't be frightened, she reminded herself. He's a nice wolf. But this wolf had flakes of brown blood smeared beneath his swollen snout. 

Sansa hadn't been a nice rabbit.

She had work to do.  

So she swallowed down her pulse, and her lips pulled to a wobbly smile. 

"Yes, three kits, kind wolf. Mary, Merlon, and Mysie. They're but two moons old, you see. They're waiting for me at home. They need me. They'll miss me ever so much." 

The wolf dropped to rest a forearm on the bark above her head. "Where's papa bunny?" he asked, extracting a twig from Sansa's hair and tossing it to the ground.

"Gone," she whispered, eyes downcast. 

"That's a shame," the wolf replied. "You must be a lonely little rabbit." He took her small paw in one much bigger and dirtier, and brought it to his mouth. He loosed a glob of spit onto her scraped skin, and licked, scouring her palm clean of sludgy black dirt. When he finished, he drank it all down. His tongue darted out to catch a string of drool that dripped from his half-blackened lips. They drew upward. 

Pretty, white fangs. A mouthful of sharp moonblooms. 

Would they feel like petals on her skin? 

Sansa pressed her little bunny thighs together, to protect her trembling pulse. She wouldn't let him in. But she could still talk with him, right? 

"I am lonely," she confessed. "Winter was hard." 

"I understand, little rabbit." The wolf's paw landed on her cheek, swept away tangles of red curls. His skin was rough, but his touch was light and warm as a spring breeze. "Winter was hard for me, too. Dreadful. I barely made it out alive." 

"I'm sorry to hear that," Sansa said. Courtesy was a bunny's greatest strength, but her manners drew the wolf's bloodied snout in. She shut her eyes as rotten breath filled her nose, the breath of a meat-eater. Disgusting. But Sansa was confused, because there was something else—a rich scent that wafted from the armpit stretched above her head. 

Mother didn't tell her about this. 

The wolf smelled of deep earth, of the furthest reaches of the hollow. The parts that never frosted, not even in midwinter. He smelled like eternal warmth. Is that what Sansa would find if she succumbed to the night and rested in his jaws? 

Would she be warm, forever? 

The rabbit shuddered. The shadow of the wolf eclipsed her. His hairy chest became her dark sky. His breath steamed onto her forehead. "You can help me, little rabbit," he rasped. "I'm so hungry, but all I need is a taste." He loosed a warm slug of slobber between Sansa's brows. It slid down to the tip of her nose, and the wolf caught it with his tongue. "Just a little taste," he huffed into her lips. 

"Alright," Sansa breathed back. Anything to get his vile breath away. "But just a taste."  

His tongue saturated the smooth planes of her skin with acrid spit, methodically working from her chin to her cheekbone, across her nose, and down to the other cheek. It lapsed over her forehead, then dropped to her ear. The wolf loved her ears, so big and pretty. That was what drew wolves to rabbits in the first place. He nibbled at her lobes, then nestled his wet tongue into the pinkness within, his lips swallowing her whole. After that he came for the other ear. He took that one away, too. 

And all the while, his body advanced. He pressed his muscled abdomen against her chest, and a hardness dug into her belly. A hardness that throbbed. His heart. The pulse between Sansa's legs matched it. She whimpered. 

"Mmm," the wolf groaned. "Those ears are sweet, but nowhere near filling. I think I need more." 

"More?" 

"More." The wolf reached to his hip and unsheathed a silver claw. Its point glinted in the long dusky light. "I need your skin, little rabbit." 

The claw slid down her middle, parting her silk from breast to belly. It left a thin red trail in its wake—her insides. If he peeled her skin away, that's all that would remain. 

The wolf dropped to one knee. His lips connected with the top of her scratch, and his tongue ran down its length. He landed at the crop of red fur at the apex of her legs and took one, long drink of her. Then, he feasted. His shoulders propped up her thighs, and his lips found her little heartbeat. His tongue lapped at it, his teeth tore into the surrounding flesh. They were petals—sparkly, stinging petals—and his mouth was a carnivorous flower. Was death supposed to be pretty? 

Sansa writhed against him. She ground her spine into the stiff bark behind her, and braced her hands against the wolf's head. His hair was glossy black, alarmingly soft. Her fingers burrowed into it as his teeth went wild. She had so much flesh down there, so much to be ripped and chewed and swallowed. The wolf found it all. He ate her skin and drank her water. 

He pulled away, jowls glistening. He cleaned himself up with his own tongue, then wiped away the rest with the back of his brutish hand. "You're so very sweet," he told her. "But I'm still hungry." 

"S-s-still?" 

Sansa shifted on her toes, buried in damp leaves and fresh mud. Of course he was hungry—her heart was still beating, above, but especially down below. It was ripe for picking, strong enough to break her bones, heavy enough to sink through the earth. 

"Please, little rabbit," the wolf begged. "I need your help." 

He looked up at her, eyes shining like a steel trap. He held Sansa at the hips. Mother, she pleaded. I'm so sorry. I should have listened to you. 

But she had listened to the wolf instead. 

Now her heart was swollen, achy, luring her down. Or was that the wolf? All Sansa knew was that she was getting closer to the ground. Wilted needles and leaves met her knees. Then she was falling, slowly. Her chest dropped over the stump. Her arms wrapped around its topside, cradling bark and curly sheets of white-rot fungus. Crops of golden honey mushrooms tickled her knuckles. 

It was done. 

She would descend into the wolf's warm earth. 

He tugged her silks up over her backside. Cool air trickled along her tattered skin and abundant juices, but only for one sweet moment. 

Then came hard heat. A second pulse, alive, basted itself between her thighs. There was a metallic click, and something sticky landed on her bottom. Sansa stole the briefest glance backward, and her little heart throbbed. 

Grease.  

The wolf met her widened eyes and grinned. He was slathering that substance, tallow-thick, along his reddened flesh. There was never a bigger heart than that. Almost bigger than her. So maybe the wolf wasn't so cruel after all. His large heart was hurting, but Sansa would feed him. She'd sink into his blood and nourish his strong muscles. She would swim in him, forever. 

He swept aside her hair, and brought his full-fanged mouth to the remains of her right ear. His foul breath plagued her. Sansa had one final request—    

"Mercy," she begged in a whisper. 

"Oh, sweet little rabbit," the wolf growled, night-soft. "I'll give you mercy alright." He planted kisses across her cheek, still sticky with spit, until his rough lips hovered over hers. "A whole, hot load of mercy."

He shot up, turned his chest to a dark and furry mountain. One hand pinned the small of her back. The other—Sansa couldn't bear to look. There was pressure behind her. 

Then, pain. 

So this was death. The wolf parted flesh that should never be parted. He bore a new hole into Sansa, ripped a tender ring to a fiery gape. She cried out. She squished soft fistfuls of fungus and gnashed her teeth. Inside her, the wolf's heartbeat danced, blood bounding against the tight confines of her tiny bunny belly. 

It went deeper—an inch.   

And deeper—three more.  

And deeper yet, had he truly been so big? Was there never an end? 

Then she had no insides left. She was hollowed out, filled with him, a throbbing staff, a branch come to life. A branch on fire. "How's that?" the wolf grunted. Claws traced the curve of her back, tickling the wisps of hair that grew there. "I kept my promise, didn't I? I'm a gentle wolf." 

"Y-yes," the rabbit whimpered. Her thighs quivered, though she was immobile on her heated spit. "Stay there, please." She needed a minute to accept her fate, because she realized her pulse shouted alongside the wolf's, down there, in her breached belly. She shifted knee to knee, learned the feel of hardness lanced through her to her ribs. And if she ground herself just-so against the soft edge of the stump— 

Relief. 

Sansa would make her surrender sweet. So she meekly shimmied her backside, a shake of her tail, a silent yes that she paired with watery bunny eyes, eyes that said, go on, devour me. 

The wolf was ever smart. He sunk his claws into her hips and began to withdraw. He pulled inch by inch of his heart out, greasy, crimson-streaked. He left the head inside to torment her tight ring of nerves, the hole that would rather see him out. 

But he lingered, throbbing. 

Then he thrust. The black crop of hair at his base slammed against Sansa's buttocks as he stole her insides. She screamed; he groaned. But he was done waiting—he was starved. He dragged himself out and plunged in again. Sansa fed him another scream, so strong he fell over her, two thick arms landing on either side of her stump. 

His chest heaved against her back; black strings of hair dangled at her temples. 

"Does it hurt, little rabbit?" he rasped, ragged. 

"Yes," Sansa whined. She peered way up to meet his eyes. "But I like it." 

She watched those two steel traps flicker and close. A growl like black smoke rumbled from his gut and out of his flared nostrils. Then, he rode her, and he had quite the appetite. He surfaced and plummeted with violent cadence. Each stroke stuck Sansa's spine to his belly and lifted her knees from their cushion of sodden leaves. Each stroke scoured deeper in her guts, and cleared out her tender flesh. 

He burned inside her but left her empty, cold each time he retreated. Both his pulse and hers shouted together, begging for their brutish joining, a pleasurable fire. Wolf musk as thick as summer rain doused Sansa's sensitive nose. It came from his armpits, two dark, hairy caverns. It was perfect warmth. Under his scent, the burn was nothing. Under his scent, she was safe, nesting, new hollow found. 

Hop, hop, hop—to the belly of the beast. Sansa had put herself here. "How do I taste?" she asked in an airy whisper. 

The wolf's first response was the pounding of his heartbeat from within. "Oh, little rabbit," he growled, guttural. "You taste so sweet." 

"H-how sweet?" 

That forced out another throb. The wolf threaded a muscular arm beneath her belly, then slid it between her breasts. His hand curled around her throat. "The sweetest," he breathed. "The sweetest meat there is. I can taste all of you. Your little stomach, your liver, your lungs. Do you know what my favorite part is?" 

"What?" 

The wolf straightened up and took Sansa with him. He pressed her spine against his rigid chest, and snuck a hand between her thighs. His fingers ground her little pulse to a red-hot fury.

"Your heart," he rasped. 

And he pounced. His hard but very much alive heart invaded her ribcage. It thrust between her lungs and settled there, like a branch aglow in a bed of red ember. Sansa no longer had a pulse of her own. There was only one aching beat in her belly—his. 

There was nothing else but him. 

"I'm yours," Sansa whispered. 

The wolf's grip on her throat tightened. He pushed her down, mashing her backside against the rough hair at his base. "You're mine," he snarled. Then again, louder. "You're mine." 

He circled inside her to prove himself, though the rabbit already knew. He had made a home of her belly, her ribs the gnarled roots. He had feasted on her pretty bunny guts, one thump at a time, because she had let him in, with nary a fight. 

Then the wolf began to thrust again, furious, to prove something else. 

He was alive. 

He was living inside Sansa's sweet hollow, and he was taking her with him. All the way down, to warm, black earth. A safe place for the winter. A safe place for all time. Their pulses tangled together. Their blood merged to one body, like a stream flowing to fill a river. 

"I'm yours," the rabbit breathed. 

"You're mine," the wolf growled back. 

He lunged again. He had plundered her heart, and he was coming for air, too. Sansa struggled to swallow a single drop. 

"I'm yours," she sputtered, as the darkness crept in. Her vision spun with shadows; her eyes fluttered shut. 

"You're mine!" 

He buried himself to the base of Sansa's skull. His heart was expanding, outgrowing its new home. He would break her bones. He would break her bones and eat those, too. 

I'm yours, she prayed. Take it all. 

"Mine! " the wolf howled, loud enough to shatter stone. 

And he erupted. 

Everything he had stolen from Sansa came flooding back. His heart bounded inside her, wild, in fiery spurts. At the feel of it, a heart devoured and a heart returned, Sansa spilled her own warmth. It coated her thighs and the large paw in between them. And as her pulse sang, strong arms trapped her tighter. The whole world was dark, because Sansa had surrendered. 

She welcomed the long night. 

But eventually blood quieted to a din. Breath settled to a soft rhythm. Sansa swallowed against the snug grip on her throat. Her eyes opened to a flat purple dusk. 

She was human again, home in her skin. But what about— 

"Sandor?" 

Sansa reached up to find his face, nestled in her hair.  

"I'm here, little bird." 

Sandor unfurled, setting Sansa down so her palms rested on the prickly stump. She winced and adjusted her weight to fingertips, but Sandor was busy behind her. He pressed his palm into her low back. "I'm going to pull out now," he told her. "Are you ready?" 

Sansa nodded and preemptively grimaced. Nothing could have prepared for that horrible sensation, like a slippery black slug passing through her bowels. Dozens of giant slugs slithered out, but they weren't slugs—it was her stomach, kidneys, liver, lungs, and heart, plopping gracelessly to the ground. 

"My guts," Sansa whimpered. They were gone. 

"No, no. It's only me." Sandor's fingertips trailed along the sides of her thighs. "I need you to tell me what else hurts, little bird." 

"My hands," she whispered, her throat suddenly tight. She took in a shaky breath. "My ankle. The left one. And—and—" There were hot tears welling in her eyes, but she didn't know why. "My knees. I don't want to be on my knees anymore." 

Sandor eased away a fallen tear with his thumb. "You'll be alright, sweet girl," he soothed. "Let's get you down to the creek, and I'll clean you up proper. How does that sound?" 

"Good," Sansa said. 

"Good. Up we go—" Sandor scooped her off the ground, cradled her against his chest, and they were off. 

Oh, this was much better. Only this close to Sandor, Sansa noticed something else that made her eyes burn: blood. It crusted over his mouth and chin in brown flakes that almost looked like dirt. Sansa raised timid fingertips to his nose, where a splotch of dark purple bloomed.

She had ruined Sandor's pretty nose. It was already big and curved, its architecture as unique as a fingerprint. But now it was swollen, angry. Angrier than usual. 

"I hurt you," Sansa said sadly. 

Sandor chuckled. "It did hurt, little bird," he replied with a soft smile. "But I liked it. And besides, it's not broken. You just roughed me up a bit." 

"We'll get you clean," Sansa whispered, burrowing into his pelted chest.

They made it back through the pine grove to the creek, where a pile of scattered blackberries lay. The daytime creatures had gone to bed, and the nighttime creatures hadn't yet found the easy feast. Sandor set Sansa down a flat rock near the water's edge, then he stripped down. 

"It's gonna be a little cold, but we'll be quick," he said. 

Sansa probed the creekbed with her big toe and shivered. She looked up to Sandor and shook her head, but it was no use. He peeled off her shredded nightgown, then plucked her up and trudged to frigid water up to his waist. Balancing Sansa on his thigh, he moved warm a hand across her soiled skin. He cleared the dirt from her palms, her face, her belly, and her knees. He washed the small scratch down her middle. He even slid a hand between her buttocks, which made her shrink up and whimper. "Easy, little bird," he grunted. "How does it feel back there?" 

"Um—" Sansa bit her lower up. She couldn't talk about this. Nobody was supposed to talk about this, only maesters, and even then— gross. 

"Little bird, I need to know." 

Sandor took up her face and brushed a thumb over her twisted lips. He wasn't nobody.

"It's sore," she got out. "And—and—it doesn't feel small anymore. It feels wrong." 

"That's alright. That's normal. There was some tearing. And it's gonna be a little loose tonight. But that's perfectly normal." 

Sansa blanched. "L-loose? Will things just...fall out?"  

"Might be," Sandor said with a shrug. "If anything feels too wrong, you tell me, and if anything falls out, you tell me. I promise you I've seen worse. Understood?" 

"I understand." 

"Good girl." 

Sandor let Sansa rinse his face off with cold handfuls of water. Then he took her back to her rock and fetched their bag of clean clothes. Sansa was first to be towelled dry, then it was Sandor's turn. He put on his black and yellow flannel boxers—the only pair he owned, Sansa had learned—and he stuck her in his Lamentation t-shirt. Much better.

Then he smeared some ointment on her palms and inspected her slightly red and puffy ankle. "Not broken," he told her. "Twisted, I think." 

Sansa agreed. 

Even so, after Sandor stuck on his boots and threw the bag over his shoulder, he didn't make Sansa walk. He picked her right up, held her close to his chest, and trekked through the trees. 

It was full inky dark by the time they made it back to the keep. Sansa had never been so glad to see such a dilapidated little building. Sandor took her straight inside and set her down on the musty mattress, while he went to get their things from the truck. He brought back Sansa's little suitcase and his duffel first. He pulled out her pink knit blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders. "How's that?" he asked. 

"Perfect," Sansa hummed. 

He patted her head, and was off. He lit three dented camping lanterns, then tossed an armful of logs into the fire and got that going, too. While he paced about getting dinner supplies ready, Sansa fished around in her bag and took out a pair of underwear. Boring ones, in case something fell out. Her stomach turned at the thought, but there were worse things. Sandor told it true. 

"Look what I found," he said next time he pushed through the door. He opened up a folded t-shirt to reveal a pile of fluffy brown mushrooms. "Hen-in-the-woods." 

Sansa smiled. "For me?" 

"For you, little herbivore. Do you want to come sit by the fire while I cook?" 

She did, but she didn't like how uncomfortable the rickety wooden chairs were. So she curled up at Sandor's boots while he tended a bubbling iron pot in the hearth. He put a skillet on the grate beside it, and fried up a steak for himself. 

Dinner was delicious. They ate right by the fire. Sansa had a whole bowlful of mushroom barley soup. Sandor had put in fresh herbs and wild carrot, too. He gobbled up his t-bone and finished up the leftovers in the pot, soaking them up with chunks of black bread. 

Even better than dinner was what Sandor pulled out afterwards—a small packet of wax paper. He broke the golden sticker seal, and passed it to Sansa. 

More fluff, but not mushrooms. Pure white cubes. Squishy. Sweet. Sansa breathed in the scent of sugar and vanilla. "Marshmallows," she exhaled, grinning up at Sandor. 

"Aye. From the sweet shop near my place. The Pentoshi one." 

Sansa roasted exactly half of the marshmallows, lazily resting her head on Sandor's knee. She was an expert at it from camping in the Wolfswood. She knew to keep the skewer low on the coals, and wait extra long to get the perfect brown crust with gooey insides. Sandor disagreed. He stole one of her treats and stuck it straight in the flames, ignoring Sansa's complaints. After he burnt the marshmallow to a black crisp, he swallowed it whole. 

"That's how it's done," he told her, licking his lips. "The Gregor special." 

Sansa frowned the entire time she roasted up the next one, pointedly not looking at Sandor. But when it turned golden, and she lifted it to her mouth, Sandor smashed it against her lips. He rubbed the sticky mess all over, laughing belly deep as Sansa squealed. 

She knew what came next. Sandor had her down on the floorboards, toes tickled by flame, as he licked her face back to sparkling. He licked places that marshmallow hadn't even touched, because she was that sweet. Sansa let him. She pawed at his burly shoulders and tangled her fingers in his hair, wiggling beneath his monstrous weight, but just for fun. 

"Let's get in bed," Sandor said when he had finished his dessert.  

Sandor dragged the mattress in front of the fireplace. He laid out a faded quilt, patched with the pattern of three black hounds, and they snuggled up beneath it. What Sandor meant by bed was that he wanted Sansa to keep kissing him. So they laid facing each other, and she went to work. Sandor's nose needed the most attention, in its purpled state. Sansa gave it lots of gentle pecks. 

"I'm sorry pretty nose," she whispered. "I love you, I really do. You'll get better. Promise." 

Then Sansa pushed back Sandor's hair to kiss his scars. They were doing well tonight, she noticed. Not a lot of cracking or bleeding. They were cool beneath her lips, but that was because Sandor's blood had gone elsewhere. His cock nuzzled between Sansa's legs, hungry. So she slipped a hand into his waistband and stroked. Sandor buried his face in her neck as she eased her fist gently along his length. He kissed and nibbled, and breathed shallow puffs of air. It didn't take long for stickiness to fill up Sansa's palm. 

She held out the white mess between the two of them. How was it his seed always ended up everywhere but where it belonged? She pouted, but Sandor took her by the wrist, opened up, and lapped her hand clean.

When Sandor pulled away, Sansa smiled. 

"Good boy," she whispered down to him. 

Sandor's lips twitched. He quickly looped his arms around Sansa's waist and stuck his face in her breasts. "I love you," he grumbled into her t-shirt. 

"I love you too," she hummed.  

"Do you like it? The keep?" 

Sansa set her lips to the crown of his head and smoothed her hand over his hair. He already knew the answer, but she repeated, "I more than like it, Sandor. I'm in love."  

He held her for so long moonlight crested the trees and blue light showered in from the broken windows. Sansa thought he might have fallen asleep until he lifted up from her chest and asked, "Will you play me some music, little bird?" 

"Of course, sweetling." 

Sansa drew up to sitting, and Sandor passed her the lyre, curved white weirwood with silver swirls at the edges. It was great great great grandmother's, and probably greater than that. Sansa gave the strings a test strum. "What would you like to hear?" she asked.

"Anything," Sandor replied, dropping down to rest his head in Sansa's lap. "I just need to hear your voice." 

Sansa started with her songs, since they were fresh in her mind. Sandor wanted Honeycomb twice, and Pretty three times. After that, she moved on to older songs: Florian and Jonquil, Flowers of Spring, the Winter Maiden, Black Pines. And once those were done, Sansa felt one song lingering, lurking, like a silver ghost, a frostfire in the shadows. 

"Sandor?" Sansa asked, cupping his dark cheek. 

"Mm." 

"If I play The Night that Ended, will you sing it for me?" 

Sandor took Sansa's hand and buried a kiss in it. "Of course, little bird." 

He straightened up and laced an arm around Sansa's hip, shrouding her in warm muscle. She breathed in the welcome spice of his musk, and strummed. 

Here, frostfire bloomed. Sandor's voice was deep as night, impenetrable as a sky-high wall of ice. And yet there was heat, as if sun could root in her heart, make dendrite starshine in her veins. It was an impossible feeling, one that withered the day she lost her family. A feeling that somehow, like a weirwood seed south of the Neck, survived, and sprouted. 

A tear slipped down Sansa's cheek. "They're still alive, aren't they?" she whispered when the song ceded to silence. "In the trees." 

"They are," Sandor replied. 

Sansa traced the silver marks etched on her harp, to a series of runes on the bottom edge. She knew how to read them now—House Stark of Winterfell. 

"I'm going to take the paste tomorrow," she said, resolute. 

She would listen to her blood.

Chapter Text

Sansa woke at dawn to wisps of pink light curling through the shattered windows. She was tangled in Sandor, the branches of the weirwood on his skin flush against her nose. Her fingers were curled around the warm steel chain at his neck. His arms enveloped her waist with his hands nestled in her messy curls. 

Sandor's breath was still the steady breath of sleep, but he was awake. Sansa slid a hand between their bellies to trace the stiff outline in his shorts. Both he and Sandor stirred, but Sandor didn't release Sansa. His arms locked her tight, and he ground against her. He didn't need her hand. His cock pressed against her belly through layers of flannel and cotton. 

Such softness, for something so hard. 

Sansa giggled but Sandor probably didn't hear over the sound of his new breath. Jagged breath, as if the mountain air didn't have enough oxygen. He inhaled Sansa instead. His mouth rested on the crown of her head and steamed up her scalp. It tickled, so Sansa giggled more. She kissed a cluster of inky leaves on his chest, lips upturned. 

"Little bird," Sandor panted, over and over. "My sweet little bird." 

His thrusts became more thorough, a full sweeping of his hips and a deeper press into Sansa's belly. He sputtered a groan at the crest of one of these thrusts, and his cock quivered between them. "Oh fuck, little bird. Good little bird. Sweet little bird." 

His hand dropped against the side of Sansa's face, flattening curls to her sticky temple. "I love you so much," he whispered, breathless. 

"I love you too, sweetling," she whispered back. 

He needed a minute to settle. Eventually, he peeled Sansa away, picking up her face in both his hands. "Breakfast time," he growled. 

Sansa bundled up in the quilt and her special blanket while Sandor got the grey embers back to roaring flame. He gave her some dried apricots to eat first, then a bitter cup of coffee she didn't even bother to pretend to like. "You think I was going to lug cream and sugar all the way into the mountains?" Sandor teased. He snatched up her tin mug and stuffed a marshmallow in it. “Try that.” 

She did. She drank the whole cup, smiling.  

After the coffee came toast and jam and scrambled eggs. Sandor ate on the mattress with her, though he got up twice for extra helpings. "Did you eat a whole dozen?" Sansa asked, eyeing his overloaded plate of yellow fluff. Sandor grinned. 

"And I'd eat a dozen more, no problem. As long as they came out of you, little bird." 

He shoved a pile of eggs in his mouth and winked. Sansa blushed the rest of the way through breakfast, but then it was time to hike. She tucked her Lamentation t-shirt into the waistband of her jeans, then fixed her hair into two milkmaid's plaits—quite an ordeal without a mirror. Since a chill lingered in the air, she shrugged into her father's flannel button-up, patterned in black and wintergreen plaid. All ready. 

Sansa went over to where Sandor sat by the fire to tell him as much. He stared at her for a few long seconds, then rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "Gods, you're so beautiful," he said, shaking his head. Sansa's cheeks turned hot again. 

"You think so?" she asked, sheepish. 

"I know so," he returned. 

He swept her in for a nice long kiss, then they set out. 

Stranger guided the way. He bounded through the dew-kissed meadow, snapping at early rising butterflies and birds. From there they ribboned along the narrow game trail. The trees welcomed them as kin. Same with the bends in their path, the little streams they crossed, the beds of ground cedar, and thickets of hawthorn. Sansa called the names her new friends—nettle, kidney-root, motherwort—and Sandor turned back to her smile. Just a slight uptick of his half-dark lips. 

Stranger guarded the glade for them. Sandor slid through the gap in the rocks first, leading Sansa by her hand. She didn't even need sight to know they had arrived. The air inside thrummed with life, a full-green scent and lush mist that lapsed at her skin and filled her lungs to sweet completion. 

She rested her knees in soft moonbloom as Sandor prepared the paste. He scraped the bark, extracted a slug of sap, and mashed it up in a small wooden bowl. 

Blood red. 

Raspberry jam, Sansa told herself. Nothing to be afraid of. But her hands trembled when she took the spoon of sticky red goo Sandor offered her. She could scarcely raise it to her lips. 

"You don't have to do this if you're not ready, little bird," Sandor said.  

"I am ready," Sansa half-whined. "But what if—what if the Gods are still cross with me?" 

Sandor veiled her hand in his. "The Old Gods aren't spiteful, Sansa. They're indifferent. Honest. They'll show you what you need to see." He gave her fingers a squeeze. "It could be frightening, but I'll be right here with you, no matter what. You'll be safe. I promise."

"Okay," Sansa whispered. She lined the spoon up with her lips. "I'm ready."

Her tongue met acrid rot. The paste slithered into her mouth like a morsel of dead flesh. She had never dined on a corpse, but that was the taste. No, wait—it was only off milk, set too long in the sun. Even better, it was sweetmilk, just like Sandor had made. It was Sandor. Had she eaten Sandor? 

No, he sat before her, taking the bowl, raising up his own spoonful. He smiled. He said something, but Sansa saw only moonblooms in his mouth. 

Her eyes opened to a jeering crowd and larger than life statue of Baelor the Blessed. She blinked, lifted a hand to harsh winter light. Her heart dropped to her stomach—father, bent-kneed before Joffrey on the steps of the Great Sept. No, no, no, stop, no. The words didn't come out even though she shouted them. Her legs didn't budge; they were leaden. A corpse came forth with a blade that didn't belong. 

He severed father's head with one swift blow. 

Sansa's scream was silent. She turned for help, and found Sandor stoic in full plate behind her. 

Why? she asked him, but it was too late. 

She woke a prisoner in a pretty cell: plush velvet bedding, golden thread in the crimson curtains and golden paint on richly carved bed posts. A gentle hand to take it all away. Sandor, again. Help me, she silently begged. He took her to Joffrey instead, to the parapets. Her family's heads sat lifeless and tarred on spikes in a row. Father, mother, Rob, Bran, and Rickon. 

Bile filled Sansa's mouth. 

Arya, too. 

Sansa decided to push to Joffrey, to see his body broken in the courtyard. Sandor obstructed her path. He wouldn't listen. He wouldn't help. 

He only watched. 

Joffrey had her beaten, and Sandor watched. It played out dozens of times. In her chambers, in the great hall, the courtyard, the garden, the winding serpentine steps. He wore a white cloak, and he watched. 

Only when Joffrey ordered her stripped did Sandor intervene. Enough, she heard him say, but he didn't step forward. Joffrey's uncle was there to give the command again. Then Sandor ripped off his cloak and tossed it at Sansa's feet. She used it to dry her tears. The wool bit her skin raw.  

But he finally listened. On horseback, in mob chaos, with garlic stench in her nose, Sandor came to her. He sliced threatening flesh from bone, and leapt into the saddle. But he didn't rescue her, not truly. They landed back in the castle, and he was gone again. 

Then, blood. Blood and green flame. A frantic, lonely walk up spiral steps. The stink of wine. 

He waited for her. Here was rescue. 

Sandor wasn't Sandor. No, he was mad, staggering, an armored giant slumping into stone. This isn't my knight, Sansa thought, and Sandor heard. He seized her wrists in a gauntlet grip. He was snarling, spitting, but begging. Begging with white fear in his eyes.

And Sansa declined. 

A dagger at her throat. A giant crushing her bones. Time for a song. Sandor always wanted her song, and it was all he would get from her. He had let her father die.

So Sansa let him go, alone. 

A true knight will come, she told herself, wilted in another white cloak. But this one was blackened with smoke and blood. It transformed to a groom's cloak, Lannister gold and red. She would have Joffrey, but no, the groom that stepped forth was half her height. His uncle. 

Another monster, Sansa thought. 

Joffrey married Margaery instead. A pretty wedding, with a hundred pretty courses, and hundreds more pretty presents. Sansa didn't eat. Her belly was black with dread that bubbled up her throat like rancid stew. She learned why when Joffrey bit into pie and choked. He died with a twisted purple face, and Sansa killed him. She was certain. 

Because she was fleeing. Maybe the heaviness was hope. She was in the Godswood, and there was a knight. Yes, I'm going, I'm finally going. They escaped through back corridors and narrow stairs down to the docks. A rowboat awaited. It took them to a ship. 

A hand reached down to pull Sansa aboard. She looked up. 

Uncle Petyr.

Her body forced her into his arms. Her mouth forced her to silence, but she needed to scream. She needed to jump into the black water below. But she didn't. 

She went, willingly. 

In the snowy mountains she was his, curled around his littlest finger. The weeping woman watched as they kissed. 

She was his. 

At long last, her screams found air. Great, green lungfuls of air. Sansa recycled them into sharp sounds that tore her throat to stinging. Her fingers ripped grass and petals. Her booted heels dug into soft dirt. Her tears poured to make mud of it. 

She heard her name distantly, as if from the moon. It was another vision, so she screamed. And now she kicked too, and punched, because a shadow descended on her. A shadow turned flesh, heavy enough to pin her wrists and throw putrid breath on her face. A strong hand clamped down on her chin. It was a prison, and it was real. 

"Sansa," said the shadow in a horrible wet rasp. "Sansa, it's me. I'm here, you're here, you're safe. Listen to me." 

It was desperate enough that Sansa risked opening her eyes. Her shadow loomed above her—the shadow that did too little, and got left behind. Same as any other. 

"What happened, little bird?" he asked. "What did you see?" 

Sansa shook her head. She loved this shadow. He couldn't know. 

"Sansa, please." His hand turned soft. He swept his knuckles down her damp cheek. "Please, you're scaring me." 

The shadow's eyes were grey, but Sansa only noticed the surrounding white—wide, and shining. She hid from them in darkness, dislodging a stream of tears. "I let you go," she whispered. The words were bile in her mouth, a sour admission. "You were there, in the castle. A knight. You were supposed to—but you didn't, and when you came—" 

"You let me go," he finished, soberly. 

"I let you go," Sansa repeated.  

Sandor dropped to his back at her side. He pried the shards of grass from her fingers and put his hand there instead, resting it on her belly like warm stone. He let out a sigh so gentle it hurt. 

"I'm sorry, Sandor," Sansa said. "I'm so sorry. I don't know what it means." 

"I don't know either, little bird. But you don't have to be sorry. We're just fine." 

Sansa looked to the sky, over the tops of the slanted stone walls and the halo of bright greenery that hung above them. There were no clouds, only a small splotch of blue. If Sansa stared long enough, it faded to grey. 

She wondered why Sandor would lie to her. 

But all she said was, "What did you see?" 

She wouldn't have asked if she had known he would sigh that same meek dagger of a sigh. "Nothing," he replied, his voice barren. "There was nothing. I was using again." 

"No," Sansa said. 

"Yes," Sandor said back. "I know what I saw. I saw black." 

Wind whistled through the gaps in the walls like mortal breath. It was feeble on Sansa's skin. The spring trickled behind her, weeping into the pond. Their intertwined hands bore down on her belly. She was sinking into the earth. 

"I'm sorry," she said again. "I'm so sorry." 

Sansa mimicked the spring, so Sandor stole her from the ground and put her in his lap. He planted kisses in her hair. He rocked her, whispered, hummed. "You're alright," he kept saying. "We're alright." 

The sky never went back to blue—it transformed to hazy pink and purple. The Gods must have had her for a very long time. Sandor had what was left of her. They trudged back to the keep hand in hand, silent. As they walked through the woods, the plants seemed to shy away, as if they smelled something rotten. Sansa knew the stench, but she wouldn't be the one to tell them. 

Dinner was sad and slow. Sansa perched on a chair at Sandor's side and watched him make more soup over the fire. He nicked himself slicing carrots into the pot and swore. Sansa watched. He sucked his finger clean, then went on cutting. Blood dripped into the broth. 

"It's good," Sansa said later, pretending to eat. "Thank you." 

Sandor took her bowl away. He slurped it empty from the rim. "It's shit," he barked. Sansa reached for his hand but he used it to comb his hair down over his scars. "I'm gonna clean up," he said. 

Sansa offered to help. Sandor said, "Sit." 

She sat. She thought about her marshmallows, but he was busy packing up the metal storage crate with all their food, so she couldn’t go rifling through it. And she didn't want to trouble him by asking. She stayed quiet. She sat. 

He touched the pot handle when it was still too hot and shouted. When Sansa moved to help, he waved her down. "Sit," he spat, clutching himself at the wrist. "Stay." He found rags and took the pot to the kitchen. Water hissed in the sink through crumbling plaster walls. The sky was black. 

Chairs like these were horrible. They reminded Sansa how much of her there was to hold. Her tailbone rubbed against the time-softened seat. The notches in her spine grazed the slatted backing. So many bones. So much body to shift, and never enough comfort. She tried taking off her boots and pulling in her knees, but then her feet got cold. She crossed and uncrossed her ankles, but it didn't much matter how sewn shut she was in jeans. Nothing to see up there. Nothing Sandor hadn't already seen and savaged. 

Nothing, nothing, nothing. 

"Do you want to lay down?" 

Sandor was back from the kitchen. Sansa twisted to see him, curling her fingers over the back of the chair. "I don't know," she answered. Sandor sighed. What she really wanted was to bottle that sound and throw it onto the coals. That might make things worse, but it was worth a shot. Anything to never hear it again. 

Sandor dropped to a seat on the edge of the mattress without her. He masked his face in his hands and breathed funny, broad shoulders shuddering. 

"Should I come over there?" Sansa asked. 

"If you like," Sandor said to the floor. 

Sansa came to that exact patch of hardwood and knelt. It hurt her knees a little, but held her better. She rested her head on Sandor’s thigh. "Is your hand okay?" she asked. 

"It's fine." 

"Do you want to lay down?" 

"No." 

"Should I sing?" 

"Only if you want to." 

Sansa sighed. Her lyre was in its case against the wall, but it felt like fathoms away. She didn't even have anything to sing. The Gods had stolen her songs. She deserved it. And now there wasn't much left to do, except idle in dark silence. 

Sansa glanced to the square of stars framed by the window. "Can we go outside?" 

Sandor sniffed and ran a hand beneath his nose. "Do you want to see the stars?" he asked, gentle. 

Sansa nodded. "You said they were special here." 

"Very," Sandor replied. 

He got things ready for them. He bundled up the quilt and fetched a lantern. He even brought out Sansa's marshmallows. "Do you want to finish these first?" he asked. Sansa said she would eat them out in the meadow. Cold sugar was still sugar. 

Sandor found the perfect patch of grass for them to lay in. He squished it down with his boots, stretched out the quilt, then their boots came off. The quilt was plenty big enough for the two of them, but Sansa nuzzled up against Sandor, right at his armpit. He tucked her flannel to keep her warmth in, and coiled an arm around her shoulders. 

"Lights out," he said, twisting the knob on the lantern until the flame withered. 

But the lights weren't gone. Billions more danced overhead, of a type no man could extinguish. Not even Sandor. "Woah," Sansa breathed. 

"I know," Sandor replied. 

"Do you know their names?" 

He did. Sandor knew all the springtime constellations, just like father. The Maiden was their leader, a slender hourglass made of ten bright stars, with an outstretched arm. On the tip of her finger was the brightest star of all: her bird.

"What kind do you think it is?" Sansa asked. 

"A pretty little bird," Sandor answered. 

Sansa peered up at him and batted her lashes. "Prettier than me?" 

"Never." 

"Sweeter?" 

"Not possible." 

He reached for the packet of marshmallows, and pulled one out between his fingers. Sansa bit it straight from his hand in one puffy mouthful. Then he did it again, and again, and by the fourth marshmallow Sansa didn't have any room in her cheeks to spare. Sandor tried to mash it between her lips, but she clapped a hand over her mouth just in time. Sandor laughed. 

"Silly little bird," he said. "The silliest bird of all."

Sandor dumped the remaining marshmallows in his mouth and tossed the packet aside. Sansa would have stuck out her tongue, or maybe nibbled that tender bit of flesh above his armpit. Instead she worked down the marshmallow, partly chewing, partly waiting for it to dissolve. When she finally swallowed, she came back to the quiet. 

Sandor ruined it with a sigh. 

"What are you thinking of?" Sansa asked. She petted the words Just Maid on his chest, printed white in medieval calligraphy. Below was a long-haired girl wielding a sword that sparkled, looking equally medieval, even though girls couldn't use swords. Not back then. 

"I'm thinking…." A warm exhale grazed Sansa's knuckles. Sandor shut his eyes. "I'm thinking we shouldn't see each other as much." 

Sansa's heart iced over and sagged. She shifted onto her elbow so she could loom above Sandor. "You don't want to be with me anymore?" she asked, setting fingertips to his dark cheek. He opened back up, reluctantly. His eyes mirrored the stars. 

"No, little bird." He held her wrist to keep her hand in place. "It's not that. It's—you have a life. You have school, you have music. You have a future. I don't. And I don't want to drag you down. I couldn't live with that. I know I won't." 

"You're not dragging me down," Sansa said, her throat tight. 

"Sansa, if I go to the Rock with you, and your uncle pulls you out of school—" 

"I don't care about school, really." She wanted to sound more convincing, but her face was unsteady, collapsing. "I'll tell my uncle. I'll tell him everything, I don't care about school or money or a record deal. I don't even care if I end up like Arya." 

"Your sister across the sea? What happened to her?" 

Sansa smeared the tears from her cheeks with a clumsy palm. Such a stupid question, a question she'd had to answer so many times to the jeering lords and ladies of court. Uncle Petyr had coached her. She's a troubled girl. In reformatory school in Braavos, best there is. We're hoping she'll be better soon, and back home where she belongs. 

But she wasn't. Uncle Petyr turned Sansa into a liar, and Sandor wasn't asking for a lie. 

"She escaped him," Sansa said. "She stood up for herself and ran away. Like I never could. And now—and now— " her breath caught in a stunted whimper. She swallowed, then whispered, "She's free." 

Sansa's face crumpled, and she fell onto Sandor's chest, wrapping her arms weakly around his head. "Shh, little bird," he soothed. He rubbed her back and stroked her plaits. "I'm right here. We'll figure something out. Maybe you can visit once a moon, or every three moons. We'll call on the weekends. At least until you graduate. We don't have to move so quickly. We've got time." 

"That sounds awful," Sansa mumbled. 

"It does," Sandor sighed. 

A strong breath rumbled up Sansa's belly and out her nose. She opened up her mouth, and pulled in a bite of Sandor, t-shirt and muscle alike. He had plenty of muscle to spare. She could have some. She dug in deep, but Sandor only laughed. 

"What are you doing, little wolf?" 

"Claiming you," she said, releasing her first bite and going in for seconds on the other side of his chest. She lined up her fangs and sunk them in. "You're mine," she growled. 

"I'm yours," Sandor agreed. 

Sansa pulled away and wiped her mouth, but she was far from finished. 

It was time for Sandor to be kissed. 

So she climbed on top of him, hooking her legs on either side of his, and what a view. Sandor gazed up at her. Beyond, the moon crested the treeline, and doused the long grasses in shimmering blue light. A sea, or another sky, perhaps. Sansa floated there. 

When she looked back down, Sandor was smiling. His sweet smile, where just the dark half of his lips curled up. Sansa smiled back. 

"Hi sweetling," she purred. 

"Hi," Sandor replied. He skirted his palms along the outside of Sansa's thighs and held her just above her knees. She almost expected more, but then she remembered: mine. 

His lips were the perfect place to start, familiar, safe. So she dropped her mouth to his, and slipped her tongue between his teeth. Had he always tasted so good? Beyond lingering vanilla and sugar, there was something else. Something full-bodied that Sansa wanted desperately to drink down. She pushed her tongue deep, circled his tongue, bit at it. 

The something she wanted was Sandor, in his entirety. 

She had a lot more kissing to do. 

So she moved to his face—to the purple flower on his nose, the ridge of his cheek, his one full brow. Then she took in his scars. A wetness painted her lips, warm, but she kept going. She kissed that blackened cheek, the sharp line of his jaw. She nibbled at her bone. 

A hardness rose up between them. Sansa shifted her weight against it. Good. 

Now she needed his body, bare. She straightened up and tugged his shirt from the waist of his jeans. "Let's get this off," she said. 

Sandor met her halfway, crossing his arms over his torso and peeling off his shirt. It dropped to the grass beside them. This was a view if there ever was one: her knight, her warrior, her world. Thick muscles and dark hair made prettier by swirls of black ink that swelled with his every breath. 

Sansa descended on him. She kissed along those lines, lapped the saltiness from his skin. Her tongue worked from branches to roots, until her face landed above his belt buckle. "This needs to go, too," she whispered. She unbuckled, unzipped, and eased backwards, pulling Sandor's jeans as she went. 

This man was hers. He was hers, swollen to near darkness. Sandor didn't even catch himself. He watched Sansa with the sky in his eyes, handfuls of quilt in two tight fists, as his cock bounded up to meet his abs. He deserved something special, a little bit of her. Sansa lifted off her shirt first. She was bare-chested beneath, her nipples already awake in the crisp mountain air. He liked that. So Sansa undid her own jeans, and rolled them down her hips. 

It was boring underneath, so she did away with that too. 

Now they were even. Naked as the night. 

Sansa moved back up between his legs and settled on top of him, her back pulled straight. She tested her wetness against him. Warmth on warmth. Their pulses thudded in unison. "He likes me," she said, smiling. 

"He loves you," Sandor whispered back. 

"Do you want a taste?" Sansa asked. 

Sandor gave a gentle nod. "Yes, please." 

Sansa only realized what she had been asking for when she saw the hunger flicker across Sandor's face. He wanted a true taste, a sip of her, something to fill his belly. His hands had already cupped her buttocks. He was bringing her forward. He towed her over his shoulders, then scooped her back up to set her flower directly onto his mouth. 

What a comfortable seat. Sansa's hands fell down to the grass above Sandor's head, and she rode him, that pretty, perfect face. His arched nose burrowed delicately into her clit. His tongue sunk inside her and traced her walls. His lips massaged her achy petals. 

Best of all, Sansa had his breath. It filled her up. It lapsed like flame inside her, teased her pulse until it flared, hot and bright. She pushed herself harder on her throne, stealing each lick of warmth. She let it build, and build, and build. 

And then, she lifted up. She pulled Sandor's hands from her hips, and shifted back to sit on his belly. 

Her mess shone on Sandor's chin and cheeks. She frowned and brought down her lips. She tasted sweet, of course. Sansa lapped all her spilled juices, even the glossiness on Sandor's burnt cheek, which came with a metallic tang. She gathered it in one mouthful, then parted Sandor’s lips with a finger set atop his tongue. 

She dropped her mouthful there. 

And he swallowed it all. 

"Good boy," she whispered to his lips. 

His cock surged against her. He needed attention, too.

Sansa played with her dinner, like a naughty little wolf. She propped herself up on Sandor's chest, and slid along his cock, soaking him in her water. Truthfully, she ached as terribly as he did. She was still hollow inside, void. A piece of her was missing. 

That piece was swollen beneath her. 

Her heart. 

"Are you ready?" Sansa asked, running a finger down Sandor's necklace. "Do you want to be inside of me?" 

"You have no idea," he growled, low. 

Sansa set the tip of him against her entrance, and Sandor groaned. 

"I think I do," she said. 

"Please, little wolf," he got out. "Ride me." 

"Such pretty manners," she said, smirking. "I think I can help." 

Sansa sunk his head inside her. Sandor's face drew in, and his fingers clutched at the quilt. He was the silly pet, the wild one, whose pulse commanded him. But he was her pet, so Sansa lowered herself down, splitting herself open, filling the void with firm bliss.  

She didn't need the Gods' approval to know— 

This was good. 

Sansa's pulse pounded its own approval. But if she belonged to the trees, to the dirt, and the wind, and the cold, far-off moon, didn't her approval belong to the Gods too? Her blood flowed like crimson sap in her veins, and her blood said yes.

Sansa rode. She took every thick inch of Sandor's cock until it struck her tender end. It hurt, and she loved it. She kept him there and circled her hips, tormenting her own nerves, turning her breath as shallow as dew. Sandor's breath was deeper, but broken, rocks tumbling down. He needed her softness to keep himself grounded. Large hands squeezed her thighs, her waist, her breasts. He held his hands there and thumbed her nipples. 

"I love you," he breathed, low-lidded eyes on her. 

"I love you too, sweetling," Sansa said. She set her hands atop his, and gave him a full drop to the base of his cock as a reward. Still, he needed more. 

"Why?" he asked. 

"Why?" Sansa repeated, but she already had the answer. "Because you know me, Sandor. You're the only person in the world who truly knows me." 

"Do you mean that?" 

"Of course. And I know you, too." 

Sansa's hand drifted to Sandor's black cheek, and his hand followed. He pressed her there. He wanted her to stay. "What do you know about me?" he whispered, waiting with his eyes drawn shut. Sansa came close, setting her forehead to his. She cupped his other cheek. 

"You're good," she whispered. "You're a good man." 

Sandor's brow wrinkled. His chin trembled. A solitary tear slipped from the corner of his good eye. The other must have stung. 

"Sandor, sweetling, look at me," Sansa called, brushing the water away.  

He did as he was told, eyes shining. "Did you hear me?" Sansa asked. Sansa shook his cheeks, but that only sent more tears trailing down her knuckles. "I love you. You're good for me. I've never been better, and it's all because of you. You're my universe. I can't live without you. There's no such thing as life without you. It's impossible. You're too good." 

"You can't mean that," he said, soft. 

"I do, sweetling," she said, assuring him with a kiss. "You're mine. You're my sweet old dog." 

Sandor sucked in a tattered breath that broke into a sob. He didn't need Sansa's words anymore, he needed her. His muscled arms crossed over back and braced her chest to his. He thrust into her, past her very end, to her womb. That's what was behind the hollow—another. One that begged to be filled with life itself. 

Sandor could give her that. 

"I'm yours," he rasped, wet. "I'm your dog." 

He was trying, oh Gods, he was trying. He put himself deeper, bending Sansa's ribcage to steady her on his cock. He was hot inside her, a burning coal. A dying star. 

He didn't burst, he faded. With another sob his hips plummeted to the quilt and his arms fell at his sides. His face crumpled against Sansa's. His breath quivered on her skin, in tense, fluttering sniffs. So Sansa picked up his slack, gliding up and down his length. He shuddered. He flared. He was close. So, so close.

"Sansa," he said. "Sansa, please." 

"Please what, Sandor? I can feel you. You're so full. You're burning." 

His cock strained against her walls. "Please," he begged. "Please can I come?" 

"Oh, sweetling," Sansa hummed. She drew upward. She moved her hands down from Sandor's cheeks, sweeping over his chest to his stomach. One palm left a crystal clear trail, the other painted him with darkness. Both shone. She beheld him like a cloud above. 

"Could you do that for me? Could you come?" 

He nodded, slowly. 

Sansa held his wet stare. She eased up her hips until he was almost gone from her, then plunged down to steal him back. "Sansa," he sputtered. He throbbed. 

"It's alright, sweet dog. You can come." 

Sansa gripped his waist and ground deep circles around him. She had him exactly where he needed to be, the only place amongst trillions of stars where he belonged. Hot, heavy, inside her. Beyond inside. He was her. He was her heart. Her body. Her blood. 

And he was in her womb. 

"I'm coming," he whimpered. "Oh, Sansa. I'm coming. I'm coming." 

Sweet, warm completion. A bellyful of life, of new blood and a shared soul. One heart, now. 

He had planted his seed. They would make a sapling, a sweet little tree, with ruby red blood and snow white skin. Crimson leaves for hair and eyes that contained the sky. Sansa's head dropped back, so she could admire her creation. There they were, an infinity of sparkling eyes, watched over by the ponderous moon. You're here, she thought. You've arrived. She took their bright cold into her lungs, and breathed out flame. 

We're the same.

She collapsed onto Sandor. Their hearts beat in time. 

"I love you, pet," Sansa whispered. 

"I love you too," Sandor whispered back. His arms curled around her; his hands rested on her head. "My sweet little star."

Chapter Text

. 

Sansa slept under a blanket of stars, curled snug in Sandor’s arms, and woke dewy with sweat. Sandor was an early riser, of course—stiff at first light. He peppered sweet kisses on Sansa’s neck and slipped a hand between her thighs. There was a stickiness there, one that had lingered through the night. He growled when his fingers dipped inside her slick entrance. 

"Do you want more?" he asked, nipping at Sansa’s bottom lip. 

"Yes, please,” she whispered.  

Sandor was over her like sudden dusk. He spread her thighs and pinned her hands to the quilt, then dropped so his hair lapsed at her temples. His heaviness fell on her flower, and as he ground himself there, his brows drew together and his eyes squeezed shut. It was such a sweet face that Sansa had no choice but to giggle. Sandor opened up, scowled, then plunged in. 

“Oh, sweetling,” Sansa moaned. 

"How's that?" Sandor grunted. "Not too sore?" 

Sansa shook her head. "It's perfect. You feel perfect." 

"How perfect?" 

Sandor slid out, then sunk himself to her end, so Sansa could relearn his agonizing size. "So perfect," she breathed. She shifted her hips to win more of him. She wanted him in the same place as last night, the place that hurt. "I love how you stretch me, and I love it even more when you fill me up. You make me so full, sweetling. It aches. I love it." 

"Mm," Sandor groaned. "The little bird loves to be filled. There's nothing but cock in your belly sweet girl, but I've got something else to put there. A special treat. Would you like that?" 

"Yes, please." Sansa loved treats. 

And Sandor loved to give. He kissed her as he thrust, opening up her lips with his, filling her mouth with his tongue. He spread his warmth everywhere, like a wash of springtime sun. His skin warmed her skin. His breath warmed her face, fed her own breath. 

And inside, daybreak. 

"Fuck, little bird," Sandor whispered as his cock burst. Seed swelled inside her center and swam along with her raging pulse. Here was warmth, perfection, completion. "Do you like that, little bird?" he asked, planting a row of kisses along her nose. "Do you like my seed inside of your pretty little belly?" 

Sansa nodded. "I love it." 

Sandor laid unmoving atop Sansa as their blood settled and his cock softened. He was a nice dog, and he wanted to keep her full and warm, safe under the sky. 

Then he got hungry, for something other than her skin. 

But he was tired of cooking. They would pack up and go to Mama’s again, for a second round of blueberry pie. So they hiked back to the keep hand in hand. Sansa helped load the truck as best she could, lifting the lighter boxes of food, her harp, and her own suitcase. After that, Sandor took over. He gave Sansa her knit blanket so she could snuggle up in the front seat with Stranger while he finished packing. 

“Do you like your blanket?” Sandor asked, as they rumbled down the rutted lane, arched in electric green maple. When Sansa nodded, he asked, "And the keep?” 

Sansa finally understood the question. He wasn't asking her for doilies, and certainly not for her stonemasonry expertise. He wanted a place for their sweet little sapling to sink its roots. A place to grow strong. Sansa often felt like she knew too little, but of one thing she was certain. 

She put her hand over Sandor's, where it idled on the gearshift, and squeezed to get his eye. "We can raise him here," she said. "Our tree." 

Sandor didn't say anything, but his eyes shone in that particular way. Happy, Sansa knew. He couldn't always give her words. His pretty eyes were plenty. 

After pie, Sansa dozed for most of the car ride home, nestled at Sandor's side. He played the radio, which fuzzed in and out of classic folk songs. Too much Marillion for Sansa's liking, but it put her to sleep anyway. Stranger chomped happily on a fresh bone by her side.

When they reached Oxcross, Sansa had Sandor drop her off right in front of Hetherspoon. She didn't want to walk. Sandor fetched her bags from the back, then helped her down. She was still bundled up in her precious knit blanket, even though a balmy noon sun hung high up above. Sandor pulled in the edges of the blanket tighter. 

“You can keep it, sweet girl, but take care of it. It was Elinor’s.”  

"I will," Sansa promised. Sandor gave her thorough parting kiss, and before he could turn back to the truck, Sansa grabbed his hand. “Don’t forget—I'll see you on Maidensday. We'll pick you up and take you to the Den." 

Sandor bent down and answered, "Woof." 

"What does that mean?" Sansa asked, smiling. 

"It means I'll do whatever my sweet lady asks of me." 

He brushed his thumb over her lips, kissed them, and set off. 

Sansa spent the first half of the week waiting for Maidensday. There was simply nothing better to do than think of preparations for the name day ball, especially now that Sansa had the world's most handsome escort. She hadn't been so excited to attend court in years. 

Even Jeyne was excited for her. Jeyne was too low-ranking to attend, and refused Sansa's offer to sneak her in, like they would do for Willow. But she had offered to drive Sansa and Wylla to the dress shop, and she had even agreed to stay for Sandor's show after. 

Sansa told her all the things she should expect in Sow's End over lunch that afternoon. They ate their egg salad sandwiches at one of the iron garden tables in the lower courtyard, and Sansa went on and on about her second, secret haunt. 

Only it wasn't so secret anymore. 

Jory and Lyra overheard her talking about the ball and wanted to know what she was wearing—she wasn't certain. Then they asked if she would play music during cordials. The castellan had of course sent her a special invitation to showcase her talent, as was custom with all classically trained young ladies. Sansa had given that some thought, but what instrument? 

“I’m not certain,” she said. She hadn’t given the castellan her reply, not yet. 

But then they asked who she was going with, and she had the answer to that: “Ser Sandor Clegane, retired knight of the Kingsforce. Seven feet tall. Yes, actually. Shiny black hair, and the sharpest jaw in all Seven Kingdoms.”

Oh, talk of knights always attracted a crowd. Beth came over, and Margot, and Olene and Lyessa. "I thought he was just some guitar player," Margot said, snottily. 

"He is," Sansa came back. "He's in a band, and he draws, and he sings, and he reads. He knows how to use his sword, too. It's big."

Margot blushed into submission. She could use a swordsman in her life, most of these girls could. But they loved to hear about Sansa's warrior, and she loved to tell them. "He owns land out west. Old family land, the Cleganes used to be kennelmasters for the Lannisters. It's the most beautiful place in Westeros. You can see all the stars, and you can see the river from the tallest peak. He's going to build the grandest keep." 

"So what," Lyessa chimed in. "Are you going to live there or something?" 

"Maybe." Sansa took a coy sip of tea from her paper cup. "We're madly in love." 

Better than swords was love. Sansa felt light as the clouds above as she gushed about Sandor, lighter than she had been since the run-in with Joffrey. It didn't matter that he had seen them together. They had already been seen, time and time again. In the End, along the Promenade, at the Cell, and at the train station. On campus, too. Sansa hadn't been hiding. She had never wanted to hide. She wanted to do as she pleased, and it pleased her to love Sandor. 

And who could stop her? Sandor was big and strong and scary. 

The number was few and far away. 

The number was one, actually. And Sansa had to take his weekly call before she and Jeyne drove to meet Wylla. She put on her best caution before hunkering down in the armchair in the common room. She cleared all the dizzying madness of love from her mind—all the thoughts of her heart, swollen with affection, and her belly, swollen with something much sweeter. 

"Hello, Uncle Petyr," she cooed into the receiver. "I hope you're doing well today." 

Oh, he really was doing well. He was thrilled she was going to the name day celebration, and he had not a single inkling of her plans. "With Jory and Lyra, of course," Sansa answered, when he asked who she would go with. Then he asked what she would wear. Sansa said she didn't know, so he had plenty of advice. 

He talked and talked and talked. Gods, he was always talking. "Go to Lelia's," he told her. "You want floor-length, full skirts. Real silk, no taffeta. It can have lace, but only on the sleeves, and it must have a high collar. I won't have you exposing yourself at court, understand?" 

Of course Sansa understood. She understood every stupid thing he told her, because they were the same stupid things he'd been telling her since her parents died. After going on about dresses, he wanted to talk about boys. She needed to reclaim her reputation; it was no good that Joffrey had given her up. Harry would be there. Harry was a good match, be sure to get an introduction. If not Harry, then Edmyn, or Benedict, or Addam. 

It was so important, this ball. She had to make a good impression in western court. He would come if he could, to make her introductions for her, but he had a meeting with the Iron Bank. The Bank took priority, always. He'd see her at the Festival of the Falcon at the end of term, though. He'd have so many presents for her, so many pretty things to put her in. 

Sansa didn't care about his pretty things though. 

She could buy her own pretty things. 

And by the time of the festival, she would be long gone. Uncle Petyr wouldn't want a thing to do with her. He didn't know that yet, to Sansa's relief. She still had a little time. 

He went on, cluelessly, for well over an hour. So long that Jeyne came into the common and started tapping her toes and pointing to her watch. They would be late to meeting Wylla, which wasn't a huge deal, because Wylla would likely be late too. Still, Sansa made her excuses. "Oh, I would love to stay on, Uncle, but I have study group. I need to keep my perfect marks." 

He agreed. 

"I love you, my little princess," he said just before hanging up. "Be good." 

I will, Sansa thought. But not in the way you'd like.

She and Jeyne made it to Merling Queen Vintage ten minutes late. The shop was in the industrial district oddly enough, in a row of rickety wooden buildings that faced the sea, their warped facades crusted white with salt spray. Wylla waited outside, puffing on a cigarette. She crushed it with her chunky-heeled black boot and stuck out her hand to Jeyne. "You must be the roommate, Jeyne," Wylla said. "I'm the bad influence."

Jeyne laughed nervously, but shook Wylla's hand anyway. 

Wylla wasn't such a horrible influence. She was stylish, and she insisted that Merling Queen had the best clothes. It's where all her clothes came from these days, she said. Today she was wearing a silky aqua shift with fishnet stockings covering her arms and legs. Like a mermaid, snagged aboard a fishing boat. She had even had a charm necklace laced with golden seashells. 

Both Sansa and Jeyne were dressed like schoolgirls: pleated skirts, button-up blouses. At least Sansa had the right boots and her special collar. 

The shop was musty and crowded, wall-to-wall racks stuffed with old gowns and doublets. Half of them stunk of mothballs, another quarter was moth-eaten, and only the last quarter was serviceable. And from that quarter, Sansa had to choose something white. 

White, because when she asked Sandor what color she should wear, that was his answer. "Like a Stark," he told her, "but only if you want to." He was right of course, she should absolutely wear white, even though it wouldn't match any of Sandor's black clothing. But black and white would have to go together, Sansa decided. At least for one night. 

Jeyne was the one who spotted the gown. 

"Sansa," she had whispered, tugging the strap on her backpack. "Over here." 

There had never been anything prettier. It was floor length white samite, embroidered with roses in pale blue thread. The long sleeves fell to the floor too, open and dagged, something for true nobility. The best part was the bodice: a deep vee, one that would nearly hit Sansa's belly, hemmed in ice-blue lace. Sandor would be able to slip his hands right through to find his favorite part of her. 

The gown fit her perfectly. Snug at the waist, and snug enough on her breasts to keep them perched upright with a teasing sliver of flesh exposed at the sides. Sansa watched herself in the mirror, one hand over her mouth, the other delicate on her belly. 

"Seven fucking hells," Wylla exhaled. She pulled Sansa's plaits back to put her frontside on full display. "Were you a princess in a past life?" 

Sansa blushed. Jeyne said, "You definitely were. You're so pretty, Sansa." 

She hugged both of them at once. If she was a princess, she was going to be a smart princess. A princess that kept hold of her shadow. 

And to start, she would buy the dress. It was two silver moons, a small price for such beauty. The shopkeeper wrapped the gown in white tissue paper, and placed it into a brown shopping bag, stamped with a black mermaid. Sansa decided she would definitely be coming back to the Merling Queen. 

Their next stop was a smithshop, Mikken's. It was where Sandor had gotten his necklace, though of course the weirwood pendant was a special design. That's why Sansa was going—she had called in a special commission, too. So special that she made Jeyne and Wylla wait outside the shop while she picked it up. 

Mikken was tall and pot-bellied, with muscled forearms and bushy grey beard. He smiled when she introduced herself as the Hound's girl. "The Hound, eh? That old dog? Keeping him close, are you?" He clapped a blackened hand to his stomach and tossed his head back to roar a laugh. Sansa laughed with him, and paid him double what he asked for when he passed her two small boxes. 

She stuck them in her backpack, and set out. 

They still had an hour before they had agreed to be at the docks, so they stopped at a Dornish street cart. Sansa got her favorite, skewered white cheese with roasted chunks of onion and pepper. She got three rabbit skewers for Sandor, in case he was hungry when he got off work, and a lemon cake for dessert. 

She, Jeyne, and Wylla perched on the curb to eat, though Jeyne laid out a bed of napkins before she put her backside on the dirty pavement. "It's good," she lied, after taking her first bite of spicy pepper and turning red in the face. Being Jeyne, she went on, sweaty, miserable, but eating like a lady nonetheless.  

Wylla wanted to know how the trip into the mountains went. Sansa told her the less salacious details about the trees and the ferns and the wildflowers. About raspberry bushes, roasting marshmallows, and sleeping beneath the stars. She said it was wonderful, unforgettable, the prettiest place in the whole world. 

"It's so wild," Wylla said, licking a trail of orange grease from the side of her hand. "Never would have thought that man had it in him." 

"He does," Sansa replied. "I love him." 

"I can tell—you're positively glowing." Wylla pinched Sansa's cheek with her freshly cleaned fingers. "When are you going to get married? Or did you two already elope in the woods? Be honest, I won't tell a soul." 

"Oh, um—" Marriage? Sansa had been worried about much more important things than that, and Sandor probably wasn't one for weddings. "I don't know if we'll get married. I just want to be."

Wylla let out a cackle. "I just wanna be, man," she teased. "All that hemp is going to your head, princess." She ruffled Sansa's braids, and Sansa pouted, but they all ended up laughing. Jeyne piped to say she would try hemp, if she had the option. Wylla said she would make that happen, no problem. It was for the best. Jeyne certainly needed to relax a little bit. 

They piled into Jeyne's station wagon to drive to the docks. Sandor had only given her the names of the cross streets where he would meet them, but when they pulled up, he was nowhere to be found. They waited for ten minutes, idling in fumes, before Sansa decided she would go hunt for him herself. 

She stalked from the car where a group of five brawny men in grimy overalls and steel-toed boots played a game of dice over an upturned crate. She tapped one of them on the shoulder, and he turned to meet her with a curious look. 

"Whatcha need, sweetling?" he asked, stroking his scraggly red beard. 

"I'm looking for Sandor Clegane. I'm his girl." 

That made all the men laugh. "No shit," said the first man. "So this is the Hound's girl. A pretty catch for a worn-out dog. He treat you proper?" The man ran a dirty-nailed finger down one Sansa's plaits and leaned close. "I can treat you better, guaranteed." 

Another man elbowed him the ribs and pointed over Sansa's shoulder. Sandor landed at her back and brought his big shadow. "Hi, little bird," he said, setting his right hand on her neck, fingers curled around her collar. "Sorry I'm late. These cunts giving you trouble?" 

All of them shook their heads, silent and wide-eyed. Sansa looked up and shook her head too. 

"No," she answered. "They were just going to introduce themselves." 

As it turned out, these cunts were some of the men that Sandor had worked with for over two years: Dale, Jon, Harbert, Soren, and Kirth. They all wanted to kiss Sansa's hand after she gave them perfect-form curtsy. Then they only had nice things to say about Sandor. "An honest man," said Dale. "Can lift a barrel better'n most," said Kirth, who had a distinct lack of teeth. Even the man with the red beard, Jon, muttered some pleasantries. "You come 'round anytime, little bird. We won't hurt you none." 

They especially wanted Sansa back when she pulled the foil wrapped skewers from her bag and passed them to Sandor. "For you," she said, smiling. 

"Where's mine?" asked Soren, rubbing his belly. 

Sandor opened up the packet, and polished off each skewer in one massive bite. He tossed the trash into Soren's lap. "Eat up," he rasped. 

Soren looked as though he'd swallowed a spider. Everyone else laughed. 

"They're not so bad once you get used to them," Sandor said, leading Sansa away with a palm on her neck. He buried a meaty kiss on top of her head. "Thanks for dinner, sweet girl. I appreciate it." 

By the time they reached Jeyne's car, Wylla had deposited a half dozen cigarette butts out the passenger's side window. Sandor squeezed into the backseat first, and Sansa followed behind, crammed against his splayed legs. She recognized the stinky herb smell of more than sourleaf. Both Jeyne and Wylla looked dazedly back at them, their eyes red and somehow smaller.  

"You're big," Jeyne breathed. 

"Yeah big guy, what happened to your face?" Wylla cut in, brushing the side of her nose. 

Sansa blushed a thousand degrees, so Sandor answered, "Camping," with a sly wink. 

Wylla noticed. Her eyes got even narrower. "Was it a sex thing?" 

Sansa managed to shake her head, but Wylla gasped and sunk down in her seat. "Oh my Gods, it was a sex thing. Gross. So fucking straight, gross."

Sansa crossed her arms. "Well, he liked it," she huffed, indignant. 

Sandor barked a laugh and put a slobbery kiss on her temple. Jeyne went as pale as a ghost, and then everyone shared a laugh, except for her. It took five minutes of reintroductions for her color to return, and another two minutes for her to figure out how to start the car. Sandor had to give her step-by-step instructions, and he grimaced every time she tried to switch lanes or take a right turn. Sansa's stomach was almost sour when they made it to the Den, but at least they arrived in one piece. 

Sandor went off to get set up, so Sansa looped her arm in Jeyne's and took her around to meet everyone. Jeyne was a good sport, really. She had been begging to visit Sow's End for weeks, and promised she would keep an open mind. The hempweed might have helped, or the one glass of mead she allowed herself. Sansa had three glasses, because there was so much talking to do. People were wondering when she was going to perform at the Den, or if she had new songs, or if she had been signed already. 

Sansa did finally meet Luke, the owner of Deepwood. He said he'd have her on next moon if she'd like. He loved her tape, and would love even more music if she made it. He said Sandor was a lucky guy, to have a girl as pretty as her. Sansa told Luke that she was the lucky one. 

And she was, really. She dragged Jeyne all the way to the stage to watch Heartsbane play. Sansa tried to show her how to dance, but she mostly stood in utter shock, so Sansa had to nudge everyone away. In between elbowing ribs and stepping on toes, she watched Sandor. 

Her talented, handsome knight. 

He was especially beautiful from this angle—monumental, a chiseled statue on a plinth, all sharp lines and contours. Bodily perfection. Sansa's heart burned thinking of how she'd had all of him, and he'd had all of her. That in a matter of moons, he'd become the single most important person in her life. The only person who truly understood her. Not everyone was so lucky. 

The Gods were good to Sansa. 

She hoped whichever ones had led her to him would let him stay.  

The last song Heartsbane played was the Winter Maiden. A slow version, true to the original. Sandor sang in the Old Tongue, in his gravelly bass. He strummed with sure fingers and kept his eyes on Sansa. She smiled back. At the end of the song, he dropped to one knee. He picked Sansa's hand first, and kissed it. Then cupped her cheek, and brought her in for a longer kiss. 

"I love you, little bird," he said to her parted lips. 

"I love you too, sweetling," she returned. "And I love you much more."  

After the set, Sansa and Jeyne rejoined Wylla and Willow at the bar. They talked about the ball, mostly. What they were wearing, who else they thought might be there. Wylla was trying to convince Sansa to bring her Minimarq—she had made the mistake of mentioning her invitation to play from the castellan.   

"Imagine the looks on their faces: you showing up, after one of the Lannett girls plucks a dour tune on the lute, with a goddamn synthesizer. You're a Stark, they can't say no. You simply must."

The case was lost when Sandor and Gerold stepped in. "You tell her," Wylla called, thrusting her can of Blue Rose in Sansa's direction. "She has to play her machine at the Rock." 

"You should play the Minimarq, little bird," Sandor said. "Everything else will be shit." 

"It's true," Gerold agreed. "If I have to hear more than one lackluster rendition of Florian and Jonquil, I'll throw myself from battlements, guaranteed." 

Sansa huffed out a very fake sigh, smiling. "I suppose that settles it," she said. "I would hate to have blood on my hands." 

They chatted for a while longer, until Jeyne began tugging at Sansa's sleeve and eyeing the door. She got the message. 

"We have to get going, sweetling," Sansa said, slipping her hand up to Sandor's shoulder. He stooped to give her a kiss, then grabbed her waist to get his tongue even deeper. 

"I wish you could warm my bed," he growled. "I should have had you at the docks. Nothing like a dirty hound and his little schoolgirl tart." When Sansa mewled, he dropped her back down, boots full on the sticky floor. 

"I want what Sandor got," Gerold said, winking a purple eye. When Sansa looked to Sandor, he shrugged, so she stretched back up on her tip-toes and set her lips to his. 

"Better?" she asked as she pulled away. Gerold smirked. "Much better." 

Wylla and Willow wanted kisses too, and when Sansa turned to Jeyne, she had gotten ghost-white again. Sansa took her hand. "Oh, don't be so prude," she told her. Then, to everyone else, "I'll see you this weekend." 

They waved one final farewell, then set out down the dark cobbled walk of Sallow Street. Jeyne stayed quiet until they settled into the car. She stuck the keys in the ignition, and breathed in deep. 

"They're nice," she said. 

"They are," Sansa replied. 

"But Sansa…what are you going to do when, you know, when Uncle—" 

"Oh, Jeyne," Sansa said, putting a hand over Jeyne's, which were twisted in her lap. "Can't you tell?" 

"Tell what?" 

"I'm going to run, Jeyne. I'm going to run."  

Chapter Text

"You look like a princess," Jeyne said, her brown eyes wide.  

Sansa blushed, then gave another twirl of her shimmering samite skirts. Her curls bounced with her—she had styled them down tonight, with two simple swooping plaits pulled back from her temples. Wylla had given her some makeup to try out, but Sansa ignored the mascara, eyeliner, and lipstick. She had used only the tiny pot of glittery paste. It was a celestial mix of gold and silver, opal and pearl. She dabbed it on her cheekbones, the point of her nose, and corner of her eyes, just as Wylla had instructed. 

She glowed. Like a star, Sansa thought. Not a princess. 

Sansa wore her nicest silk slippers, and filled her pearl-stitched evening bag with the night's necessities and her two special boxes. She was all white, except for the collar at her neck. That part of her was for Sandor.

She sat at her vanity and traced a finger over their picture, taped in the corner of her mirror, then sighed. 

"What is it?" Jeyne asked, hovering over Sansa's shoulder. 

"I'm in love," was all Sansa cared to say. I'm in love and risking it all. 

She positively glowed. 

When it was time to leave, Jeyne gave Sansa a big squeeze. "Have so much fun," she told her. "Be safe." 

"I will," Sansa promised. "I'll have my knight." 

She scurried to the train station, Minimarq in hand. She was careful to hoist her skirts and sleeves, and keep watch of her delicate silken toes on the irregular cobblestones. It wouldn't do to get dirty before the ball had even begun. Campus was quiet tonight, with half the girls off to Casterly. The watchmen ambled about, and Sansa nodded to them all. Tell him. Tell him everything, she dared. 

She knew which part of her was most interesting tonight—the neckline that plunged so low it was no longer a neckline. Truthfully, Sansa had put a spot of glitter on her collarbones. And very truthfully, she swiped some on the exposed outlines of her breasts. Eye-catching, especially in the sparse lamplight. 

She only needed two eyes on her tonight. 

Sansa rounded the corner, and there was Gerold's Warhammer, grumbling on the side of the tree-lined road. And the man leaning against the side of the truck—

Sansa's stomach somersaulted. 

It was a knight. 

Her knight. 

Her handsome knight of the Kingsforce stood tall, in his utterly pristine dress whites. He wore head-to-toe white wool, from his doublet lined with golden buttons to his freshly-pressed trousers, and calfskin septon strap boots to match. Best of all was the white cape draped over his broad shoulders, fixed with a golden clasp. And the sword. His golden greatsword was strapped to his back, its hilt sparkling like the sun. 

Sandor noticed Sansa gawking half a block down. He took one last puff of the joint in his white-gloved hand, then crushed it with the heel of his pretty boot. He came over, smiling. 

"Hi little bird," he said, lifting Sansa's chin with a soft finger and dropping to deliver a kiss. He tasted like hemp, and smelled of lavender. His black hair fell clean and glossy to his shoulders, not a strand out of place. "What's that look for?" he asked. 

"We match," Sansa whispered. 

Sandor straightened up, putting his wide chest at Sansa's eye level. A row of golden medals stared back, each one with a red ribbon tail—a decorated knight. "I thought you might like it," he said. "It's a nice little costume."  

"You're so—so pretty," Sansa said, craning her neck to see all of him. He laughed. 

"You're the pretty one, sweet girl." 

Sandor picked up Sansa's hand and set his lips to it. They had a few more seconds to look at each other before Wylla came barreling down the street. "Oh my Gods," she cried out. "Sansa, you beautiful, radiant beam of light." 

Wylla threw herself in front of Sandor to drag Sansa into a hug. She was radiant too, but like the night. She wore a black satin gown with ribbon-laced bodice, flounced sleeves, and full skirts. The top half of her hair was bundled in a black beaded hairnet, set with obsidian teardrops. The rest of her green curls fell to her waist. "Oh, I could simply kiss you," she teased when she let Sansa go. But of course Wylla couldn't, because otherwise she would smudge her black lipstick all over Sansa's pale skin. 

Later, perhaps, but certainly not before the banquet. 

Willow followed behind, wearing a simple black velvet dress that flowed like ink over her delicate frame. She hugged Sansa too, then Gerold started honking. "I'd rather be kissing a lady right now," he called out the driver's window. "Any time, please." 

They shuffled to the truck, and after Wylla and Willow piled into the seat, Sansa realized—there was no way Sandor would be able to fit in the front bench. He read her mind. "The back is for us, little bird," he said with a tip of his head. 

The bed of the truck had been cleaned out, lined with Sandor's faded yellow and black quilt. That quilt. Sansa's cheeks got suddenly hot. "Come now." Sandor laid down his sword, then hopped over the side panel. He took up Sansa's synth first, then stretched out a hand to help her. When she stepped closer, he stole her waist and hauled her up. 

"Sandor," she scolded, giggling. 

They dropped down together, Sandor with his back against the rear window, Sansa kneeling between his legs. Sandor gave the window a knock, and the truck jerked to a start. Sansa caught herself with two palms set to Sandor's chest. 

"You're glowing," he said down to her, steadying her by her hips. 

"It's the glitter," Sansa said. 

"No," Sandor growled. "It's you." 

Sansa blushed, and Sandor tugged her thighs and arranged her skirts so that she straddled him. He came in for a lot of kisses. He kissed every spot of her that shone, and lingered on her breasts. "Sandor," Sansa breathed, when he started using teeth. "Sandor, be gentle. I'm a lady." 

That got him up. He wiped his sparkling lips with the back of his gloved palm. "A very sweet lady." 

Sansa stuck out her tongue, but only for an instant. She was a lady, after all. A lady with a very special escort. She shifted nervously on her knees. "I brought you something, sweetling," she said. "A present." Sansa unclasped her handbag between them and passed Sandor the first little brown box. 

"What's this?" he asked. 

"You have to open it and see," Sansa replied. 

Sandor pulled off the lid, and smiled. "Oh, little bird," he said, shaking his head.

"For my sweet old dog." 

It was. The necklace in the box was the same thick silver chain as Sandor's weirwood necklace, only much shorter with a heavy silver heart pendant. A locket. "Open it up," Sansa told him. Inside was a cutout of Sansa's first year portrait, a simple headshot of her in a white blouse and a very cordial smile. The most boring picture in the world, but Sandor immediately gave a breathy, "Pretty," in reply. 

"Let's put it on," Sansa said. 

She plucked up the necklace and reached around to do the clasp behind Sandor's neck. It looked so nice out, but Sansa buried the chain beneath the high collar of his doublet, where his weirwood was hidden. The two pendants would stow away together. Sansa patted the thick layer of white wool that disguised them. 

"Perfect," she said. "And now for the next one." 

"Another one?" 

Sansa nodded, and took the second box out her bag. "This one is for me, though." 

She lifted the lid and extracted the matching chain by its looped handle. It was only two feet long, and ended in a hooked silver clasp. Sandor's belly rumbled, and he stirred beneath Sansa. She grinned like a little wolf. She dropped the short leash into her handbag and snapped it shut. 

"Be good," she told him, setting a perfectly manicured finger to the tip of his nose. 

"Woof," Sandor replied, nipping at her. 

"I mean it," Sansa huffed. 

"I do too," Sandor came back. 

A bump in the road sent Sansa falling into his chest. Once she was close, he wouldn't let her go. He brushed her curls into one big handful and pulled her mouth to his. Sansa liked it there. She wrapped her arms around his pretty-smelling head of hair and opened up for him. Their tongues had mere seconds together before he turned hard and swelled against Sansa's satin-lined panties. 

"Sandor," she breathed. "Naughty dog." 

"Is that so?" Sandor asked, taking Sansa's lower lip between his teeth and biting down. She whimpered. "Yes," she told him. "You're a dirty dog. A hungry dog." 

"The hungriest," Sandor snarled. "But you like this dog." 

"I love this dog," Sansa corrected. 

His manhood jumped once more, but there wouldn't be any time to sate his appetite. Gerold veered off the highway into the Old City, the sprawling outskirts of the castle at the foot of the Rock. They were former barracks and halls and keeps. All of them were built of slabs of golden brown stone, decorated with lions at each capital and corner. The same stone paved the road. It wound through courtyards with effusive fountains, past the City Watch Station, the Library of Lannisport, and the grandest building of all: the Symphony Hall. 

When Sansa was younger she thought she would play piano there someday. Uncle Petyr watched her practice until her fingers ached, and always told her the same thing. You can do better. Sansa was doing better, now, with her Minimarq and her lover at her side. Her life was a dream come true, and it had nothing to do with Uncle. 

Sansa set her cheek gently on the breast of Sandor's doublet and watched the city go by. The truck passed through the city walls beneath a mighty archway into the final stretch of rolling hills. Beyond them stood Casterly Rock, tall and proud. Casterly Mountain might have been a better name. A crown of towers and retaining walls sat atop of the biggest rock there ever was, afloat in the Sunset Sea. The road took them straight into the Lion's Mouth, a gaping cavern across a grand bridge that swallowed them whole. There wasn't darkness inside, though. Torches blazed in bronze scones on the rough-hewn walls. They led to the foot of a soaring staircase, tall enough that Sansa couldn't even see to the top. 

Gerold swerved to a stop, so sloppily that Sandor's head thumped against the rear window and he swore. A valet in his crisp red and gold uniform came cautiously to open the door for Wylla and Willow. Sandor leapt down to help Sansa himself. He grabbed her Minimarq, put a handful of copper stars in the valet's palm with grumbled thanks, and they set off up the stairway. 

The Lannisters spared no expense—it was a natural consequence of the gold that hid in their hills. Footmen lined the seemingly endless steps, all in matching crimson, golden brogues polished until they gleamed. They held gilded trays laden with treats of all kinds: sparkling wine, tiny cakes, truffles, crisp breads and biscuits, cheese puffs, and bright orange caviar. 

The climb was rather thirst-inducing, so Sansa helped herself to a flute of wine. She giggled alongside Willow and Wylla, scurrying from one footman to the next to try every canape. Sansa liked the gold dusted truffles the best—they were filled with raspberry caramel. She ate three of them, and even convinced Sandor to try one. She convinced him by stuffing it straight into his mouth. He liked it. He and Gerold paced slowly behind, talking, smiling whenever Sansa fluttered by to feed them. 

She insisted on carrying her synth when they reached the top, so she traded Sandor her second glass of wine for the heavy leather bound case. Two large gilded lions and two guards in crimson military uniforms held posts at either side of a massive golden gate, ten times Sansa's height. One of the guards stepped forward. 

"Papers," he called in a stern voice. 

If Sansa had come to Casterly regularly, she might know the man. Instead she curtsied and offered her papers, and waited as the others did the same. Willow was masquerading as Wylla's sister Wynafryd tonight, using her old papers to win attendance. It was so funny, especially considering the fact that they were girlfriends. Certainly something that would have Lord Lannister soiling his breeches. 

Oh, they would have plenty of nobles soiling their breeches. 

Everyone loved to stare; they simply adored it. That's all there is to do at court: stare. And when you shine like you belong in the sky, they stare even more. As Sansa, and her pretty knight, and her divinely witchy friends strode through the courtyard, eyes gorged. Lips fluttered and fervent whispers were traded. Let them. 

Sansa passed her Minimarq to a valet. "The greater parlor," she told him with a curtsy. 

Then she laced arms with Sandor, and pressed onward. The entry yard was beautiful at night, with great lanterns blazing on bronze posts, standing sentry over neat gold brick paths. Perhaps the lords and ladies were more beautiful—the women wore gowns with full skirts and bare shoulders, brightly colored like silken gumdrops. The lords sported tailored suits in their house colors, sigils proud on their breasts. It was a western crowd to be certain, but nothing Sansa couldn't tackle. 

She reclaimed her flute of wine, ate a few squares of lemon cake, and began to float. She greeted Crakehalls and Hamells and Morelands, then old Lord Stacksbury and his lady wife. A few Tyrells and Merryweathers had made the journey north for the celebration, alongside Mullendores and Shermers. Sansa gave them all her best smiles and sharpest curtsies. With every greeting came an introduction: 

"My escort, Ser Sandor Clegane, Fifteen Thousand, Two Hundred and Ninety Second Knight of the Kingsforce." 

Such a mouthful, as all titles are. But Sandor would dutifully bow, and put out a rumbling, "Pleasure." 

If they wanted to ask, "Aren't you the Hound?" they certainly didn't. Instead, they opted for a more snide, "I heard you retired, Ser Clegane," with rude emphasis on the word Ser, as though retired knights weren't equally worthy of respect. Sandor had given his strongest years to the crown, and all so he could turn half-mad. He deserved respect. 

It was Darlessa Marbrand who said, "What does a retired knight do, anyhow?" She croaked a laugh, and took a drag of her cigarette, stuffed into an elegant golden holder.

"I work," Sandor replied, curt. So curt that Lady Marbrand did nothing but blink at him. 

Sansa went on, "Yes, he works at the docks now, you see. It's a valiant service in the eyes of the Gods. The Smith is the Warrior's equal, after all." 

Oh, pious rhetoric always had nobles blustered. Lady Marbrand glanced to her lord husband for rescue, but he looked as though he'd seen a wight. She blushed straight through her powdery layers of white makeup, and recovered, "Thank you for your service, Ser. A pleasure to meet you, and I do so hope to see you both at Casterly again." 

When the Marbrands scuttled off, Sansa and Sandor shared a nice laugh. Then they started to play a game of sorts—how long does it take to make a noble blush? 

The answer: not long. It was so funny. Sansa played the sweet, godly lady, charmed by a grizzled warrior. Sandor told his war stories, tales of brutality, of needless flame and violence. Sansa would spin them into parables, lessons that these sniveling lords and ladies could digest. "We need to heed the Mother's wisdom," she said to Alys Appleton. "She has no stomach for war. All men are her sons, and it won't do to send them to their deaths." 

The funniest part of all was that they agreed with Sansa. She was very convincing. 

"Sixty seconds—a record," Sandor said, after they sent Alys off, red-faced. He tipped a sip of wine into Sansa's mouth. He had taken guard of her glass while she held her collection of truffles on a tiny golden plate. But he gave her more than a mouthful, and when wine trickled down her chin, he stooped to catch it with his tongue. 

"Sandor," Sansa chided, giggling. 

He pulled away at the sound of the dinner bell. They rejoined the rest of their party and shuffled into the main ballroom. It was small compared to the Great Hall of the Keep, but much warmer and grander. The vaulted ceiling stretched to the sky. Tapestries descended from there down to the floor, scenes of lion hunts, gold strikes, centuries of Lannister lords and their kin. For the spirit of the ball, crimson draperie hung from the rafters and swirled over the warm stone walls. Golden chandeliers sparkled with the light of hundreds of golden candles within. Golden candelabras decorated each crimson-dressed round table, alongside glittering golden dinnerware. 

Lord Tybolt Lannister, Tenth of his Name, Warden of the West and Head of House Lannister sat in his golden throne in the middle of the sprawling head table. Two gloved fists curled over casts of lion's heads. His light-haired brow was slanted, untouched by the evening's merriment. He called everyone to sit without a smile. 

Sandor helped Sansa into her seat. They claimed a table in the corner of the hall, with Wylla, Willow, Gerold, and two other knights, Ser Cuy and Ser Colen, companions from the front. Courses came on gilded platters, naturally. First were points of toasts smeared with pate. Then a bright green pea soup, drizzled in herb oil. Then it was sorbet, and flaky white fish, and herb-crusted capon, and duck confit, and more sorbet, and honeyed berries, and roast crown of lamb. White-gloved servers delivered each dish, clearing the crumbs from the table, cutting small portions for the ladies first, and bigger portions for the men. 

Wylla and Willow made a mockery of the tableware—they used their oyster forks on the berries, and the teaspoon for the sorbet. Wylla goaded Willow into it, Sansa was sure. Sandor, on the other hand, knew exactly which fork belonged to which course. He knew how to fold his napkin in his lap and the most polite angle to cut a bony breast of capon. He chewed his food on the right, so nothing fell from the gaps on his left. He chewed with his mouth closed tight. 

He used his absolute best manners. 

Sansa had lost count of her glasses of wine, since Sandor had been feeding it to her. Regardless, her cheeks were so hot they throbbed. She was the blushing lady. She felt as she did a maid of ten, when she sat aside Ser Arys Oakheart at the Winterfell Fete, heart fluttering and breath quivering. Everything atremble, light as air. Sandor was so bright and hot at her side she could scarcely look on him. 

She spent the cheese course watching the hall instead. Joffrey sat next to Margaery at a table just below the Warden's. They were laughing, jeering, whispering into each other's ears and nipping at each other's lips. Every so often they glanced Sansa's way and laughed harder. She glowered back. She didn't care about Margaery anymore. She could have Joff; it didn't bother Sansa one bit. She didn't want to sit so close to such a pompous lordling in a ridiculous ruby crown. And she certainly didn't want to breathe in Joff's pretty strawberry breath all night. 

She couldn't think of anything less pleasant than that. 

Dessert was a raspberry torte, with gilded points of chocolate encircling a pool of red jam. Sansa got a lady's slice, but ate Sandor's more manly portion when he offered. Then she was positively stuffed. She told Sandor how her belly ached, and he kindly rubbed it with a gloved hand. Sansa missed the sight of his runes, but he still made her better.

Dinner gave way to droll speeches, to the blah, blah, blah of nobility. Words like marshmallows—no, worse—words like the bland wafers they serve during worship. Sansa had heard these speeches all before, and so had the rest of their table. So they made faces at each other, and giggled while everyone else was quiet, and drew some curious eyes. Sansa didn't care about eyes, and she didn't care what gift Lord Tyrell was presenting, or how much the younger Lord Lannister admired his elder brother. Booooring. This must be how Arya always felt at feasts. The thought had Sansa smiling stupidly. Sandor grinned too, and sidled up close to her to press their legs together and hold her hand.

But after speeches came dancing. The Lannisters had booked a chamber orchestra, with Lannisport Symphony's best members, all of them noble. They sat on a grand balcony to the left of the head table and started in on the King's Canon in D Major. Lords and ladies flocked the center of the hall, and they danced. 

Sandor didn't budge. His fingers were tense around Sansa's, so much so they shook. His jaw did the same. He hadn't had a drink, but his throat contracted with a ghost swallow. He wasn't even looking at Sansa. He was watching the dancers, having such fun without them. Sansa blinked at him a lot. She put her full lashes and wide eyes to work. She even pursed her lips to make them poutier and rather kissable. Still, he didn't look. 

So Sansa let go of her glass and set a finger at the neckline of his doublet. She traced the pendants shielded by white wool, then ran her finger down his golden buttons, to their adjoined thighs, over to Sansa's lap where her little evening bag lay. She rested her hand there. 

Sandor pushed up to standing so quickly his chair legs screeched against the stone floor. He turned to Sansa, finally, and dipped into a bow. 

"Would you care for a dance, Lady Stark?" he asked in a low grumble, planting a kiss on her hand. Wylla and Gerold burst into a fit of giggles across the table, but Sansa smiled up at her knight. 

"I would be delighted, Ser Clegane," she graciously replied. 

He whisked Sansa to the dance floor at top speed. They made it just as the orchestra began to strum a moderate Black Algood. Sandor took Sansa's hands in his. He hesitated, and Sansa realized too late—he wouldn't know the steps. She had completely forgotten to teach him. 

He shut his eyes, most likely embarrassed, as couples shifted around them. But when he opened them, he bowed the customary bow, and led Sansa into the dance. 

He knew the steps. 

He knew every single step, and met each beat with perfect motion. He knew when to hop, when to switch hands, when to twirl, when to open up, and curl back in. He even knew how to trade partners, and treat other ladies nicely, and then guide them to their next escort. He came back to Sansa, and he did it all over again. 

Sandor was better than Ser Oakheart. He was better than Symeon Stareyes. He was the handsomest, gentlest, sweetest, most chivalrous, perfect knight in all the realm. He glowed. He stole Sansa's breath and boiled her blood. He was the very sun in her sky. 

"Little bird," he growled as they started in on a slow pavane. "You're staring the taste out of me." 

"But you're so pretty," Sansa replied. 

"You're prettier." 

Sansa rolled her eyes. "I already know that."

"The little bird already knows she's the prettiest. You want new words, is it?" 

Sansa nodded. Sandor stooped low to kiss the top of her head. "You're beautiful, little bird," he told her. He kissed her forehead. "You're more than beautiful—you're brilliant. You're brighter than bright." He descended on her face, kissing down her cheek to her jaw. Into her ear he whispered, "You're incandescent, Sansa. You're my star." 

Sansa whimpered, knees suddenly unsteady. "No," she breathed. She drew back to hold Sandor's shining grey eyes, and clutched his doublet with two hands. She shook him. "You're my star." 

It wasn't proper to kiss in public. It especially wasn't proper to kiss at a ball, in the middle of the dance floor. But propriety was nothing compared to true love, and that's exactly what Sandor gave her: a true love's kiss. With an arm steadying Sansa's waist, he dipped her low, so low her curls brushed the floor. She held his neck as his lips descended into a kiss as powerful as the Silver River itself. 

"I love you," Sansa told him, when they parted ever so slightly. 

"I love you more," Sandor replied. "You're the sweetest lady in all the realm."

He knew just how to melt her down to sticky caramel. Sansa needed a rest after that, after her heart launched up through the rafters and idled in cold space for many blissful minutes. It came back to her ribs as she sipped another flute of wine, and danced two dances with Wylla, and another four with Ser Gerold Dayne. He was handsome tonight too, her Darkstar. He loved to stare with those silly purple eyes of his. He watched Sansa's eyes, and her lips, and her sparkly half-exposed chest. At the end of their fifth dance, he asked so politely for a kiss that Sansa had to give him one. Truthfully, she liked his soft lips. 

But she had so many other eager partners, and two of them were her Uncle's picks. There was Edmyn Meadows and Benedict Banefort, both of them Sansa's height and build, dull as dust. Edmyn smelled like a jouster's sock. Benedict had an overbite and slobbered from the corner of his mouth. Low lords, no doubt. Sansa received them graciously of course, even though she spent her dance stealing glimpses of Sandor. He had found a whole group of knights to laugh with—a few white cloaks, others household guards. No one Sansa knew, but she'd get her introductions later. For now she was content to see him at ease, smiling his best, whitest smile. 

Eventually, the crowd on the floor thinned, and the music waned to dirgey concertos. It was time for cordials, dessert wine, and gentle conversation. Sansa's heart nearly stopped when the bell sounded ten times to announce the Hour of the Crow.

Most importantly, it was time for the ladies to play their music. 

She clasped her locket and her locked eyes with Sandor. He came to her, and they set out to find the greater parlor. Sansa vaguely remembered the passageways from her prior visit to the castle. Out from the main hall, two corridors wrapped to connect a series of rooms meant for entertaining. There were billiards, cigar rooms, a lord's lounge, a lady's lounge, and finally, a series of parlors. Nobles flitted from parlor to parlor, to find the music they enjoyed best. It was just as any other ball. 

The greater parlor was the biggest. Sansa would play there, because she was both renowned for her skill and highest ranked. She hadn't told the castellan which instrument she intended to play, of course. She had kept it a surprise. Oh, what a surprise it would be. 

She, Sandor, Wylla, and Willow filed in. Overstuffed crimson sofas with swirling golden frames and lion's paws for feet furnished the room. Gaudy oil paintings of Lannisters mid-hunt hung from gold paneled walls. Alla Tyrell sat at the gilded harp in the corner, battering out one of Hamish's sonatas. Her singing voice was horribly pretty, and had attracted a slew of admirers—young, pimpled lordlings who had decidedly never known a lady's touch. 

Sansa accepted a glass of cherry cordial from a servant, and sipped while she pretended to listen to Alla. She was mostly listening to her nerves hum about her skull. Joffrey was there, on the centermost sofa, holding hands with Margaery. Sansa imagined her calling her grandmother, and her grandmother calling her friends in the east. Does Littlefinger know? they would all ask each other. Is this the man he's chosen for her? 

By the time word reached him, Sansa would be gone. That was what she told herself, and though she had failed to fill Sandor in on her plans, she knew he would agree. She was his. 

Alla's set finished to effusive applause. Wylla yawned, loudly. She was on what must have been her tenth or eleventh drink and had forsworn her courtesies. Sansa found herself burrowing deeper and deeper into Sandor's side as another few Tyrell girls toyed with the harp, and then the grand piano. Sandor was so big, and Sansa fit snugly beneath his arm. It was as good as a cloak, and better yet, his true cloak kept her warm at the back. When Margaery's dismally beautiful rendition of A Rose of Gold ended, and she cleared from the piano bench, Sansa's heart failed to beat. 

She peered meekly up to Sandor. He untangled himself from her, and nudged her forward. 

It was her turn. 

Sansa smoothed her skirts. She adjusted her plunging neckline to cover a sliver more flesh, then picked up her Minimarq, where it was stashed safely along the wall. She had to intercept a servant. "A small table, if you would be so kind." Within a half a minute, one was fetched and set before her. 

She arranged her synth, fingers trembling. She hooked it to the amp, found an outlet close enough for the power cord to reach. She fixed her filters and tested the microphone with a timid tap. "Good evening," she greeted the densely-packed parlor. "And a joyous nameday to our good Warden, Lord Tybolt Lannister. I'm Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, Daughter of Eddard Stark and Catlyn Tully, Granddaughter of Rickard Stark, Great Granddaughter of Edwyle Stark, Descendant of the First Men, and Daughter of the North. But you can call me Lady. Just Lady." 

No one made a sound, save for one cough by Lord Rosby. They were eyeing her machine. Very well then—Sansa had no choice but to show them how it was played. She started with classics: the Winter Maid, Black Pines, and the Ride of the Seven. Songs to appease an audience. They stayed on chattering, until Sansa switched to original work. 

Honeycomb was first. Then Two Silks Ribbons, False Spring, and Soft as Snow. Maiden's Melancholy got Alla to drop her truffle mid-bite—a sludgy pile of chocolate plopped onto her napkin. Sansa grinned. Then she received nothing but awed stares, slack mouths, and hands set delicately to noble breasts—ideal reactions when introducing stuffy nobles to the art of electronic music. Utter garbage, Uncle would say. Willow and Wylla loved garbage. They cheered after every song. Sandor stayed at the far back of the room, his face drawn. 

So Sansa played Pretty next, and watched Sandor paw at his good eye. After that, there was one last song: Another Nova. This one sprouted straight from her heart to fall from her lips. It was as true as prayer. Keep on blooming, keep on blooming, dragging me down, though I keep moving, keep on blooming, keep on blooming. Simple prayers were the best ones—everyone knew that. 

This song was for Sansa the flower, sucked into earth by her roots, petals reaching for soft clouds above. She could have both at once; that's what it meant to bloom. 

She finished, chest heaving, sweat trickling down her glittered cheeks. There was silence, until Wylla cried out, "I love you, Sansa Stark!" 

Wylla forced everyone to love her. The Tyrell girls clapped first, then their lady mothers, then lesser ladies, young lords, and finally the lords with grey beards sunk deep into their armchairs joined the applause. Joffrey sneered, but he gave a tepid, courtly clap. Sansa curtsied and curtsied, and smiled bright. It occurred to her that she had been practicing for this moment for her whole life. 

"Thank you all so very much," she beamed into the microphone. "But I owe the most gratitude to one person in particular—my escort, Ser Sandor Clegane." 

Heads spun to the back of the room. Sandor straightened, adjusted his stiff white collar. Sansa beckoned him, her hand extended over her synth, delicate fingers eager to be received. Ever a smart dog, Sandor came. He squeezed past the tightly knit audience and dropped to a knee before Sansa. He took her hand in his. He kissed her. His lips stayed on her skin. 

"Without Ser Clegane, I wouldn't have any of my songs," Sansa said. Water rushed behind her eyes, and her vision blurred. Oh, Seven forbid. She blinked away what she could, and went on, voice wavering, "He inspired every single song. He encouraged me to play my music even when I couldn't stand the sound of it myself. He's my heart entire. Ser Clegane is the truest knight there ever was." 

There were more whispers than applause, but all Sansa cared for was the twinkle in Sandor's eyes, and the slack mouths of Joffrey and Margaery behind him—take that. Sansa offered her best smile. She circled to the front of her little table, and curtsied as Sandor bowed. Her head was truly in the clouds, now. She scarcely remembered packing up her Minimarq. She drifted through the crowd, accepting kind words and kisses to her cheeks. 

"Marvelous," was the hymn they proffered. "Sent straight from the heavens." 

Sandor loomed behind her. He was good at smiling too; he had such nice teeth. He was especially good at boasting about Sansa. "She has a true gift," he told Lord Rosby. "But she doesn't squander it. She practices for hours each night. She's the most devoted musician I've ever met, to be certain." 

Sansa gripped Sandor's forearm to stay upright. Her cheeks burned. When they said farewell to Lord Rosby, Sansa pulled Sandor close by his sleeve. 

"Time to smoke," she whispered in his ear. 

"Smart bird."  

They tore from the parlor hand in hand. They swirled down the corridor, pulling the other in for kisses mid-step, or backing against the tapestry-lined wall for stronger kisses. Sandor nearly knocked over a gilded suit of armor, and Sansa laughed and laughed as he set it to rights. She squealed when Sandor threw her over his shoulder. She thumped her fists on his pretty backside, and tried to hoist his golden sword from its sheath. She could fight. No luck—the sword was heavier than earth itself. Sandor put Sansa down eventually, but only because he wanted to kiss her some more. 

Sansa was still cross though. When Sandor trapped her with two palms set against the wall, she dipped beneath his arms, and she fled. "Little bird," Sandor called from behind, but Sansa didn't know of any little birds tonight. She ducked into the first tower she passed, lifted her skirts, and began her ascent up the winding spiral steps. 

When Sandor appeared in that small archway below, Sansa faltered. He shone too bright. It was terribly improper, this love affair with a knight.

"Oh, Ser Clegane," she gasped, setting a hand to her heart. "We mustn't." 

But her knight was a determined knight. He pounded up the stairs after her, taking two at a time. "Little bird," he growled, but his lady paid him no mind. "Sansa," he tried again. 

That got her to stop. She stood on a landing and glared down at Sandor, arms crossed. A knight should never call a lady by her given name. The impropriety had Sansa near irate. She peeled off one of her slippers and pitched it straight into Sandor's chest. 

He caught it. His lips twitched. His eyes gleamed, hungry. 

Sansa bolted. 

Her steps were uneven, one slipper short. But she had the light, quick gait of a well-taught maiden. She didn't have to carry a thick suit of wool or a burdensome sword. Her breath came in frantic wisps, while much more ragged breath sounded from behind. It drew closer, closer, until a hand latched onto the tail of her sleeve. Sansa would have tumbled headlong into the next stone stair, if another hand hadn't pulled a fistful of samite at her hip. She tottered on tiptoes. 

"Lady Stark," Sandor said to her backside. "Be reasonable." 

Sansa shifted to regain her balance. She took back her skirts with a resolute swish, and turned. "Reasonable?" she asked, looming over Sandor. "How can I be reasonable, when I'm madly in love with a dog?" 

Sandor's jaw flexed. "I'm not—" 

But Sansa was already gone, up the next flight of stairs. She passed floor after floor, but none of them were her destination. She was headed for the sky itself. 

"I'm a good dog," Sandor called from behind, in his low, knee-weakening rasp. The rasp she had so brazenly come to adore. "Lady Stark, please." 

Sansa arrived at the final landing—the parapet walk stretched on from the sheltered tower top. She backed against the interior stone wall. She draped the back of her palm over her forehead and shut her eyes. "It can't be," she sighed, shaking her head. "I'll have the wrath of my family." 

A warm shadow fell over her. A bare hand slid beneath her low bodice to cup her breast and bring her nipple to a swollen peak. Sansa whimpered as her pulse quickened between her legs—very improper indeed. She had shared a bed with a man who wasn't her lord husband, time and time again. Her wanton behavior had gone on for far too many moons. The scandal of it all—oh, what a scandal. What was she to do? She would never recover her reputation. 

But what was a reputation compared to a sure, strong hand invading her skirts, sweeping along the softness of her thigh, and dipping into her secret, dewy garden? Fingers sowed themselves in her aching flesh. Sandor leaned closer. His dark hair fell like a silken curtain at her temples. 

"I could keep you safe."

Sansa dared to open her eyes. A striking warrior stared back. Orange torchlight painted the sharp lines of his face, and like a moth to flame, Sansa's fingertips found his cutting jaw. They prickled as she swept them over stubble, down to his square chin, to darkness, and then to bone. She cradled his ruined cheek. 

"You could?" she so sweetly asked. 

"They're all afraid of me." Sandor's thumb pressed into her tender bud, and Sansa gasped. His forehead dropped to hers. "No one would hurt you again, or I'd kill them." 

Oh, Sansa knew knights were for killing. The problem was, knights were also awfully good lovers. At least her knight. His fingers plunged deeper inside her. His press on her bud became agonizing circles that lit her blood ablaze. When Sansa let out a pitiful moan, Sandor withdrew. 

He unbuckled, and in an instant, his hands sunk into her thighs. He hoisted her up against the wall, and his hardened manhood snuck beneath her skirts. The very feel of his pulse on hers forced out another moan, and certainly more dew. Sandor soaked up what he could, then thrust inside of her, to the hilt of him. 

Stars glimmered behind Sansa's eyes. He was impossibly large. He turned her nerves to raw ember as he plowed into her center. Unwed maidens shouldn't know the feel of man's staff. They shouldn't crave that rigid heat, near powerful enough to unspool such delicate insides. But Sansa was a lady gone mad, a lady who loved a silly piece of flesh, and a lady who dwelled in the realm of song. 

"Where will you take me?" she asked, breathless. 

"East, to the mountains," Sandor grunted. 

"To your keep?" 

"Aye, to the keep. It's not much, sweet lady, but I'll fix it up for you. I promise." 

Sansa reached for Sandor's light cheek, and pulled him down so their lips lined up. "I'll help you," she whispered. "I'm not strong, but I can sew, and cook, and clean. I can make pretty lace curtains and placemats. I can mend all your clothing. And I'll sing, I'll sing for you whenever you like. I promise." 

"I'll tend the land," Sandor offered back. "I'll raise sheep, or cattle. Breed hounds like my grandfather. Might even grow barley, brew ale." 

"I'll raise our children," Sansa said. 

Sandor spilled a groan into Sansa's mouth. His manhood lanced through to her womb, and throbbed there. "How many?" he growled. 

"Six." 

"Only six?" 

"No, a whole dozen. I want a dozen babies." 

"A dozen babies," he repeated. "I can do that for you, sweet Lady Stark. Would you like that?" 

"Yes," she whispered. 

That's all it took. At her very end, her true center, life's forge, Sandor planted his seed. His heart ached inside her and warmth filled her to the brim. His mouth fell to hers. He devoured her soft lips with his, much rougher. After her lips he went for her tongue. He traced her teeth, the lining of her cheeks, then started in on her face. He lapped her nose and brow and forehead, then moved south to her collarbones, her breasts, her belly. 

He was on his knees, peeling up her skirts, sticking his face in her maidenhair. "No," Sansa gasped. "Don't eat them." But Sandor only laughed. His laughter vibrated through Sansa's core, and she shuddered. Before she knew, her thighs rested on his broad shoulders. His mouth latched onto her bud, and he sucked. It took three strong laps of his tongue before Sansa's pulse released its perfect wrath, contracting and echoing like bittersweet song.  

Sandor licked her tide of pleasure clean. He put her satin panties back into place and returned her missing slipper. He got back to his feet and adjusted her skirts, then her bodice. He fanned her curls so they cascaded down her chest. They were frizzy now, but Sandor didn't seem to mind. He fixed himself, but stayed close, to wrap an auburn lock around his ungloved finger. 

"Were you playing, little bird?" he asked. 

Sansa shook her head. 

"Good. I wasn't either." 

He fished into his breast pocket to retrieve a small silver cigarette case. Inside sat a neat row of hand-rolled joints. He picked one out, stuck in his mouth. After lighting up he offered an arm to Sansa, which she accepted gladly. 

They passed the joint back and forth as they strolled into the night. Stars sparkled double in the sea and sky. A gentle breeze tickled Sansa's flushed cheeks and filtered through her hair. The walk was empty save for the two of them, but her heart wouldn't settle. It ached. It wanted to break free of the confines of her ribs and fly, yet it was heavy enough to drop through the depths of Casterly Rock. High or low, it would find starlight.   

They walked until the joint became a black stub. Sandor stopped, crushed it with his heel, then strode to the parapet wall. They watched the dark and shining beyond together. Sansa sunk like a small thing into Sandor, as she was always wont to do. His heart pounded beneath his doublet. 

"Does it ache?" Sansa asked, setting her fingertips to the row of medals on his chest. Sandor turned to look down on her. 

"Yes," was his gentle reply. 

The world became so slow, then. 

Sandor lowered himself to one knee, steady, the way wind smoothed rocky mountains to rolling hills. He borrowed Sansa's hand, for a kiss of course. She was his sweet lady. His thumb ran across her knuckles, once, twice, three times. But his lips didn't descend. His other hand dipped into his pocket. Between his thumb and forefinger something shone. He slid that shine onto her ring finger, where rings belonged. 

Oh, it was a ring. 

Sansa heard the sky. It was so very loud in her ears. Loud, and bright, if sound could be bright. It was hymn, probably. A hymn for when the sky swallows you whole. Sansa could no longer hear her heart. She was suddenly terrified. She began to cry. 

"Sansa," Sandor said. That was her name. His voice was the last scrap of solid earth, though it shook, bound to give soon. He mashed the heel of his palm into his good eye, then the bad. When he looked up, starry water glistened in his eyes. "I want you as my lady wife." 

Sansa's jaw quaked; she could scarcely command her lips. But she breathed out, "Married?" 

"Yes, married." Sandor sighed a broken sigh. His world must have crumbled; tears seeped from the cracks. "It's what's proper. Would you like that?" 

Sansa nodded. She had no more words, only a twisted brow, watery pools for eyes, and a mouth that couldn't close. Her chest rose and fell in irregular time, because she couldn't find her heart. She squinted through her fog of tears at the gem on her finger. A white opal glittered in the open mouth of a golden wolf. He knew her. 

Sansa held his pretty eyes, and answered truly, "Yes, please." 

"Yes?" 

"Yes," Sansa repeated. "I want to be your wife." 

Sandor pounced. He scooped her up with his arms coiled tight beneath her buttocks. She was taller this way, higher. She saw Sandor as she desired him most: from above. She held his shoulders as he spun her around, and around, and around. He buried himself in her breasts, licking, nibbling, stealing every last trace of glitter from her skin. Sansa laughed, and with each laugh she grew lighter and lighter yet. 

"I'll be Lady Clegane," she said between giggles, up into the sky. "And you'll be a lord." 

Sandor grunted his assent into her chest. He kissed up to her neck, and bit into her flesh. Sansa gasped, and clenched two fistfuls of his black hair. She pried him away, and said, "We'll have a wedding at the keep, won't that be lovely?" 

He nodded, and nipped at her lips. Sansa gave them to him. They kissed, and spun, and Sansa knew where her heart had gone. It belonged to Sandor now; it lived in his chest on her behalf. He could have it. He would keep it safe. 

Sandor landed with his back along the parapet. Sansa gave him the kisses he needed most, the kind she laid on the dark half of his face. Her mouth worked softly from his jaw, to his cheek, and up to his brow. She set dozens of kisses there, then rested her chin atop his head. 

From here, she could see the entry courtyard below. The ladies really were tiny candy drops, the lords almost indistinguishable. 

But a small something snared her eye: a shock of grey hair on a short man, the glint of a pin on a plum-colored doublet, two emeralds for eyes. Sansa put the picture together. Her heart returned, and carried her down to woefully stable ground. 

Uncle Petyr. 

Was it her runaway imagination, or did his head tilt upwards? 

It was time to run. 

"Sandor," Sansa said in a shaky whisper. "I'm ready for bed." 

Chapter Text

Sandor was a good man—he believed Sansa. He set her down, gave her forehead one final kiss, and said, "You go get your machine. I'll tell the others and call a cab." 

"And we'll meet at the gate?" 

"We'll meet at the gate." 

They descended the tower together, Sansa's sweaty hand locked in one much stronger and drier—Mercy. Sansa made sure to put on her most calm and reassuring face, the sweet face that Sandor loved so dearly. We're safe, she told herself. We'll be quick. We'll be gone, together. 

We'll go east.

He wasn't playing.    

But her heart was loud thunder in her ears as she split up from Sandor and stole back to the Greater Parlor. Her eyes darted restlessly around the corridor lined with empty suits of armor. The hollows in their helmets followed her as she scurried past. It's too late, another voice said. A voice that was always right. 

Uncle wasn't in the parlor, Seven bless. Sansa squeezed past the lingering nobles, offering them tepid smiles, until she found her Minimarq where she stashed it beneath a credenza. An elder Lady Tyrell grabbed her arm and tried to make small talk. "That thing," she gushed, with a pointed look to Sansa's synth. "So wretched it's divine!" 

"Oh, um, yes," Sansa flustered. "Quite the beast." She gave a half-hearted giggle and a curtsy, then fled in a flurry of white samite.  

Uncle wasn't in the corridor. He was probably in the main ballroom. He had so many friends in western court. Friends everywhere, to tell it true. Sansa was his favorite friend, he often said. The only tolerable one. Sansa couldn't bear to be a bad friend. She wanted to be a good friend; she loved being Uncle's favorite. She didn't mind the extra kisses. She didn't mind how he chose her smallclothes, or how he instructed her in keeping her figure. He cared for her. He was her friend. His favorite. 

Sansa had only just made it to the entry courtyard when he called to her from behind, sweetly, as a friend. 

"Oh, dearest daughter, there you are." 

Shadow seeped into her bones and writhed like hundreds of tiny black spiders. She had no choice. She needed to be friendly in return—it was only her beloved uncle, after all. Sansa pinned on her smile. She arranged her curls, and straightened her spine to perfect poise. When she was ready, she turned. 

"Uncle, what a pleasant surprise," she beamed, fluttering up the brick path to receive him. She dipped into a curtsy, one-handed, and pulled up to smile some more. But the spiders beneath her skin hated the sight of Uncle's face, level with her own. It was his smile that was off—full of sharp white teeth, with mismatched eyes. They were bright, but not with glee. 

It took every ounce of strength to receive his welcome kisses with grace. Uncle liked to kiss her cheeks first, then steal one from her lips. They were friendly kisses of course, familiar ones, like ones she gave Gerold. Sansa giggled and cooed, "Oh, Uncle." He especially liked that. If she pleased him well enough, he'd take another kiss, then another. Tonight she pleased him greatly, or so it would seem. When he was done giving her kisses, he stayed at arm's length. His eyes crept all over her. 

"Sansa, Sansa, Sansa," he said. He shook his head at her but wouldn't stop smiling. "What am I to do with you? This dress—" He took a handful of her skirts and tugged her closer. "It's hideous. What would your mother think?" 

Sansa looked to her chest, near falling from her bodice. A thousand excuses surged up her throat, but the only thing that fell from her lips was, "I know. I'm sorry."

"You should be sorry for how well you fill it," he went on. His hand slipped from her hips to her belly. "What are they feeding you at that college? You're halfway to sow." 

The next, "I'm sorry," was even harder to push out. Sansa's throat was closing up. The hot threat of tears pressed upon her eyes. She bit her lip when Uncle grabbed her stomach, a whole fleshy roll that wasn't there a few moons prior. It was the sugar. All the cakes, and sweetmilk, and whipped cream, and blueberry pie. All her sweetness. 

It was for the baby. 

Sansa thought of pulling away, taking her and her baby to safety. But she was heavy with dread, her limbs dense stone. On instinct, her hand swept up to her neck. She cradled her locket and prayed. Her magic had run dry, though. Uncle forced her hand from her throat and his smile fell flat. 

"This," he hissed, spitting minty breath on Sansa's skin. He snuck a finger beneath her collar and jerked her forward, until his mouth rested a hair's breadth from hers. "This is the ugliest thing of all." 

She was too busy watching his eyes to notice the dagger, not until it slid cold against her skin, and parted the leather at her neck like soft butter. Uncle curled the collar in a fist and chucked it across the yard. Valyrian steel had a way of drawing crowds. The blade blazed as fiercely as the torchlight, and lured the attention of still-starving lords and ladies. Their stares and whispers were more spiders, crawling, restless, and worse, more stone. Sansa couldn't move. She was cursed. 

The brass handle of her Minimarq case squished in her damp grip. She rashly shifted her fingers—Uncle's eyes landed there next. 

"I heard you played a most... interesting set," he said through clenched teeth. His entire face quivered now, especially the loose, clean-shaven skin at his jowls that he hated so much. His ugliness was scant consolation. He put a hand over Sansa's, claiming her synth. "But this isn't your harp, and it's certainly not a piano." 

Sansa found enough resolve for one step back. She shook her head, but Uncle followed her. 

"No," he spat. "It's a monstrosity." 

He tried to take the case in one swift pull, but Sansa refused him. She pulled right back. She stepped back, and back, and back, using two hands and all her might to keep the Minimarq from Uncle. Her tears spilled. Her smile warped to a grimace. This was supposed to be her perfect night. She would give Uncle anything, but she couldn't give him this. She wanted to keep this one thing. 

"Don't be so stubborn, dear girl," he grunted. "Play me a song. I know you've been practicing." 

"No," Sansa refused. Her songs were her precious flowers. He couldn't pluck them. "No, no, no." 

But he kept tugging, and Sansa kept moving backwards, slippers catching on the hem of her skirt and her flailing sleeves. She reached the open gate, the mouth of the lion. The guards let them through with nothing but a blank look. Still Uncle wouldn't let her go.

"Play me a song, Sansa," he cried. A strand of his perfectly combed silver hair fell over his forehead. A vein bulged there, vying to break free. "Play me a fucking song." 

"She said no," a voice boomed from behind. 

It all happened so fast. Shadow fell. Glory shot out and stole the handle. Uncle smirked. He let go, and the Minimarq flew. It slipped straight through Sandor's fingers and skidded across stone to the endless stairwell. The case burst open first, then spat out the synth. The paneling split. Circuit boards spilled like mechanical guts as it danced down the stairs. 

Sansa crumpled to her knees. Her flowers—wilted. Trampled. Gone. 

She looked in horror to Sandor, but he had advanced. Uncle lifted his stupid dagger; it was a pointed nail at the end of his fully extended arm. "You must be the teacher," he said, mocking. 

"No," Sandor snarled. He took Uncle's elbow and folded it back, until the tip of the dagger rested beneath his pointed beard. "I'm her knight." 

Uncle was stronger than he looked. He pushed the dagger forward. He swiped the length of the blade down Sandor's chest. It sliced the white wool of his doublet and left a trail of crimson in its wake. Sandor hated that. He looked down on himself, then roared. He snatched up two handfuls of Uncle's velvet jacket and hoisted him in the air. 

Sansa screamed. Knights were for killing. He was going to kill. She crawled forward on hands and knees and clutched the end of Sandor's cloak. "Please," she wailed. She pulled feebly on the rough wool, her arms as useful as spun sugar. "Be good." 

Sandor didn't care to listen. He charged forward, and the clasp of his cloak snapped. It sent Sansa toppling backwards. The heel of her slipper got caught in a crevice between two stones, and she collapsed sideways, dropping down the stairs like a sack of spent grain. Her bones ached. The spiders inside her were bats, bloodthirsty and blind, hungry for her. They flapped in her belly and clogged her throat. She could see only the very top of Sandor's head. He was shouting, or Uncle was, or perhaps that was the spectators. Sansa was dizzy. She was done being a lady. She wanted bed now. 

"Nightshade," she cried up to him. It was the only word she had left. 

It worked, somewhat. 

Sandor came barrelling down the stairs. Reflexively, Sansa coiled the cloak around her shoulders. This is not my knight. He was staggering, slumping to earth. White wool dyed red flapped open to reveal his ink-stained chest. Two chains glistened wetly at his neck. His breath could break boulders. His eyes were wide and white as snow. 

"We're going," he rasped. He groped for Sansa's hand, but she couldn't deliver. "I said we're going."  He took her shoulder instead, but as soon he peeled her from the ground, her ankles gave way. She fell to his feet. 

"You broke it," she whispered up to him. "How could you?" 

His cold snow eyes searched hers, then looked to the mess around them—splintered plastic, sheets of metal casing, and colorful tangles of wire amidst it all. A gutted animal. A carcass. A kill. Was Sansa next? 

"Little bird," he said in a quivering voice. He wiped the sweat from his face with a massive paw. It came away red. "Please, little bird." He tried to pick her shoulder up again but Sansa turned heavy and twisted from his grip. "Please," he begged. 

Sansa didn't want this beggar knight. What she got was far worse. 

The Lannister guardsmen were closing in. They spilled down the stairs in pretty crimson uniform, gilded batons sparkling at their hips. Sandor growled. He coiled a brutish arm around Sansa's waist, and threw her over his shoulder. She was spent grain. She was a clobbered flower, petals mashed to dirt. She tried to ruin Sandor right back. She pounded her fists against his backside. 

"Let me go," she cried. "Help me, please. He's hurting me." 

"Quiet, girl," Sandor spat. "I'm not playing." 

"I'm not either," Sansa whined. She squirmed so much Sandor shifted her from his shoulder to cradle her against his cut-up chest. It was disgusting. Blood seeped into her samite, and reminded her. I'm ruined. She looked up, then. She faced her fear, the fear that lingered, forever. It was unearthed tonight, scared straight from the depths of her heart. 

But she looked. She looked at Sandor's horrible scars. He had an ugly face. It was a face no man should have. There was nothing soft or comforting in it. It was harsh lines, sharp bones, and darkness. Sansa hated the darkness worst of all. His burns were a mire of gruesome, boiled flesh. His bitter black insides were exposed, always. He couldn't hide. She could see his skull. 

"You're not a knight," she whispered. "You're a monster." 

Sandor stopped their descent. His lips twitched. His eyes flashed bright enough to blind. 

But they had lost time. Two guards flanked Sandor and struggled to pry back his arms. A third came for Sansa—he grabbed her waist and wrenched her free. She let herself be taken, but before she could go far, Sandor clasped her right hand in his left. He yanked her close, so close she could smell the traces of hemp smoke on his skin. 

"You're not sweet," he rasped. "You're rotten."

And her let go. He shoved back her hand, bare, and the guard half-dragged her out of Sandor's way towards the roughhewn tunnel wall. Tears dropped hot and thick down her cheeks as she watched the blurry outline of a fight. Sandor shook off the first two guards, then two more, then five more descended on him at once. 

"Tell them, Sansa," he roared, spit flying from his bared fangs. "Tell them who I am!" 

He slammed half of them to the ground, but by then it was too late. There were ten men, or maybe a dozen. It took a dozen men to down her mad knight, that horrible hound. He wouldn't stop howling. He was trying to cleave Casterly in two, and he would force Sansa down with him. 

She should have never trusted him. 

They put him in cuffs. By then, he had already surrendered. Uncle appeared from above, smirking, not a single scratch on him, only that one strand of hair out of place. 

"Take the beast to the station," he told the guards. "I'll finish him there." 

As the guards and their prisoner passed by Sansa, where she stood trembling in tatters, Sandor looked her way. He was in tatters too—bloodied, wartorn, hideous. Sansa's heart thumped like a bat's wings. Its claws were her words. 

"You're awful," she told him.  

His eyes drew shut. He hung his head so his lank black hair covered the worst of him. And he went, with his too-large escort, down the stairs, until he disappeared into the Lion's Mouth. 

Sansa let him go. 

She had chosen, and here was her choice: Uncle. He tore the cloak from her shoulders and pushed it into the hands of another guard. "Burn that," he said. Then, to Sansa, "Come, dear daughter. I'm not quite finished with you, either." 

"But my Minimarq," Sansa whimpered, as Uncle took her elbow and jerked her down the stairs. He smiled to show his pointed white teeth. "How could I forget?" He turned back and called, "Be sure to burn the machine, too."  

And that was that. 

Uncle's car awaited them at the bottom of the steps. Sansa would recognize the sleek, black Lance anywhere. Of course, he had the golden license plates of a lord, stamped with the word Baelish, in case she forgot. Uncle opened the passenger door for her, and sunk his fingers into the softness of her upper arm to shove her inside. 

He never turned on the radio; he liked his car cold. All the excitement had put a most unsightly sheen of sweat on his forehead, so he turned the air conditioning to a beyond-the-wall setting, and let Sansa shiver at his side. She wrapped her arms around herself and warmed herself with a steady stream of tears, silent. It wouldn't do to make noise in such a crypt-like car.  

She had so much to cry about she scarcely knew where to begin. So much, and yet all she could think of was her spoiled gown. A splotch of brown blood coated her entire left side. It would take the most diligent cleaning to get out the stain, and that was only if Uncle didn't throw her gown to a fire the first chance he got. That would probably be easier. Maybe they had a fireplace at the City Watch Station. Maybe Sansa would rather be naked than coated in a mad dog's blood.

Next she cried about her missing handbag. Her mad dog had it. He had stuffed in his pocket for safekeeping while she played, and never given it back. He had her papers. He had her glitter. 

He had her ring. 

He had stolen it, in all the confusion, because it was missing from Sansa's finger. She was glad. She wasn't going to marry a mad dog. She wasn't going to marry anyone, she decided. She wanted to disappear, to fade, to wink out like a star at dawn. She wanted to visit the darkest reaches of the ocean. She wanted to churn amidst black dirt with worms. She wanted the vacuum of space to poach the very notion of air from her lungs, and split her into her smallest particles, never to be reunited. She didn't want to get married. She wanted to open the car door, leap from the bridge, and live in the Sunset Sea. 

She wanted very desperately to die. She was glad she didn't have that stupid ring. 

But Sansa wasn't going anywhere. Uncle was a cautious man—he kept the safety locks on at all times. When he was sufficiently cooled, he cleared his throat. 

"The Hound," he said, dangerously soft. He kept his gaze on the dark road ahead. "My daughter, galavanting around the slums of Lannisport, with none other than the Hound." 

Uncle didn't have to get loud for Sansa to know his anger. He gave his words sharp edges and weighted them like lead. He knew her shame, just like he knew everything, and everybody. He had probably known for a whole moon. Sansa was reasonably daft, but she knew Uncle had lied about his meeting with the Iron Bank. He had tested her. She had failed. So she didn't respond; she wept. 

"Do you know how much work I had to do when Joffrey cast you aside?" he went on. "That was your one chance, Sansa, and what do you have to show for it? Not your maidenhead, no. You threw yourself away like spoiled fruit. And I had to turn you to wine, something palatable for at least a lesser lord." Uncle sighed. The air was so frigid inside Sansa swore she saw his breath turn to a spiteful cloud. Her shivers became tremors. Her teeth clattered. She bit her tongue to keep in her sounds. 

But Uncle wasn't done. "You had to spoil that, too," he hissed. "A rotten girl, bedding down with a lowlife junkie." He turned to Sansa then, and asked in an ear-splitting shout, " Are you mad? " 

A sob ripped up her throat and burst from her lips. "Yes," she wailed. She stuck her hands to her face and wept, sucking in horrible minty air until it burned. "Yes," she moaned again. "I'm rotten. I've gone mad. I'm sorry, please, I'm sorry." 

Uncle watched the road. He certainly wouldn't want to watch her cry; he hated ugly things. When his breath went back to normal, he said, "You're going to fix this. You're going to tell Commander Kettleblack exactly what the Hound did to you, and this time, you're going to salvage your own reputation." 

"W-what did he do?" 

"He fed you milk of the poppy. And shade of the evening too, what a tale that will make. He drugged you. He tricked you. He hurt you. He turned you mad." 

"But he didn't," Sansa whined. 

Uncle reached over and pulled Sansa's hands from her face by her wrists. He waited for her to look at him, then spat, "Oh, yes he did. You're going to sing, little mockingbird. You're going to sing whatever song I tell you, or you'll never be seen in society again." 

Sansa's face crumpled. She gulped down a sob, and nodded. 

Sandor was mad, but he was right about one thing: she was just a little bird, wasn't she?

The City Watch Station was fully lit, bronze sconces blazing powerfully along a manicured stone stairway and on the building's brown facade. Three dark-haired men stood by the door and watched as Uncle pulled to stop in the circular drive. He helped Sansa out, forcefully, and towed her up the stairs. The three men nodded to Uncle in greeting, and Sansa gave them a lame curtsy. She sniffed, refusing to wipe her dripping snot with her sleeves. Uncle stuck a kerchief in her hand, and without a word, they went inside. 

They went straight to the Commander's office, a plush den with antique furniture just like Casterly's. Perhaps the Lannisters chose the stuffed lion's head, or the glossy oil paintings of more dead lions next to proud, blond men. The Commander was older and white-haired, thin, with gnarled hands. He greeted Uncle with a familiar handshake, kissed Sansa's hand, then ushered both of them to sit on an overstuffed sofa. He busied himself at a sidebar. He returned with two short glasses of amber liquor, and passed one to Uncle before falling into an adjacent armchair. 

Uncle waited, unspeaking, liquor idling, until the Commander finished lighting a cigar he had plucked from a box on the side table. He blew his stinky smoke behind him, but Sansa still coughed. Uncle shot her a look.

"Well," the Commander puffed, tapping the first slug of ash into a glass ashtray. "Tell me what you want done with the dog, Lord Baelish, and I'll see to it." 

Uncle glanced down to his glass and pretended to think for a moment. He smiled at the Commander. "I'm thinking five years, for aggravated assault of a higher rank. Ten, if you're feeling generous." 

Sansa blanched— assault? She looked at all the men in turn, from the Commander, to the three sullen officers that stood by the door. None of them batted an eye, even though Uncle was the one who had drawn blood. He didn't have a mark on him. But Sansa tried to think back to what Sandor did at the top of the steps, and she couldn't see clearly. Had that monster ravaged a lady? Cast down her lord husband? 

At least Sansa had been spared the sight of it. Ten years seemed conservative. 

When she finally looked to Uncle, he gave a slight tick of his head. A tick that said, speak. Sansa was being bad tonight, though, so he curtly said, "If you would be so kind, sweet daughter, tell the Commander what that beast did to you on the steps. Tell him how he hurt you." 

Sansa was certain she resembled a ghost now. Her cheeks were palid, her heart ice. Was she the one who had been assaulted? Did Sandor deserve ten years in prison for treating her like once-used wheat? Sansa wanted to say yes; she really did. But then she thought of how Sandor had tossed her over his shoulder twice that evening, and her lips twisted. 

It wasn't right. She had let herself be used. 

She wrung the kerchief in her lap and noticed flakes of brown blood sunk into her fingertips. She was playing a different game now. The one Uncle had taught her. She sighed, loudly, and met the Commander's dark, calculating eyes. 

"He didn't hurt me," she told him, in the wistful voice of a maiden. "We're madly in love." 

The ensuing silence stung, but Sansa didn't flinch. It was the Commander who spoke first. 

"Lord Baelish, if we're going to bring this to the Warden—" 

"I know," Uncle hissed. He glared daggers of Valyrian steel at Sansa. "Are you absolutely certain?" he asked her, his tone equally cutting. 

But Sansa wore something much stronger than steel words and stares. Something she'd smithed since the very day she'd been born, an invisible something. It paired perfectly with an innocent pout. "Oh yes, Uncle. He would never hurt me. The war made him mad, so he acts rashly at times. He needs help, but he shouldn't go to prison. He didn't hurt me." 

Uncle's nostrils flared. He shook his head, almost imperceptibly, but said nothing. 

"Lord Baelish," the Commander called. He crushed half his cigar in the ashtray and polished off all his liquor. "This sounds like a family matter. What do you need from me?" 

Uncle sighed, then gave his stupid beard one deliberate stroke. "We'll do a restraining order." 

"No," Sansa gasped. 

"You'll need the young lady to sign the papers," the Commander replied, ignoring her. 

"Oh, my daughter will sign." Uncle turned to Sansa and smirked. "I believe her reputation depends on it." 

Sansa had never hated her Uncle more. She hated his schemes, and his cunning. After the Commander went to his desk and pulled out a stack of parchment, Uncle didn't even ask Sansa to sign. Not then and there. He wouldn't dare give her another chance to publicly refuse him, lest he have another Arya on his hands. 

In that moment, Sansa wanted to be worse than Arya, but Arya played like feral wolfling. Sansa was a lady. So smiled her most fetching smile when Uncle received the papers and stood to leave. She stood alongside him and placed her palm atop his hand. It twitched, but he couldn't move. 

"Don't worry, Uncle," she chirped sweetly. "I'll never love Sandor as much as I love you." 

She stroked his knuckles with her thumb, and came for a kiss on the sagging skin just below his jaw. He was her height, so it was easy. And when that was done, she pressed her lips to his cheek, catching the left half of his mouth. She lingered, smiling, then whispered, "I love you the most." 

Uncle asked for a private word with the Commander, so he kindly gave Sansa leave to use the ladies' room. Her smile collapsed the moment she hoisted her skirts and perched on the cold lip of the toilet. Her head dropped to her knees, and her face drew in on itself. She felt her heart again, gnawed by vicious creatures. The remains pulsed slovenly in her chest. 

She made her water, that necessary, primal, indecorous act. She splashed her face clean in the sink, and scrubbed her fingertips. She rubbed a moist hand towel over the stain on her dress, but it didn't budge. She threw the towel to the floor in a huff, then picked it up and put it in the proper basket. She spared a look in the full length mirror, and she saw what her uncle saw: a sow. Her flesh bloated and pouched at her belly. Her hips were handles. Why didn't Sandor tell her?

She was livestock, ripe for slaughter. 

Sansa had to leave. She departed the ladies' room in a tizzy then fell against the door. She tried to catch her feral breath, but she heard an even wilder sound from down the corridor. A sound that called to her like animal song, a ripping of flesh, and a wet feast after. 

She tiptoed in the opposite direction of the lobby, down a darker, narrow corridor lined with heavy oaken doors. Each one had a small iron grate at eye level. Sansa peeped into each one. They were holding cells, or interrogation rooms, each one with a plain wooden table and chair. Most were dim and empty. A shrivelled old man crouched in the corner of one, and hissed when he saw Sansa. She scurried along, lured by the aching cry that echoed through the hall. 

When she reached the very end, she found the sound's source. 

Sandor sat hunched in his sullied uniform, scars buried in blood-crusted hands, dark hair dripping to the table. Before him, sparkling in sparse firelight: the ring. 

And the sound— 

He was sobbing. 

Broken. 

Sansa suddenly knew the creatures in her gut: they were her.

She was the monster. 

Chapter Text

It was a miserable moon. 

Sansa had to play a miserable game, day in, and day out. It never ended. Uncle stayed in town. He was waiting for Sansa to sign those papers. He was keeping watch. He had taken up residency in the Oxcross Inn, the inn that abutted campus, so they could be close. He visited campus every day. He took Sansa to dinner every night. 

It was hardest at first, when Sansa came back from the ball, dirty, shame-ridden. Uncle went to her room with her at the crack of the dawn. He found things he hated. He ripped up Sansa's polaroid of her and Sandor first, then uncovered her stash of demo tapes. He smashed them all with the heel of his shiny patent brogues and tossed them in the trash. He didn't talk as he did this. Sansa knew from their shared years what trouble she was in. His silence was punishment.

Then he told her to shower, she stunk like a bitch. 

When Sansa came back, it was her underwear that was in tatters. Uncle had taken his dagger to her favorite satin pieces—they were satin scraps now. 

"From him?" he asked, venom in his voice. 

"From me," Sansa shot back. 

Uncle fished all the way to the deepest corner of her drawers to find his own favorite matching set, the light green with lacy goldencups. He watched Sansa change, scowling. He made her put on her most frumpy flannel nightgown, to cover her disgraceful body. Sansa asked if he was going to spend the night with her, too. 

He scoffed, then left. He took the trash out with him. 

He returned the next day, or rather, four hours later. He returned with a plan. 

Uncle towed her to Headmistress Lannett's office. It was too big, too cold, too lionine inside with those leather chairs like slippery, hungry mouths. As soon as Sansa slunk into one beside Uncle he set her address book on the desk—in all the commotion of the evening, she hadn't thought to protect it. Too late. 

"The phones are to be changed in every single building," Uncle began. Sansa said she only called Sandor from Heatherspoon and Plumm, he didn't know any other numbers! But Uncle wasn't in the mood for mercy, and Lannett was at his whim. Campus watchmen would follow Sansa everywhere: in between classes, in the dining hall, the library, or the practice rooms. They would monitor her phone calls to make sure there was not a single word slipped to Sandor. Her professors would watch her too. They should give her extra coursework, and send a classmate with her if she asked to use the ladies' room. 

At all other times, Jeyne would watch her. Uncle even recommended they shower together. 

And if Sansa did well, if she signed her papers and proved her loyalty, perhaps Uncle would go at the end of term. She would come home to the Vale for term recess, and she could come back to Oxcross, free. Well-trained. It was a great sacrifice what Uncle was doing, leaving the Vale, taking his work as Master of Coin this far west. Sansa shouldn't take that for granted. Many guardians wouldn't go to such lengths to repair an irreparable reputation. Wyman Manderly didn't do that for Wylla, now did he? 

Sansa said she understood. She appreciated all of Uncle's efforts. 

But even so, she wanted to win. She hadn't signed the restraining order. 

Whatever sliver of strength Sansa had left, she put to use on Uncle each night at dinner. Weeknight dinners were better, because she didn't have to visit the Inn afterwards, she could just trudge back to Hetherspoon and cry. Dinners were for flirting—isn't that what Uncle had always wanted? Sansa smiled coyly, giggled with fingertips pressed to her lips, and brushed Uncle's hand on the table at precisely the right moments. He would shift in his seat like Sansa had never seen him do. He would forget himself, and laugh along with her. Sometimes he didn't even bring the papers. She was that good. 

The week of Sansa's moonblood came and went, with no blood. Uncle asked after it. Sansa said, "I must be stressed." 

Truthfully, she was. Her professors took Uncle's commands very seriously. They assigned an impossible courseload. Turnberry wanted her to memorize all thirty-two of Caron's piano sonatas, and at least ten of Hamish's sonatas for harp. She would perform them at a private concert for the top donors in a half moon, so she had to practice, quick. 

When she wasn't holed up in Plumm, or nose deep in theory books at the library, she cowered in her room. She didn't have friends anymore, though she didn't have friends to begin with. While the other girls had smuggled bottles of wine to their rooms and spent their nights gossiping, Sansa had been on the phone. While they had spent weekends putting on garish makeup and teasing boys from Lionshead University, Sansa had been in Sow's End. She didn't know their inside jokes. She didn't know why they all wore their hair in silly, hair-sprayed helmets. 

And now, as she trudged from building to building, a watchman no less than ten paces behind, she received only leery stares. For the briefest of moments, the girls had admired Sansa. A lady with a handsome knight inspired envy. A used-up harlot was a pox. 

What they hated most of all was the new phone numbers. They had put up a fuss when the technicians came to switch every handset and install a new one. So many friends and family members would have to be alerted, what a drag! The girls in Hetherspoon made sure to give Sansa the most withering looks when they crossed paths in the common room or the bathroom. Margot had the audacity to say aloud, "Hope that mongrel was worth it," and bump Sansa with her shoulder hard enough it hurt. 

So what if they had to call all the contacts in their address book and give out the new number? Sansa didn't even have her address book. Uncle had gifted her a new one, with the essential numbers carefully penned by himself. So their home number, his office number, and the numbers of important lords and ladies. "The right sort," Uncle said. Well, guess what? Sansa wasn't so helpless, so dependent on a silly address book, as Uncle said members of her generation were. She could memorize numbers just fine, and oh, she had. 

Problem was, her calls were monitored. She only had one option, slipping a note to Jeyne, and having her call from the alchemy building, with no eyes on her. 

The first number was disconnected. 

The second number—Wylla answered. 

No news of Sandor. 

He's not in jail, she said, but he's keeping to himself. As instructed, Jeyne gave Wylla the new Hetherspoon number, for Wylla, but also for Wylla to pass along. But Jeyne had to hurry to her next class, and didn't have time to chat. She whispered the news to Sansa that night in their dorm. 

Keeping to himself.   

Sansa tried really hard not to think of Sandor. A true knight would have rescued her already, right? Defy the odds, carry her to safety. But Sansa had that chance. She blew it. It was her fault, and she knew, she knew, she knew. She had made a choice. 

Now she was a pox. A lonely pox, with no one but watchmen, Jeyne, and Uncle for company. She walked alone to class, she broke her fast alone, she lunched alone, she studied alone, she practiced alone, and she went to bed, alone. She couldn't remember a time when she wasn't lonely. Had Sandor been her only friend? 

Uncle was her only friend now, and he liked it that way. It was like it had been after Aunt Lysa had died, and Arya had disgraced herself. He was all she had. Sickeningly, Sansa had even begun to look forward to their dinners, so she would at least have someone to talk to other than Jeyne. 

But when the next Smithsday came, and Uncle told her he had made reservations at Twelve Casterly Lane, Sansa's belly went sour with dread. That was the finest restaurant in Oxcross, renowned across the westerlands for Chef Spicer's superior preparations of wild game. "He could turn carrion to confit," Uncle told her the night before. "You'll wear an evening gown—the blue silk. It brings out your eyes." 

Sansa liked the blue silk gown well enough. It was floor length with septon sleeves, and a high swan collar. Uncle had it tailored for her when she was seventeen, and it still fit plenty fine. Tight on her breasts, if anything. They had begun to ache lately. The stiffly lined silk smashed them down, and her nipples fought back, pressing through the fabric to make two tender, raised peaks. 

Sandor would like the dress. He would love the dress. He'd touch Sansa's breasts first thing, complain about their pretty confines, and then he'd watch them all night. He'd bide his time, waiting for his chance to strip them bare, or perhaps he'd just hoist her skirts and settle himself inside her. They wouldn't need to be home. He'd take her in the ladies' room, if he could. He'd take her at the table. 

Sansa squeezed her thighs together where she sat at her vanity. The memory of Sandor's touch ached worst. Every time her pulse quickened between her legs, tears would shortly follow. She didn't know if she missed his hands or his manhood more. 

She missed his hunger most. 

She styled her hair with damp, shining eyes. Tully eyes, with Tully hair to match. Uncle said to leave her hair down, as a maiden would. So she had gone through the effort of putting curlers in already curly hair, then she blew them dry, and sprayed them to uniform perfection. She put in two pretty sapphire studded clips at her temples to keep her face clear. Then she practiced her smile for five whole minutes, before a loud honk sounded from the street.

"There's my princess," Uncle said, as he guided her into the passenger seat of his Lance. "A vision of Tully beauty." 

He held her hand for the duration of the five minute ride. They linked arms as they strode down the entry walk, lined in red carpet, with sharp rows of hedges on either side. The host knew Uncle, of course. He showed them to the most premier table for two. It had a bright white tablecloth, immaculate silver tableware, and a tall, romantic candle for a centerpiece. It came with a window view of a glittering courtyard, and the dark blue outline of mountains beyond. 

Uncle didn't let Sansa look at the menu. He didn't let her drink, either. He didn't want her to get sloppy. So he picked their courses, and received visitors to their table, as he did most nights. He greeted Lord Falwell and his lady wife. Professor Lefford was there, and gave Sansa glowing praise for her marks in alchemy. 

"She's average," was what Uncle said back. 

When visits were through, Sansa had to pretend not to be hungry. 

She picked at watercress salad and bright red shaved beef. She ignored the fresh roll placed on her bread plate, though it smelled simply divine. It was easier if she talked instead, so she shared the day's minutia with Uncle. She started with what she ate; he liked that. "An apple for breakfast, a garden salad for lunch. But I only had half, and no dressing." If she was feeling particularly chatty, she would even divulge her sorrows. "Margot was rude again. She said she found a good match for me, in Lord Lannister's kennels." 

Uncle would parse out as much sympathy as he saw fit. He was oddly quiet tonight, however. He tapped his foot beneath the table, Sansa knew, because his leg jostled the tablecloth just-so. His eyes, typically so direct and honest, flitted to nearby tables, only to snap straight back to hers. 

It made Sansa's palms itch. 

She tried flattery. "You look so well tonight, Uncle, did I already tell you that?" Yes, she had. Uncle looked as well as any night: he wore a crisp, dark grey suit with a maroon button-up beneath. His mockingbird pin sparkled on his breast. Each strand of grey hair was in its proper place. His beard was groomed, his cheeks shaved clean, and he reeked of mint. 

He wasn't ugly, but he was short. It struck Sansa that those might be the same. 

She grazed her way through seven more courses that made her belly churn. Each one was a rarer and rarer bird: chicken, duck, goose, swan, dove, sparrow, and finally, ostrich. Gross. What Sansa really wanted was dessert. Twelve Casterly had a talented pastry chef, too. They made the prettiest little cakes with layers of fluffy mousse topped with ganache. Sansa saw plenty of these desserts delivered to other guests. 

But when the server came to ask which one Sansa would like, Uncle cut her off. "No dessert for the young lady. She's watching her figure." 

It took all Sansa's willpower to keep her smile in place. "You're so right, Uncle," she told him, placing her hand on his. "You always know best." 

Uncle didn't let her hand go. He coiled his small, cold fingers around hers and held tight. "I've been thinking, Sansa," he began, slowly, choosing his words as though he was pairing wine. "And I have a solution to your... predicament." 

Sansa sipped her water and gave Uncle a wide-eyed stare. 

"You do?" she asked, honey-sweet. 

"I do," he answered. "No high lord would have you, as well you know, and your stunt with the Lannister's dog has scared off the lesser lords, too. No lord will have you now—not in your perilous state. No lord but one. One who truly loves you." 

"Who?" 

Uncle stayed quiet. He smiled at her, but only with his mouth. His eyes betrayed avarice. Sansa felt stupid then, because she suddenly knew: she would never win. Not when she was playing a game of Uncle's own design. Weakly, she tried to take her hand back. Uncle squeezed her fingers so fiercely they began to purple. 

"You," Sansa puffed. 

"Me," Uncle replied. "Would that be so horrible?" 

"But I'm your daughter." 

"Not by blood. I'd rather you be my princess." 

"I know." 

Uncle let her go, then. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a small velvet box. He opened it to reveal a delicate silver ring, weighed down by an enormous, square-cut sapphire. "Four carats," he said. "For my darling girl." 

The color drained from Sansa's face. "When?" she asked. 

Uncle snapped the box shut, and set it on the table. "We'll wait until you graduate. By then, all the talk will have died down. You'll mingle in society, play your sweet sonatas, and salvage your person. Perhaps you'll earn a spot on the symphony. And when the time is right, we'll marry." 

"You've always wanted this," Sansa said, eyes locked on that insipid blue box. She frowned, as a sore loser would. 

"I always have," he replied. "No need to be sour. I'll give you the wedding of your dreams. Lord Arryn will allow me the Eyrie for the whole affair, of course. And you'll share my lands. It's the best you can hope for. You've made your choice." 

Sansa pulled in her drooping lower lip—it was true. Uncle was always right. She looked to him, where he sat smirking across from her. She nodded glumly. "I know." 

"Good girl." 

Uncle paid, without sparing a tip for the server, and they left, arm in arm. Sansa wasn't hungry anymore. Bile roiled in her belly, because she knew their next destination—Uncle was taking her to the Inn. It was time for gifts. 

He had booked the lord's suite, a sprawling set of three rooms: a parlor, a bedroom, and an adjoining washroom. It was all marvelously grand, with bright red crimson wallpaper and gilded wood panelling. The floorboards were polished until they shone. The furniture, upholstered in red velvet, had the characteristic wood-carved lion's feet of western decor. 

Typically, Uncle received Sansa in the parlor. He'd bring her gift to her while she perched on the sofa, and if she was extra polite, he'd call room service for an evening tea. Not tonight. Tonight, he guided her straight to the bedroom, and had her sit on the plush bed. He took out a flat white box tied with red ribbon from his wardrobe. "For you, my dear." 

"Thank you, um—" Uncle. He was her Uncle, her guardian. But she was a good girl, and answered, "Thank you, my love." 

Sansa swallowed down a surge of bile, and with trembling fingers, unlaced the pretty ribbons to open up her present. Lingerie, of course. Two scraps of wispy pink lace, pale as her skin. 

"Lovely," she said, her usual response. 

"Put it on," was what Uncle always said next. 

Sansa stood, and he came to unzip her gown. That's the only touch he allowed himself, a brush of her curls over her shoulder, a three inch tug of her zipper, and a few breaths stolen from the nape of her neck. It was level with his mouth, so it was natural, harmless, except it tickled the short hair there like roaches scrambling in the light. Sansa shuddered herself out of her sleeves, then shimmied the silk over her hips to the prickly lionskin rug. 

When she pulled off her bra and panties, she silently counted to thirty, an amount of time that Uncle spent looking at her, harmlessly, until Sansa slipped into her new pink set. 

Then Uncle admired her. 

There was a time when Sansa thought this was familiar, an Uncle helping an orphan, unconditional love. He merely wanted what she wanted—to be pretty. That time was as recent as six moons prior. 

Now, Sansa knew better. A pitiful hardness grew in well-tailored trousers. It was awfully hard to notice if you didn't know to look. There was no power in that cocktail sausage sized lump beneath dark wool. But it was there. Uncle didn't touch her; he looked. "You're the spitting image of your mother," he said. "Without the belly, of course, though we'll see an end to that."  

Sansa shifted on her heels. The room was cold. Gooseprickles decorated her skin; she felt like a plucked goose, a bare bird on a platter, set to chill, before an imminent plunge in the oven. She longed to wrap her arms around herself, but Uncle wouldn't approve. She held them tense at her sides, her hands curled to fists, her nails entrenched in the meat of her palms. She wanted to cry. She wanted to hide in the sea, or the sky. She wanted a different earth. 

"Get dressed," Uncle bade. 

He turned without another word and strode to the washroom, shutting the door behind him. Sansa did as she was told, though she couldn't get the zipper of her gown all the way up on her own. She huffed and dropped onto the edge of the bed. She watched time go by on a stuffy oak grandfather clock. She waited one minute, then two, then five. Usually Uncle didn't take so long. The water had been running for an awfully long time.

Curious, Sansa crept to the washroom door. She pressed an ear to it, and clapped a hand over her mouth to catch a gasp. 

She knew that sound, that soft rhythm. She knew the labored breath that accompanied it. Uncle was touching himself. Thinking of me, Sansa thought, and maybe she really would vomit. She'd make sure to do it right on the mane of the lionskin rug. But alongside Uncle's panting, he breathed out, "Cat, my precious Cat." 

Mother.

Sansa lied about loving Uncle, and he lied about loving her, too. He only ever loved her mother. 

Sansa didn't have a new plan, one to evade a match with her Uncle. But she promised herself this: never, ever, would she let him put his small, useless hands on her. Not like that, and not like anything. If she couldn't be rescued, she may very well have to run—alone. 

She would run later, of course. 

In the meantime, she went to the parlor. She poured herself a glass of water and waited on the sofa until Uncle resurfaced, red-faced. "Everything alright?" she asked, like a proper lady. 

Uncle didn't reply. He drove her home in silence, and Sansa was glad. She was through with their game. She didn't want to play nice. But she kissed his cheek goodbye, and gave him a quick, "'Til tomorrow, love," before scrambling out of his car, and back into her dorm. 

Jeyne was in the room, reading in bed. She didn't get a word in before Sansa wilted to the floor like a silken flower and wept. But a gentle hand landed on her back and rubbed slow circles there. Jeyne let Sansa cry. It's all Sansa did in their room, really. She came back and cried every night. Sometimes quietly to herself in bed, other times she had fits. She felt like a fit tonight. 

"He wants me to marry him," she wailed into her hands. 

"Oh, Sansa," Jeyne replied. "I'm so sorry." 

"It's not right, none of it—the underwear, and the looking. But he never touches." 

"Not like that," Jeyne whispered. 

"N-never like that," Sansa sobbed. 

Oh, it was awful. Her life was awful. Being a lady was awful. She didn't want her courtesies. She didn't want a lord husband, or lace finery. She didn't want her harp or her piano. She didn't want balls, or galas, or festivals, or tourneys. She didn't want a castle wedding, or a burdensome ring. She'd rather be a prisoner in the depths of a dungeon. She wanted to starve. She didn't want this excess flesh, a feast for rats. She'd rather be bones.

Jeyne helped her out of her blue gown, out of her new lace panties, and into a pair of the boring ones that lived in Jeyne's dresser, where Uncle wouldn't suspect to look. 

Sansa crawled into bed, turned out her bedside lamp, and cried a little bit more. She curled to a tight ball, and performed her nightly routine. She kneaded her stomach. Softly at first, as if to plead: do not let me birth a monster. The babe would be a whole monster, she was certain. Then she would punch. So what if it made the monster uglier. So what if it withered in her womb. Good riddance, Sansa thought. She didn't need the dead weight. 

Tonight her belly fought back. Every punch shocked her knuckles, and her sobs made her arms too limp for proper impact. Sansa didn't want the life of a lady, but she didn't want the end, either. She wanted the life of a sweet girl, a little bird, the kind that sings. 

The kind that sings their own songs.  

Sansa wanted her Minimarq. She wanted pretty dresses. She wanted to eat sweet things. She wanted a garden, with raspberry bushes and poppies. She wanted a pretty house, even a crooked one. She wanted a mountain, and a river, and a meadow. She wanted her tree, because that's what grew inside her. Sandor was a tree on his own, taller than life, giver of breath, rooted in earth, and strong, strong, strong. If he put a baby in her, he would be half-strong at least. He would be a pretty tree, a weirwood, pale, lithe, and crowned in red. 

Look what Sandor had done, up there in the mountains, the way he had sowed his seed. A tender sapling grew in new earth, and all by his careful hands. He could tend a whole grove. He could tend a whole forest, because he knew the earth as earth himself. 

Sansa was a stupid girl for ever forgetting—Sandor was her world. 

If she was ever to have a life, it would be with him. 

But where do you go, when you want to run away with the world, a world that won't come up to meet you? 

Sansa knew a place. She put on her pleated wool skirt, a simple white button-up blouse, and her treasured black boots—another thing she claimed belonged to Jeyne. Uncle let her keep them, and they lived deep beneath her bed. At last she grabbed her harp, and set out for Plumm Hall. 

The night watchman, Denys, followed her. She was allowed to practice no matter what, though Denys tailed her into the building, down the corridor, then stood watch outside the practice room. Sansa didn't care—he would flop into the nearby armchair within the hour, pass out, and wake when she slammed the door as hard as she pleased. 

Sansa played for hours. Her electronic flowers could be adapted to strings, so she did just that. She pruned them all, even though they made her cry again. I'm a gardener, she told herself. A flower, too. I'm tall, and pretty, and perfect as I am. She didn't want to be a liar, really, she didn't. But she knew only one honest man. A man who saw her, exactly as she was, and decided— 

I'm rotten.

That's why he hadn't come back for her. Her insides were black as his ruined skin. Sansa belonged with liars, in pretty prisons. Sandor would let her rot, because it was just as she deserved. Sansa sobbed her way through Pretty. She played it five times, because she wanted to feel her heart writhe inside her ribs. It ached; it ached. It was too much to bear. 

She made a new song, a song for silly girls who fall in love with monsters. Girls whose hearts swell and glow like rubies ablaze. Girls who forget. Girls who go mad. It was a prayer of a song, a lullaby for a babe grown. Smoke and mirrors, help me sleep, tonight. 

She soothed her heart. The wicked bats laid dormant. She had soothed Denys too, he snored with his mouth agape in the armchair beside the phone. Sansa had a secret—she could still steal this phone, if she was careful. If she crept on tiptoes, and picked up the handset, and snuck inside a practice room, Denys wouldn't stir. Sound didn't travel well outside the room. Sansa would dial and watch him for signs of movement. They never came. 

Tonight he was extra tired. Sansa slumped to the practice room floor and tried Arya first; she always did. No answer. She tried Wylla next, no answer. No news. What is he up to?

There was only one number left to try. Her favorite number. 

Sansa dialed. She waited a few seconds. Then the beeping began—ten harsh beeps. After came the tinny voice of a pre-recorded operator: I'm sorry, the number you're trying to reach has been disconnected or is no longer in service. Please hang up, and dial again. Oh, Sansa did. She would dial Sandor's number dozens of times, just to feel the anticipation thrum beneath her fingertips. There had always been such promise in that moment. A man, far off in countless ways, would teleport to her side, if only in voice. His voice had been enough. It was a rough, grumbling, craggy expanse. Infinite, somehow. A cradle. How many hours had they spent in each other's ears? More than they had in person, to be sure. 

He never picked up. He couldn't. He wasn't there. Sometimes Sansa would leave him messages, both fake and real. Fake in the sense that it wouldn't be recorded, real because Sansa spilled her soul, her truest truths, into some vast, unknowable abyss. The past. 

"I'm sorry," she usually started. "Please, Sandor. I'm so sorry. I miss you. You're so handsome, did you know that? I was lying. You're not a monster. I love you. Can you hear me? I love you so much. I didn't know what love felt like before. Or maybe I had forgotten. Uncle was lying to me. He doesn't truly love me. I learned that tonight. My heart really hurts. Does yours hurt too? I'm sorry if I made it hurt like that, I really am. I wouldn't ever want you to hurt, you don't deserve it. You've been through so much. I'm really lonely now. I think I was before, too. I really forgot what it felt like, loneliness. I thought everyone was my friend, but a lot of them are liars, like Uncle. You're not a liar, though. At least I don't think so. Were you lying about taking me east? Is it too late? I would still like to go, if you'll have me. I would like that very much. What I really want—" 

A sob tore from her chest, and Sansa pushed the receiver onto the handset with a clatter. 

I want to raise our baby together. Our tree, our star, our wolfling, our pup. Our beloved half-breed.  

And then,

I'm mad, I'm mad, I'm mad. It was all a fantasy. 

She slipped quietly from the practice room. She replaced the handset, then went back to slam the door. Denys jolted awake. 

"I'm leaving," Sansa told him. She didn't even try to smile, her cheeks were far too puffy and tight. Denys stalked behind as she made her way through the dark and starry campus to Hetherspoon. He opened the front door for Sansa, and took his post right outside. He wasn't allowed in the dorm, though he could watch the common room from two long windows on either side of the door. He could watch the phone. 

Sansa was done being sneaky for the night, though. She was bone-weary. She barely managed to take off her boots before collapsing into bed, fully dressed. Jeyne was fast asleep.

Sometimes, at night, when she was done being mean to her belly, Sansa decided to be nice. She would think of all her favorite things about Sandor. She pictured his big arms around her. She pictured her face, smashed against his hairy, inky chest. There was so much to Sandor. So much muscle, so much body, so much him. The best part of him being so big was that he made Sansa small, a delicate thing. She wasn't ruined to Sandor. She was a moonbloom in a glass case, thriving. 

He would never hurt her. 

No, he only ever tried to find new ways to treat her nicely. He liked his flower dewy. He kissed new places. He put her in new positions, and she did the same. Maybe they taught each other. They sparred and tamed the other's pulse. Thinking of Sandor's body made Sansa's pulse ache. She loved his body. She especially loved to think of the way he looked that night on the quilt—handfuls of fabric clenched both his fists, his cock alive on his abdomen, his eyes shining. He loved her body back. 

Sansa let her hand drift beneath her skirt and pull aside her panties. She found her little pulse. Her fingers were weak, but they helped. She pictured Sandor's hands instead. She pictured two strong, tattooed fingers, foraging inside her. She heard his sweet words. "Look at you, little bird, riding my hand. You look so pretty with my fingers in you." 

"I do?" 

"Of course you do. You're the prettiest bird in all Seven Kingdoms." 

Sansa didn't care about the birds in the other kingdoms, not when she was this close to getting what she wanted most. She rubbed furiously, dripping and aching in every sense, wishing to be anywhere, anywhere else. But before she disappeared into her self-made oblivion, she couldn't forget her manners.

"Can I come, Sandor? Pretty please?" 

"Go ahead, little bird. You can come on my hand." 

Like a good little bird, Sansa came. She shuddered beneath her sheets, kept her fingers pressed against her tender bud. Tears followed the dew. They always did, when she realized she was empty. There was no warmth inside her, nothing to fill her up. She was void. Barren. Alone. 

Sansa cried herself to sleep. 

She was sleeping a terrible half-slumber, when a loud, persistent ringing sounded from the hall. At first Sansa thought it was a dream. She thought she was in Sandor's apartment, receiving all her disconnected phone calls and ignoring them. But the calls kept coming, and coming, and coming, until Sansa pulled up from bed, groggy. 

The ringing faded. Maybe it was a dream. When it sounded out again, Sansa burst from bed.

Sandor—he was trying to reach her! 

She stumbled down the corridor, hair mussed, skirt askew. She picked up the clanging receiver, and ducked behind the armchair, just out of view of the two front windows.

"Sandor?" she whispered, peeking over the table, to make sure Denys was as idle as ever. 

"Sansa? Sansa, it's me, Wylla." 

Sansa's heart fell, but she answered, "What is it? It's so late." 

"It's Sandor," she said in a shaky voice. She took a swift inhale of her cigarette, and breathed out, "He started using again. He attacked Darkstar. He has a gun." 

Chapter Text

Wylla told Sansa all she knew: "It's bad. He hasn't been around, so Darkstar went to visit. Milk vials everywhere, and worse, shade. Darkstar was going to flush the stuff, but the vials were empty. He was out. It's not good when you run out, Sansa." 

He's mad, she thought, but didn't say.  

"He fought Darkstar," Wylla went on. "He's strong. He's got a fucking gun. Darkstar split. He's on his way, though." 

"Where?" 

"To you." 

"Me? Wylla, I can't—" Sansa glanced to Denys, beyond the door. No way he would let her go. She was just a girl, too weak to fight. 

"Yes, you can, Sansa. If you don't, he could—he could—" Wylla's voice cracked. She sucked in a shallow breath, maybe more of her cigarette, and breathed out, "I'm afraid. You're the only one who can help. You know you are." 

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut, and pushed out two hot tears. She did know—she needed to rescue her knight, or else. "How long?" she asked in a weak thread of voice.  

"He called ten minutes ago, said he was heading to the station. Just hurry up and get there—please." 

The line went dead. Sansa crawled on hands and knees to replace the receiver. As soon as it clicked onto the handset, Margot appeared from down the darkened corridor in a skimpy silk nightgown, her brown hair in a bundle of tight curlers. She put her hands on her hips and cocked a well-groomed brow. 

"Sounds like trouble," she said. 

Sansa stood on shaky legs. "Margot, please," she whispered. "Not now." 

"Is it your boyfriend?" 

"He needs me," Sansa replied in a half-whine. She shifted from foot to foot, glancing to Denys, down the hall, and back to Margot. Sansa didn't have time for this—she had to find her way out of Hetherspoon and down to the train station, fast. "Please, just let me go." 

Margot sighed a dramatic sigh, and fluttered her eyelashes. "Well, I just had a terrible nightmare. I think I'll go tell Denys." She looked out to where the guard idled, then turned to Sansa, smirking. "He looks like he needs some company." 

"You'll distract him for me?" Sansa asked, stunned. 

Margot shrugged. 

"Really?" 

"Really," Margot answered. "But you better hurry. It's supposed to rain." 

Sansa got out a quick, "Thanks," before tearing down the hall, back to her room. If she couldn't use the door, she only had one other option—the window. She shook Jeyne awake by her shoulders. "You have to help me," she whispered frantically. "It's Sandor—I have to go—you have to help me out the window." 

"Sansa, you can't—" 

"I have to," Sansa pleaded, eyes burning. "He could die." 

That got Jeyne out of bed. With their combined strength, they pried open the heavy wooden window between their beds. There was a ten foot drop below, into a sharp bed of roses. Not too tall, but unpleasant, and bound to be eye-catching if Sansa made a single peep. So they stripped their sheets and tied them together, tight as they could. Sansa took one end and climbed up into the window sill. 

"He'll know in the morning," Jeyne said. "Please be safe." 

"I will," Sansa promised. And with that, she descended, counterbalanced by Jeyne as her boots squeaked along the outer stone wall. She landed in the bushes, knee-deep in thorns, and bit back a cry. 

"Good?" Jeyne called down. 

Sansa nodded, grimacing. "I'm fine." 

"Good luck," she whispered. Then she tugged the sheets up, and disappeared. 

Sansa unplucked herself from the rosebed, calves dotted in red scratches, and ran from building to building, a winding route to avoid passing watchmen. Halfway across campus, the rain started. Sansa had forgotten to bring a jacket. Cold water soaked through her white blouse and stuck it to her braless chest. It pulled pinkish blood down into her boots, a ghastly sight. Sansa shivered against the wall of Plumm and waited out the next ambling watchman, kind enough to whistle louder than the drizzling rain. As soon as he rounded the corner, Sansa broke into a wild-legged sprint. 

She flew down the path, toes slick on the cobblestones, until she turned onto Mayberry Street. 

Warhammer waited for her. Sansa bolted. She wrenched open the passenger door, and leapt inside the truck, lungs heaving, her hair soaked and plastered to her face. She took one look at Gerold—eyes blackened, nose bloodied—and threw her arms around him. 

"I don't want him to die," she wailed. 

"I don't either, little bird," he softly replied. "But it doesn't look good." 

Gerold split down the street, one arm curled around Sansa's shoulders to keep her close. He let her cry into his shirt, which smelled like sweat, and hemp, and more blood. If Sandor died, it would be all her fault. Sandor's madness was already her fault. She should have left Uncle the very morning she got back from the ball, but she was a stupid girl. A monster. The old gods had shown her, after all. Her future was with Uncle. 

Sandor's future was dark. 

And what were odds, when you tried to defy the Gods themselves? 

Sansa wept. She wasn't strong. She had lost. She lost Sandor first, and then she lost the battle with Uncle. She was a frostfire who grew along the wall, doomed to shadow. She had no hand in her horrible fate; it had been bestowed on her. Just as her father, and mother, and three precious brothers met their fate in the Godswood, she would meet hers. 

She didn't see their blood that day, but she might see Sandor's. He might have already put a bullet in his skull, and emptied himself of crimson sap. That was the image that lingered in Sansa's mind: Sandor, skin cold and white, resting in a pond of red. A fallen heart tree. Her heart hated it. It pumped blood through her veins in irregular time, a threat. She didn't deserve it, her sap, if Sandor couldn't have it. 

She wouldn't live to see another weirwood downed. 

Sansa straightened as Gerold brazenly navigated the twisted streets of Sow's End. She watched watery imprints of buildings she knew, blocks she had walked, hand in hand with Sandor. This was where her life was, where she had lived as herself. A better flower, a moonbloom. 

A better Lady. 

They slammed to a stop in front of Sandor's apartment. Sansa immediately scrambled for the door handle. "Do you want me to come?" Gerold asked. 

Sansa hopped from the truck, and shook her head. "He won't hurt me." 

Her truest prayer. 

She stumbled through another curtain of rain, pushing her sodden curls back, and wiping her eyes clear of their own storm. Her cheeks were swollen and achy. Thorn scratches on her calves stung and trailed blood into her boots as she ran. She landed at the front door, threw her entire weight against it, then hurried down the hall. 

Sandor's door was unlocked. Sansa pushed it open with trembling fingers. The stench hit her first—death, or something worse. It was a black cloud that blotted out any trace of Sandor's earthiness. She stepped into the dark air. 

Around her: death. 

Or worse, heartbreak. She had never seen Sandor's apartment in such a state of disrepair. Glass bottles and vials lay strewn about, some with white liquid dregs, others with blue, all empty. Some were shattered. There was a lot of broken glass. The case that held Sandor's greatsword—broken. His sword lay haphazardly before the hearth. The frame around Last of the Giants was smashed open; the record was dozens of glittering black pieces below. And everywhere, dishes. Half-eaten steaks and sandwiches and bowls of soup. Half-drunk mugs of beer. Broken liquor bottles. 

And paper. Lots of crumpled balls of paper. 

Sansa knelt to pick one up. She smoothed it out, and a portrait of herself stared back. She was smiling with big white fangs, bloodied, with blood-red hair to match. Sansa whimpered and tossed it back. 

"Sandor?" she called, voice unsteady. She tiptoed around broken bits of glass and rumpled piles of clothes to the corridor. "Sandor, are you there?" 

The stench crushed her like a mountain. It was everything rotten in a fridge all at once, in the hot sun, times a million. Gross. She clasped a hand over her mouth as stepped into Sandor's bedroom. She eased open the door—another disaster, but empty. She turned on her heels. 

"Please, it's me." 

She set her fingertips to the bathroom door and pushed. Her body reacted first—her hollow stomach churned, and bile shot up her throat. She had stepped into an open sewer, black as death. 

But there was Sandor, alive. 

He was sprawled against the side of the bathtub, listless, head lolling, greasy strings of hair dangling over his scars. He had his shotgun in his lap, and Stranger at his side. His Oathkeeper shirt was coated in a crust of yellow-white vomit, chunks and all. Between his legs, another pile of sick. On the toilet seat, more sick. At its base, even more. In the sink, the same, but mixed with shards of the shattered mirror above. It was a miracle that Sansa swallowed her bile back, but she did. 

"Sandor?" she called. "Sandor, it's me." 

Slowly, his head rose. He looked at her, dazed, from beneath his heavy brow. He pulled the gun up, and pointed. "I knew you'd come." 

Sansa smeared back tears with the heel of her hand. "Of course I would, Sandor. I love you." But she took one cautious step forward, and Sandor racked. 

"Don't," he rasped. "Don't you come near." 

Sansa didn't know what else to do but get closer. It's all she ever knew to do with Sandor—be close. Her boots crunched on broken glass. Stranger growled. Not him, too. She put her hands up, surrender, but no one liked that. 

"I'll do it," Sandor hissed, venomous. "I'll fucking do it, you silly, pretty cunt." 

He tipped the barrel to prove himself, aimed it right at her chest, where her soaked shirt clung to her bare breasts. "Sandor," she whined. "It's me." 

But she looked in his eyes, and knew who she really was: a ghost. The Maiden from high, an illusion, a deceit. A girl come down to tease Sandor's tired heart. To keep him tethered to earth when he wanted so desperately to float away, into oblivion, his dark fate. But he had stayed for her; look, he was here now, alive. Had she not done her duty? 

He had stayed. 

"I'm real," she said. "I'm here, Sandor. I'm real." 

"That's what you said last night in bed, when I had my cock in your pretty mouth," he rasped. "But you lied to me. You're a liar, little maiden." 

Sansa shook her head, and tears streamed down to her trembling chin. They were heavy tears; they dragged her down, until her bare knees rested on cold tile and broken glass and sticky sick. She set her palms face up on her thighs, and met Sandor's sharp grey eyes. 

"It's me, sweetling," she whispered. "Your little bird." 

Stranger barked. Sansa offered the bloodhound her hand. He gave it a cautious sniff first, then licked it. Then he licked Sansa's wrist, and up her arm, and then he bounded onto her lap. Stranger lapped her tears with his big warm tongue and whined until Sansa wrapped her arms around his neck. "I'm so sorry," she whispered to his black fur. "Help me, please." 

Stranger sat at Sansa's side, and barked again. Sandor's jaw tensed and released. The gun shook in his hands. His voice shook worse. "He can see you." 

"Of course he can, Sandor. I'm real." 

Sandor's eyes shone blinding white. He blinked out tears. "Are you lying to me?" 

Sansa shook her head. Sandor let go of the barrel to drag his forearm over his eyes, so she took her chance. She reached out and set a hand to the toe of his outstretched boot. She held it tight. 

"I came back for you, Sandor. I'm here to rescue you." 

Sandor's head dropped back, his chest swelled, and he let out an earth-shattering sob. The gun fell slack into between his legs, and he buried his face into his hands. Sansa crawled to him. She slid the shotgun away and put herself in his lap instead. She pressed her face against his soiled shirt, and curled her arms tight around his middle. 

"I'm not doing so good, little bird," Sandor sputtered between sobs. Sansa's cheek bounced against his heaving chest, but she kept it pressed close. "I'm doing real bad." 

"I know, sweetling," she whispered. "But I can help you." 

Sandor took his hands from his face and dropped them to Sansa's shoulders. His eyes glittered like the night sky. "You mean that?" 

Sansa nodded. "Let's get you cleaned up." She stood, and held out her hands to help Sandor up, but he shook his head. 

"I can't." 

"Why not?" 

"I couldn't—with the shade—I didn't make it." He glanced to the toilet, and Sansa's stomach turned over. "It fell out?" she breathed. 

"It fell out."

Sansa could have been sick, right there, with all the other sick and the horrible sewer stench that she now knew about. But she pushed it down. She tried out her most reassuring smile, a pretty one, because Sandor deserved it. 

"There are worse things," she said, and she meant it. 

So she helped him, just as he had helped her all those times. She got his boots and socks off first, and set them out in the hall. She took the gun away too, daintily tucking it in the closet, out of sight. Then she peeled off Sandor's gross shirt, and put it in the sink. Next she had to help him stand, which was quite tricky. He swallowed up her hands in his, and Sansa leaned back and tugged with all her might. He stood, but swayed on his feet, and caught himself on Sansa's shoulder. 

Imprudently, she glanced down to the brown smudge he left behind. Gross. 

But she had promised to help, so she undid his belt and pulled off his soiled jeans, such a horrible mess. That went into the sink too, for now. "Let's get you in the shower," Sansa said, and Sandor agreed. He needed her support to step over the tub. He really wasn't very good at standing tonight. He had to sit back down while Sansa stripped off her boots and sodden clothes. Being naked was much better. It felt right. 

She got the shower started. Sandor held her shoulders while she ran soap over every corner of his body— every corner, including the ones she never, ever thought she would touch. When the cinnamon clove smell filled up the air, Sandor gagged. He was too tired to put a hand over his mouth. He opened up and puked right down on Sansa's toes. She didn't look, she just felt the splatter of warmth and tried to keep her own stomach from emptying. 

"I need to sit," Sandor said after that. 

He definitely did. Sansa rinsed herself quickly, then stepped out into her boots. She guided Sandor down in the tub and drew up his bath, hot enough to boil the filth clean off. He hunkered down in the steamy water, resting his head on the lip of the tub, eyes shut. It gave Sansa a chance to clean. 

She had so much work to do, she scarcely knew where to begin. 

She started with sweeping, since she knew where the broom was. She swept the living room all the way to the bathroom. It was a real mess in the bathroom. She had to sweep up the puddles of vomit alongside the broken bits of mirror. After she did that, she rinsed the broom in the kitchen sink, which was full of moldering dishes, sadly. She tidied those up, then plugged the sink, dumped a whole bunch of vinegar into it, and stuck Sandor's soiled clothes inside to soak. 

In the cabinet below, she found a tin bucket and some wash rags, so she took them to the bathroom to start in on the scrubbing. Oh, there was plenty of scrubbing. Sansa got so sweaty, despite the fact that she wore only her skin. At least there would be less laundry to do. She did the floor, and the toilet, and finally, the sink. She scooped out the glass first, then rinsed away the last of the sick. 

Then everything reeked of vinegar—the smell had never made Sansa happier. She put the bucket and dirty rags away, then came back to Sandor. She perched on the edge of the tub, right at the end of his outstretched fingertips. She set her hand on his. Mercy. She barely covered the back of his palm.  

His eyes flickered open. "Am I a monster?" he asked, soft. 

Sansa's heart twisted. "Oh, Sandor, no." She dropped to her knees and scooted to his side. She picked up his chin, then slid her hand to his dark cheek. Her favorite side of him. 

"You're not a monster. You're my sweetling." 

"But you signed the order." 

"What? No, I never—" 

"The watchmen, that night, they brought the papers, with your signature. Told me you never wanted to see me again." 

Sansa frowned—Uncle. "I never signed. He lied. He's a liar, Sandor. I love you. Do you hear me? I would never sign. I was—I was waiting for you. I tried to call, I promise. I snuck the phone. I left you messages." Sansa stroked Sandor's burnt cheekbone with her thumb, gently, the way he liked. He rested in her palm. "I'm so sorry," she said. "I'm so sorry for being a rotten girl. I don't want to be rotten. I want to be good." 

"You are good," Sandor told her. "I don't deserve a girl as good as you." 

"That's not true—you're better than I am. You deserve the world. You are my world." 

A tear tracked down Sansa's cheek, and Sandor wiped it with his thumb. He cradled her face and smiled softly. "You're mine," he said. 

Sansa put a finger to his half-burnt lips. "No," she huffed, "You're mine." 

Sandor's eyes narrowed. He snatched up her wrist, and stuffed all her fingers in his big, mean mouth. He nibbled and growled, "Mine, all mine," until Sansa couldn't help but giggle. His tongue felt so silly lapping over her fingertips. She tried to pull away, but he tugged forward so her forehead rested against his. He took her hand out of his mouth, soaked in slobber, and put it back onto his crisped cheek. 

"You taste so sweet," he exhaled. "You're my sweet little bird. The sweetest." 

"Do you mean it?" Sansa asked. 

"I've never meant anything more." 

They kissed. They kissed for a while, to relearn each other's lips and tongues and teeth. Sandor's mouth didn't taste good at first, but she helped to clean it up. Then he snuck a hand down to scoop up one of Sansa's breasts. It felt so nice; it belonged in his warm palm. He added a second hand, which was twice as nice, but it was a trap. He stole Sansa's waist and hoisted her into the tub, boots and all. 

"Sandor," she whined. She thrashed a bit, but mostly for fun, because Sandor growled at her and his kisses turned to her favorite nibbles. She liked laying on his chest and having his big arms wrapped around her back. She liked it until a ripping noise sounded out beneath her and a spurt of bubbles flew up against her belly. Then she squealed. 

Sandor laughed, deep as thunder, as Sansa squirmed and sent water flying over the sides of the tub. He wouldn't let her waist go, though. "Don't worry, sweet girl. That one was dry." 

"It stinks," Sansa moped. She was tired of smelly things. 

Sandor kissed her frown away, then let her out of the tub. She still had some work to do—Sandor's hair needed serious cleaning. They started the shower up again, and Sansa shampooed his hair just the way he liked. She combed his hair over, and didn't let any soap sting his scars. After rinsing out the conditioner, Sansa fetched the only two decently clean towels bunched on his bedroom floor. She dried Sandor off, then had him sit on the toilet so she could tend his scars. 

They weren't in good shape, sadly. Sandor admitted he hadn't been caring for them. The red cracks were deep and angry, oozing white pus in some spots. It wouldn't do. He'd need to be bandaged. Sansa chewed her lip, thinking. "Let's get your hair out of the way." She had never seen Sandor's hair styled, because of course he liked to cover his scars. But Sansa had seen and touched every last bit of him. She wasn't afraid in the slightest. 

So she gathered all his hair to the right, and wove one pretty milkmaid's plait down the back of his head, tied off with a scrap of ribbon. "Pretty," she told him when she finished. She liked his face like this, bare, clear, down to bone. Mine. Then she started in on his burns, dabbing them dry, patting ointment where needed. She stuck gauze on his cheeks and wrapped it around the side of his head with more gauze. Better to keep them protected, while they healed. 

Sansa patted her handiwork. "How's that?" she asked. 

"Much better," Sandor answered. 

"Good. Let's get you in bed." 

Sandor wanted that very much. He leaned on Sansa as he staggered to the bedroom and collapsed like a felled log as soon as he reached bed. Sansa had to pull back the covers for him. They were full of dirty clothes, shirts, socks, pants. All black and stinky, except for one thing— 

Sansa's mint green nightgown. The one she had worn to the Wylla's house show. 

She picked it up and gave Sandor a curious look. He put out his palm. "It's soft," he grumbled. "And it smells nice. Give it here." 

Sansa complied, and Sandor promptly draped the silky gown over his bandaged scars. "Can I have something to eat, please?" 

He asked nicely, so Sansa went off to the kitchen. The fridge was in a sorry state—barren, except for fuzzy white meats and veggies, and a carton of curdled milk that may as well have been cheese. She found two edible foods: a steak in the freezer, and a paper bag of lemons. She squeezed the lemons while the steak fried on a cast iron skillet. Nothing too hard about making steak—father had taught her when they camped. Flip, sear, flip, sear. 

After more scrounging in the cupboards, Sansa found a half-molded loaf of bread. She shaved off the bluish bits and toasted up the good end. That would be softer on a sour stomach. Sansa rinsed off the dishes twice for extra caution, then returned to Sandor with a plate of steak and toast, plus a glass of lemonade. 

He pushed up in bed and smiled at the sight. "Look at that, little bird." 

Sandor took the plate, and Sansa curled onto her knees at his side. He tried to cut up the steak, but his hands were too shaky, the knife squeaky on ceramic. "Here," Sansa offered. She traded him for the lemonade, and set to work slicing the meat into manageable bites. She stabbed little morsels of meat and bread onto the fork and eased them into Sandor's mouth, bit by bit. 

When he tried his first swallow of lemonade, he grimaced. "What did you put in this?" he asked, brow furrowed, lips twisted. He held the glass up in the lamplight to reveal the white drift of sugar that filled it halfway. "I couldn't get the sugar to mix," Sansa said, frowning. "But I didn't want it to be sour." 

Sandor grinned and shook his head, then set the glass on the bedside table. He took the plate from Sansa and put it there too, so he could slide back down into the bed. He curled up with his head in Sansa's bare lap, his arms wrapped around her hips. Sansa pet his plait, and told him nice things. "I missed you," she started. "I missed you so much. I won't ever go a day without seeing you again, I promise." 

"You mean that?" Sandor whispered. 

"I've never meant anything more." 

"But your Uncle."

"He's my problem. When he comes, I'll fight. For the three of us." 

Sandor nestled closer, burrowing into her maidenhair and against her rounding belly. He kissed her there. "Do you still have him?" He asked. 

"Of course, sweetling. He's ours." 

Sansa wanted to tell Sandor all the horrid things Uncle had done, but he seemed so peaceful, his eyes shut and breath steady, so she decided to wait. She thought of something better instead. "Would you like a song?" 

Sandor nodded against her thighs. So Sansa sang. She sang him every song she knew—Pretty, Honeycomb, Winter Maiden, Black Pines, Wolves in the Night, Nova—she sang them all. She caressed his hair, his shoulders, his back. She traced the lines of muscles, and red slivers of scars. Every so often, she would drop down to deliver a kiss to his crown. 

Sandor slept through it. Sansa merely dozed, in wait. 

Shortly after the first pink light of dawn, the time came. She had failed her morning bed check. He was here. Red and blue lights pushed past the curtains and flashed in streaks across the floorboards. Car doors opened and slammed shut. Footsteps thudded down the stone walk. And finally, a heavy fist crashed down on the door to Sandor's building.

Sansa extracted herself from Sandor's hold. She plucked up her nightgown, the only reasonably clean garment in the whole apartment, and pulled it on. Oh, Uncle would hate it. Her tender breasts spilled from the scooping neckline—a feast, but not for cruel liars. 

A feast for Sansa, and Sansa alone. 

She gave Sandor's forehead one last kiss, then pulled on her boots, and crept from his apartment, down the hall to the front door. The banging hadn't stopped. Timidly, Sansa pulled the wrought iron handle. She squeezed through the smallest gap she'd allow herself and landed in the crisp morning air, face to face with three scowling men: Uncle, and two of the sullen, dark-haired watchmen from the station just behind him. 

"Where is he?" Uncle spat, sparing no courtesies. He groped for Sansa's wrist, but she backed up, spreading her arms wide across the door. 

"Sleeping," she replied. "You can't have him." 

Uncle's eyes were ablaze, his face flushed, as he drank Sansa in. Her boots, to start, then up her pale, scratched legs to where her hem fell scantily over her hips and buttocks. Then he went up to her chest, which fluttered in time to her shallow breath. He stared there and hissed, "It's not up to you." 

"I didn't sign," Sansa whispered. Already tears loomed hot in her eyes—weak. 

Or powerful, if you knew how to wield them. She let them tumble to her chin like liquid diamonds. Then, a wounded little bird, she collapsed into her Uncle's arms. He caught her, stiff as a board. "Oh Uncle," she breathed to his chest. "Let him go. If you love me, as I know you truly do, Uncle, let me go. I'm happy here." 

"How can you be happy with a beast?" he said through gritted teeth. "You're my princess, not a bitch in heat."

Sansa needed him to be softer, so she raised a palm to his cheek, and stroked his smoothly shaven skin. He relaxed. He set his hands on her waist, a cautious touch. Good. "Uncle," Sansa whispered. "My sweet Uncle. You're wrong." She nestled her fingers in his prickly, well-trimmed hair, and pulled his frown to her deliberate pout. "I'm not in heat. I'm with child."   

He saw a ghost in her—no, a monster. His hands turned to hard fists; he scrunched handfuls of her satin skirt and jerked her forward until their lips hovered at a hair's breadth. 

"What did you just say?" 

"I'm not your princess. I'm not your daughter. I belong to Sandor. We belong to each other." 

"No," Uncle spat. He groped for Sansa's belly, yanking up her skirt, sticking a cold hand over her maidenhair and north to her budding womb. It was an invader; a sickly crawl like black vermin. 

Uncle was no better than a gnat, and not a shred stronger. 

So Sansa pounced. She took her neat claws and swiped the papery skin on Uncle's jowls, tearing three streaks of red ribbon. He cried out and retreated, clasping a hand to his wounded cheek, stumbling back on a jutting cobblestone. 

He shrunk down. 

Sansa grew taller. She stepped close as he withered, his green eyes wet and his hair dropping clumsily into his eyes. "You were supposed to be better than this!" he howled, flecking spit on Sansa's skin. "I loved you, Cat!" 

Red-hot ire boiled in Sansa's belly, up her throat, and out, in a growl. She clasped two handfuls of insidious grey hair and jerked Uncle up so he couldn't evade the hate in her narrowed eyes. 

"I am not my mother," she snarled to his trembling lips. "I am Sansa Stark, daughter of Eddard Stark, Lady of Winterfell, and if you ever, ever, come near me or my family again, it will be the last thing you do." 

Sansa tossed Littlefinger down to the stone walk like the weak gnat he was. She offered her cruelest glare to one watchman, then the other. Neither made a move—they wouldn't dare. 

So she turned on her heels, wrenched open the door, and sealed herself inside. 

Sandor was fast asleep when Sansa slipped back into the bedroom, the flashing lights fading into the distance, replaced by the pinkish golden glow of dawn. She curled up at his broad backside, with one arm curled around his belly, rising and falling in a calm tide. Sandor roused, wordlessly cupping her hand in his and sliding it up to his lips. But there was more—after a warm kiss came a kiss of cold metal along her ring finger. Though her hand dwelled snug between Glory and Mercy, resting on weirwood skin, she knew she wore her opal, perched rightfully in the mouths of two snarling wolves. 

"I'm yours," Sansa whispered. 

"No," Sandor corrected. "I'm yours."

Chapter Text

At four sharp the shrill honk of Gerold's Warhammer blared at street level. 

"Oh," Sansa startled, gathering her sheet music while Mia and Molly sat idle on the piano bench beside her. "That's my ride, I really must be going!" 

Stooping to grab her backpack was quite an affair with the rather blossomed bud in her belly. He was snug though, not a peep from him during lessons—he loved Hamish's concerto in D, the sweet thing. Three moons yet and she'd sing to him in person. What a treat that would be! 

Sansa hobbled down the steps of the narrow brownstone beaming. Today was the day! Every day that her sweet dog was alive was a special day. She learned this on the day that could have been his last—six moons ago. 

Wylla popped out of the truck first and helped Sansa up onto the bench, taking the backpack, and sliding in next to her. Sansa kissed Gerold in the driver's seat, then gave Wylla a kiss too. Well, not to spoil too much, but let's just say the kisses were ample—Sandor's bed was very big, for more than one reason. He looked very handsome when he kissed Gerold. 

Everywhere.  

And everyone loved Sansa's swollen belly. They were quite thrilled to discover that her milk had come in three days prior. What a scene that had been! 

Okay, but it took some time to get to the kissing in bed. Because first came confessions in bed. That was the thing: Sansa knew she let the door slam on Littlefinger's dumb rat face her tuition was good as gone. She had the sense to phone Jeyne straightaway: "My harp, and my pictures! Oh, please rescue them!" 

They were stowed safely in Jeyne’s station wagon. 

And Sansa stayed in bed. She held Sandor there, in her arms, for hours and hours, days and days. She had nowhere to be but there, with him. He shivered, sweated, and threw up more times than Sansa knew was possible. She went out for the groceries, cooked broths, and stayed up as Sandor suffered waking nightmares. It was hardest when he didn't recognize her, but Stranger stayed close to remind his master: she's yours. 

The madness faded. But not before long hours tangled naked in each other, whispering secrets. "I was never as strong as him. I envied him even in death." And, "I never thought I'd love someone as much as I loved Elinor." 

Confessions came with kisses. It was to Sandor's weirwood chest she whispered, "Littlefinger wanted to marry me. He proposed while he was in town." A heavy breath fell on top of Sansa's head, but she went on, "He—he—he used to watch me. Watch me put them on. The underwear, I mean. It was our ritual. Because—well, because he said it's what my mother would want." 

"Little bird…" 

"I was thirteen. That was the first time. The first week I lived in the Vale, even." 

The way Sandor's biceps tensed around Sansa's head, she knew: he could kill. "I don't want him dead," Sansa said, just in case he got wild ideas. 

"Give me one good reason." 

"Ned." 

Ned was their first born, of course, because it turned out Sandor's father had been named Gregor, and his grandfather before him, and his grandfather, and his grandfather. That name was far out of the question.

For extra assurance Sansa told Sandor, "I want Littlefinger to grow old, alone. I think that will be worse. I think when I sell records and we have our dozen babies, that'll be vengeance enough. We'll be so happy without him." And then, in a tiny voice, "I don't want you to get in trouble. I don't want to raise Ned alone." 

"I'll stay, sweet girl," Sandor replied. "For you. For him." 

He did. Not a drop of milk or shade for six whole moons! Ale only on Smithsday, Sansa's favorite, because they got to make dumplings the way Sandor's mother used to do. Sandor showed Sansa her cookbook in the apartment, full of hand scribbled notes. Sandy's favorite! or Add more flour next time! Two hours spent cleaning the oven, oopsie daisy! Sandor also had to teach Sansa the cooking, most of it. Ladies do not take home economics; they learn table manners and ballroom dances. Most importantly they learn instruments—Sansa's truest talent. 

Sandor went back to work at the docks and Sansa devised a plan to start teaching music lessons. She photocopied flyers with Wylla's help: Lady Sansa Stark, virtuoso for hire! The picture in the center was a polaroid of Sansa in a fine gown, smiling while strumming her harp. A few local merchants rang within a quarter moon, and her schedule was booked. She taught ten local children piano, harp, and voice. 

In three moons she had saved enough: she purchased a new Minimarq. 

Or rather, Sandor had. They both put their earnings in the cookie jar atop the fridge, a ceramic one shaped like an obedient black hound in wait. The cash sat beneath a pile of dog treats. Stranger earned one each time they earned a day's wages. Only one day the jar seemed emptier—had rent been due? But no, it was mid-moon, and Sandor always grumbled, "Landlords are leeches, I can't believe I put up with this shit," right before he paid it. 

He came home with a black case, with a shape and logo Sansa recognized so well. 

"For my sweet lady," he said. 

He was blushing the way he did when he held back tears. A few fell anyway, when Sansa leapt up into his arms, showered him with kisses, and whispered, "My old hound is too good." 

Because that was the best part of life: making music. Now she lived with Sandor. Now every day she could take out her synth, weave electronic melodies while he riffed on his guitar. She could hear him sing in person, and vice versa. No more phone calls necessary. They had each other in the flesh. 

Of course there were other calls—calls to Arya and calls to Jeyne. Arya was thrilled to hear how Sansa stood up to Littlefinger at last. "He was always such a cunt!" were her words, because she was crass as Sandor. 

"I know," Sansa relented. "I'm sorry I didn't see it sooner." 

"It's not your fault, Sans. He preyed on you big time." 

That was true, wasn't it? Until Sansa became the predator.  

Gerold sloppily parallel parked in front of the Dockworker's Union: a narrow but tall building, its stony facade licked by saltspray. Dale, Jon, and Soren loitered at the entry steps. Sansa greeted them with kisses to their cheeks, and accepted her favorite praise: "He's a lucky dog, he is. Seven forbid. Wish they were half so good to me." 

Sansa was the lucky one—a lucky bird, truly. She held Wylla's hand and waddled to the common room, a space cramped with mismatched wooden chairs, a podium on the far end. Sandor and half dozen other men sat behind it. He was wringing a program in his hands, but stared daggers as Sansa dropped into a front row seat. She waved. He blushed, dragged his hair down over his scars. 

Oh, she was going to lose it. She simply knew. Better take out her kerchief now. 

The leader of the Men's Recovery Association, Mr. Morton, spoke first. 

"Tonight we honor a fine set of men who have boldly reclaimed their lives. It is a long and lonely road, but we have banded together to fight the perils of addiction. Without further ado, I yield the floor to tonight's honorees." 

A man named Kennet gave the next speech, then Cletus, then Godry. When Godry finished he gave Sandor's shoulder a tap, and mouthed the words, "You're up." 

Sansa smiled at Sandor very hard, even though he watched his boots as he stalked to the podium. He futzed with the mic a bit, trying to tilt it further up to his face, grumbling, "Fuck," and "piece of shit screw," before he got it at the right angle. He heaved a ragged sigh, smoothed his hair down again. His eyes were glassy in the lamplight when he looked up at long last. 

"I'm Sandor," he started in a low rasp. "And I hate this public speaking shit. I haven't touched milk or sap in six months, that's why I'm up here. Still drink booze though, hells if I give that up." 

Soren and Dale chuckled in the back row. "Atta Hound!" Jon shouted. 

Sandor grunted a laugh; his lips twitched at the corner. "I'm not a liar," he went on. "I didn't do it for me." His entire face had gone shiny—droplets streamed from his forehead to his chin. He ignored them, curling his hands on either side of the podium, tattooed knuckles white beneath his runes. "I did it for my girl, Sansa. For my unborn son. I'm going to be a good husband, and a better father—a better father—shit—" Sandor mashed the heel of his palm in his good eye, and sucked in a drowning-type breath. "I'm gonna be a better father than the one I had," he got out. "I'm gonna be a good dad." 

Sansa wiped her tears with one hand—Wylla clutched the other. "You're damn straight!" she heckled. Sansa let out a blubbery giggle. 

"I hate everything," Sandor rasped. "Not this place. Not my mates. Not my music." He put his cutting, albeit wet, stare back on Sansa. "And not my little bird. Not my sapling. I was supposed to be long dead, didn't know why I wasn't. I stuck around for her. For you, Sansa." With a parting, "Fuck," he took two steps past the podium to her seat, held her face, and planted a kiss between her brows. "She's a good girl," he growled. "I love her." 

Sandor left Sansa blushing rubies head to toe. When he fell back in his own squeaky chair, Sansa picked up the locket at her neck. Yes, a new locket! A golden heart on an ice blue collar, a delicate half-inch leather band with golden studs. Sandor hooked a hand around the collar of his black polo, his fanciest attire, where Sansa knew two chains hung: one longer, one shorter. 

Sansa smiled her finest lady's smile—she'd put the shorter one to use tonight. It looked so fetching paired with the leash, especially when the leash was in her hand, as it ought to be. Sandor was handsomest on his knees. He was blushing too. He held his program in a particularly strategic fashion for the remainder of the meeting. Silly, silly dog. He knew what was coming at home! 

Well, a preview came during the reception. Sansa's latest pregnancy-related hobby was needing to pee, nonstop. Sandor tailed her to the water closet and didn't give a chance to get her undies back up. He knelt, stuck his face beneath her dress, and ate her flower while he jacked off. 

When they resurfaced a good ten minutes later and joined their friends, Gerold knew immediately. He smeared a white splotch from Sandor's scruff with his thumb and licked it. "Dirty old hound," he teased, smirking. He earned a playful punch to the shoulder, then a manly but affectionate hug, with lots of back patting. "I'm proud of you, big guy," Gerold told him. "Well done." 

Sansa sipped lemonade and chatted, melting further and further into Sandor as her feet got tired in her boots—they had swelled something awful in the last moon. When she'd had her fill of holding her achy bodyweight, she took her locket and glanced up. Sandor nodded. 

"Let's the get the fuck out of here." 

As soon as Sansa flopped onto the couch in the apartment, Sandor was at her feet, pulling off her boots and socks, then delivering the most wonderful foot rub. Nothing was better than the strength and warmth of Sandor's hands. A sure touch. Though he liked to kiss her feet too, and nibble on them. "I don't have a thing for feet," he told her often. "I have a thing for your feet, and your feet only."

He'd wink at her, then bite her toes some more. 

Tonight he let them lie after ten simple pecks. "What do you want for dinner?" he asked. 

"Dessert!" Sansa chirped. "Cream cake with fudge sauce and whipped cream. And caramel!" 

"And a cherry on top?"

"Five of them," Sansa answered. 

As soon as he trekked to the kitchen, the phone went off on the side table. "I'll get it," Sansa hollered, flopping over the arm of the couch to grab the receiver. 

"This is Sansa Stark speaking, may I ask who's calling please?" 

"Ah, just the girl I'm looking for!" It was a man's voice, unfamiliar, though not unfriendly. "Let me introduce myself, doll. I'm Tom. Tom O'Sevenstreams, they call me. You can call me Tom." 

"T-Tom?" Sansa stuttered, clasping a hand over her mouth. That Tom? "My tape—I thought—" 

"It went straight to the trash? It should have, but my receptionist held on to it. Said it had a certain... aura about it."  

"Lady," Sansa breathed, automatic. 

"I've heard of you, Lady. Heard all about ya. Heard about that nonsense with Littlefinger." 

"Oh, I—" 

"Don't worry. He's not an investor. He gets his money from brothels. Anyone ever tell you that? Probably not. He keeps it on the down-low. That's not the point—point is, I heard about your performance at the Warden's name day bash, friend of a friend. Asked Lyra about it, she said she knew Lady, put the tape in my hands." 

"Was it good?" 

"Oh, honey. It was spectacular. Synthesizers are all the rage—they're the future, you know. That's our deal at Sevenstreams. We're looking forward, not backwards. Electronic melodies paired with the pure voice of a maiden? Big bucks. We're talking big bucks, sweetling."  

"You mean—you'll sign me?" 

"You guessed it. I don't play around—come to my office, say, tomorrow at noon?" 

"Oh, of course, Mr. Sevenstreams!" 

"Tom. Call me Tom. See you then." 

Click.

Starstruck, jaw slack, Sansa slipped the receiver back into the handset. 

"Who was it?" Sandor asked, coming around the couch with a plate in hand. It crashed to the low table when he saw Sansa's face. "Little bird," he said, gripping her shoulders in two tight fists. "What happened? Why are you looking at me like that?" 

"T-Tom," Sansa managed.  

"Tom? Who's Tom? I don't know a fucking Tom." 

"Sevenstreams." 

Sandor's eyes went from wide to narrowed, under a keenly sloped brow. "I fucking knew it," he growled. "I knew it!" He hauled Sansa up, clasped his arms beneath her bottom. He twirled her around the living room, kissing her swollen belly while she clung fast to his hair and giggled up towards the rafters. "You're my little star, aren't you? You're gonna go triple platinum. You're gonna sell out a world tour. You're going to earn a million dragons. No—ten million." 

"Twenty million!" Sansa cried, breathless. 

"A billion. How about that?" 

Sandor gently lowered Sansa back to solid ground. "A billion sounds right," she replied. "We can have a big wedding! We can fix the keep!" 

Sandor fell to his knees and pulled Sansa forward with his face squished in her lately larger breasts. "Yes, please," he whispered there. He trailed kisses to her belly, holding their baby in two weathered hands, stretched wide like roots. 

"You'll like it there, I promise," he told the littlest star of all. "I'll be good for you."