Chapter Text
Sandor looked around his flat. It didn’t look too bad, did it? Sansa had once complained that his flat lacked life, so Sandor bought a plant and surprisingly enough it hadn’t died yet. He’d even purchased candles, something he’d never needed before. He secretly hoped that his scars were less visible in a candle-lit room. He was wearing a suit as usual, this time one of his best ones. Sandor owned many custom made suits because of his profession and they made him feel a little more confident. A proper suit could make even an ogre look good, his mum had said. Sandor’s father had never wanted to wear them, but Sandor remembered mother’s words well enough. Ever since Sansa had moved to King’s Landing, he always wore nice clothes and always tried to smell good. Sandor almost looked like a respectable citizen now, mother would have approved. He’d washed his hair, too. He’d washed his hair and brushed it. With a brush.
The theatre had been quite bearable. Sandor wasn’t really that fond of opera, but the sight of his little bird smiling always made up for it. It was a bit more difficult when Sansa wanted to discuss every little detail of the show, but Sandor managed to nod just enough times and make one or two remarks that were somehow interpreted as very clever and thoughtful. Sansa was an adorable little critic. Sandor could listen to her excited chirping all day, even though she didn’t appreciate it when he smiled contently watching her make a very serious speech. She had brought a lot of new things into Sandor’s life. He would never have gone to the theatre or a concert without her, he wouldn’t have thought about the plays, he wouldn’t have danced or tried northern folk crafts. Every day with Sansa brought something new to his life and every day gave him a new reason to smile. Lady Sansa was his woman. His little critic.
Sansa unfortunately assumed Sandor loved Westerlands as much as she loved her home and she wanted to know everything about Westerlands’ food and customs. Sandor didn’t know a second thing about Westerlands’ traditions and he didn’t give a damn about them anyway. But tonight he had one of Barristan’s friends, a chef from Lannisport, cook for them a few traditional dishes. The little bird would finally get a taste of Sandor’s favourite childhood meals. He didn’t like being reminded of his childhood, and yet Sansa was obviously excited for every memory he shared with her. And Sandor wanted everything to be perfect tonight. Sansa always masterfully avoided every conversation about their relationship and Sandor wouldn’t let that happen tonight. He had to have some clarity. He desperately needed to know what they were doing, where they were heading. Was Sansa even truly his?
Sandor had never had anything resembling a relationship, only one night stands, mostly paid, when he was too drunk to care. But with Sansa everything was different. She wasn’t after his money, she wasn’t even like those girls who just considered him a challenge and wanted a big cock only to whine that he was actually too big. He never cared about them. But Sansa wanted neither his money, nor a quick fuck, she cared for him, she genuinely enjoyed Sandor’s company. Sandor loved that, loved the new sort of intimacy that wasn’t based on anything physical. It was a completely new territory for him and it was as thrilling as it was frightening. He was prone to making stupid comments and he didn’t want to mess this up. Sansa liked hearing his opinions, his thoughts. They spent many nights together, talking about everything possible, and yet they never went further than kissing. And it was perfect anyway.
“Little bird,” he nuzzled her ear and buried his nose in her hair, drinking in her feminine scent. With Sansa in his arms he was the richest man in the world. He kissed her, tasted her sweet mouth. Her lips were soft and pliant, melding into his. Sandor needed this, needed to kiss her, touch her, make sure it was all real, she was really his. Sansa never allowed him to touch her in public and he constantly felt like a starving beast. He wanted to hold her hand and kiss Sansa anywhere anytime. He didn’t give a rat’s arse how many photos of himself he’d see in the papers. Why couldn’t the public know about them? Sandor was tired of hiding their relationship, he hated pretending. He wasn’t Sansa’s bodyguard, he was the man of her life and anybody who doubted that could try and say it to his face. Let the world know. Let them see.
“Sandor,” she put her small hand on his chest. “We should stop,” she said breathlessly. Her gorgeous face was all flushed and her lips were red and swollen. They were perfect. They needed to be kissed again.
“Why?” he growled, tightening his hold of her. He didn’t want her to pull away from him again, why did she always stop him when it was getting good? “I want to kiss you everywhere, little bird,” he nibbled her collarbone. “You’re so beautiful, so bloody beautiful.”
“Sandor,” she pushed him away.
Sandor grunted, his mouth twitching. Yes, this relationship was the greatest thing that had ever happened to him, yes, nothing had ever been more important to him. But he was still only a man, alright? He had the most captivating woman kissing him, how was he supposed to react? Sandor had lived like a buggering septon ever since Sansa started thinking about moving to King’s Landing. He’d struggled with an unhealthy obsession with the girl before, but after he had learned she’d live in the same city as him, it consumed him entirely. He never dared to hope, he initially wanted only to keep Sansa safe. King’s Landing was full of rats and liars, the girl had no idea what dangers she’d be facing. But Sandor and Sansa got very close soon, so close the girl kept touching Sandor, she even hugged him and kissed him and Sandor knew then that he was lost.
Sansa was unlike any other woman. When he’d first met her, she was the star of a grand ball, a beautiful heiress from the distant North. Everybody wanted to be photographed with the striking debutante, everybody wanted to dance with her. At that time magazines kept printing one sensational article about Sandor after another and everyone treated him as a fascinating and dangerous curiosity. People were gossiping about him from afar, secretly taking unflattering pictures or giving him forced compliments. And she, Lady Sansa herself, she came to him, smiled at him, talked to him, joked with him about the grandeur of the event and her own insecurities. At the times of the worst media scrutiny, Sansa made him feel like a normal human being. She saw more in him than anyone else. When Sandor barked at her as he always did, she said she wasn’t scared of him. And when the lords and ladies greeted and praised Sandor’s brother, a celebrated army general, Sansa knitted her pretty brows in a frown and said Gregor wasn’t a true hero like Sandor. She saw Gregor for what he was, she didn’t care about his fame and decorations. She thought Sandor, the freak of the family, was better than him. She rather spent her time talking to Sandor than to any of the pretty boys and celebrities. Sandor didn’t know how to deal with it, how to react. He was rude to the girl, of course, because he was an idiot like that. But she never stopped with her kind smiles and polite chirping.
Sandor hadn’t deserved Sansa’s kind words. He’d been a soldier, always obeying questionable orders, killing people who should have been protected instead. He’d been a royal guard, witnessing corruption and scheming, and staying silent about it. He’d been a drunk, drowning his guilt in alcohol instead of doing something about it. Sansa had praised him and he didn’t deserve anything of it. He was better than Gregor, but not by much. Sandor had been just a dog, a stupid, loyal dog, not thinking for himself. The conversation he’d shared with Sansa inspired him to stop drinking in excess and piss on all the lords and rotten generals. He started his own security company. He wanted to be a better man, a real man. He used to be obsessed with winning battles, fighting, or drinking. Now it was a girl occupying all his thoughts. And it was driving him crazy just as much.
He hated how attached he got to the girl, how important she’d become to him. Sansa could have anyone and it was difficult to believe that she’d really chosen him. But she had. When she was overcome with emotions, she herself made the first step and kissed him. In public. Even when she later shyly admitted she didn’t want to rush into anything, Sandor was thrilled that she was willing to give him a chance at all.
But it was difficult now. Sandor wanted to keep Sansa safe, even from himself. He wanted to be the man deserving of Sansa’s kind words and affection, he wanted to be her hero, a true hero, he wanted her to see a future with him as well. His poor balls suffered for it dearly, though. Sandor had never gone very long without sex, even when he was in the army and recovering from various wounds, he still took care of his needs quite often. In the past years he was trying to get Sansa out of his head by various means, too, making himself feel dirty instead. But now for the first time in his life Sandor was in a relationship, he was in love, he had a woman he adored and who cared for him. It was quite enough how ugly and intimidating he looked, he didn’t want to pressure Sansa, make her uncomfortable. Even if it meant he wouldn’t get to do much more than kissing. He... Seven hells, he didn’t get to do anything more than kissing! Sansa hadn’t even let him run his hands over her soft body, Sandor had never seen her in her underwear. Six months. They’d been together for six months and when he now stroked her delicious butt through the layers of her clothes, she blushed and tittered and snatched his hand away. Was it normal? Did she secretly want to drive him mad? Six months! Six bloody months!
Sandor reluctantly let Sansa out of his embrace. His cock was once again straining against his trousers, his muscles were tense, his whole body screaming for relief. But now was not the time. Now was the time to talk. Sansa had always avoided talking about their relationship, she chirped every time that he was ruining the romantic moment. Sandor didn’t care about the moment, he wanted the future. Their entire future.
The couple sat down to the table and tasted the creamy soup. Sansa definitely had a positive effect over Sandor’s eating habits. The times of easy take-outs were gone, he now had a proper dinner every night. Sandor glanced at Sansa, who took a moment to fold the napkins with her nimble fingers and she bit her lip in concentration. Sandor watched her spellbound for a moment, imagining those fingers running through his hair, caressing his chest, trailing down... Seven hells. The soup. He had to concentrate on the soup.
“…and have you noticed her dress?” Sansa still had a lot to say about the costumes. It was unbelievable how much she knew about costume designs.
Sandor definitely noticed Sansa’s dress and the way it hugged her curves. And it wasn’t helping his current situation at all. “Was it inaccurate as well?”
“It was, but it was so pretty! And that teardrop necklace was the most perfect thing, I've always wanted to have something like that. And after she fell in love, she kept wearing the same flowers as the troubadour.”
“I haven’t noticed.”
“And he was wearing the same ribbons as her, too!” Sansa’s face brightened as she explained to him hidden meanings behind various costumes. Sandor loved her enthusiasm, but his treacherous mind kept imagining much better ways how he could make her eyes shine even more. He’d kiss every inch of her skin, worship the perfection that was her body.
“It was so romantic!” she gushed.
Licking Sansa’s sweet cunt would be awfully romantic, too. Sandor could take her in the meadow, if she wanted flowers, make her sing with birds. Or in the castle, fuck his pretty princess into the medieval mattress. Anything involving Sansa would be beautiful and romantic, Sandor only had to make her see that he was no Theon Greyjoy. Sansa was obviously very wary in her new relationship and she was scared to commit. She never spoke about her past relationships, but she must have got hurt a lot by her previous boyfriend. She’d once said that Theon betrayed her and she never wanted to discuss the topic further. Sandor didn’t blame her. What could that ironborn piece of shit know about how to treat a lady? Sandor was determined to make Sansa happy. Always. Make her smile like this. Every day. And make love to her. Tonight, preferably.
Sansa finished the soup and took a bite of the meat roulade with cranberries. “Ah, this is so good,” she hummed excitedly. Sandor knew well enough how much Sansa loved eating and trying out new foods, but he could never get used to all these little sounds. She couldn’t have done a better job at torturing Sandor if she’d planned it. “Are there any sheep running around?”
“Sheep?” Sandor started to pay attention again. He hadn’t noticed any sheep at the opera house.
“There are always sheep in the pictures from Westerlands,” Sansa explained. “Are there around your house, too?”
“Ah, sheep,” Sandor finally understood. Why were they talking about sheep all of the sudden? “Sure, you can see them on the hills.” Sheep. Sheep. Were sheep now romantic as well? Sandor was starting to lose track of all the things Sansa considered romantic. Sansa’s optimistic world view kept scaring Sandor every day. Everything could be pretty, everything deserved love. Sansa never noticed people taking advantage of her, instead she saw their beautiful smiles, or a their romantic gestures, or a single nice act among dozens of crimes. Lady Catelyn had been very religious and wanted her daughter to be educated by septas. After her death Sansa’s knob of an uncle went along with it. He’d been so terrified that the Winterfell heiress could become yet another spoiled rich child, he rather brought her up sheltered from the world. How exactly it was supposed to be helpful, Sandor didn’t know. First raise the girl as naive as possible and then send her to the most rotten place, was that some sort of special Northern logic? Or retarded northern humour?
Sandor scowled just thinking about it. They’d argued about Sansa’s trustfulness enough times, there was no reason to open the topic again. Sandor would rather say a thing or two to dear uncle Benjen. And all the septas. Who was educated by septas in this day and age anyway? Still, it was Sandor’s greatest fortune that Sansa could see beauty where no one could. She only needed time to adjust to normal life, she was already much better at standing up for herself. And she had Sandor now to help her, to keep her safe and happy.
But she was staring at him expectantly. What was she waiting for again? Ah, the sheep. Sandor moved his chair closer to Sansa and bent over to whisper to her ear. “You could see it for yourself, little bird. We could go there on the weekend, I’d show you everything. Our family house, the forest,” he cooed in his raspy voice. “The sheep, if you want, the lambs. There are some nice tracks, too.”
Sansa leaned into his touch and Sandor’s heart leaped in his chest. He knew how to make his little bird happy, didn’t he?
Unfortunately, she composed herself quickly and pulled away again. She always pulled away from him. “This was so delicious, Sandor,” she finished the meal. “I can’t believe I’ve never tried this before.”
“Westerlands food is not bad, is it?” Sandor smiled. “You know, there’s a café near my house with some of the best cakes in Westerlands.”
“Really?” She bit her lip. The lip Sandor should have been biting.
“There are ruins of a castle nearby, too,” Sandor bravely kept a calm voice, concentrating on his persuasive arguments. “It’s full of history. And I know some tales about the place, too, about the knights.”
“And will you tell me?” she asked.
“Of course I will. When we’re there, I’ll tell you about the history of everything we see. When do you want to go, little bird?”
It had been very wise from Sandor’s mother to read to her son an old book of Westerlands’ tales. He could make a girl happy with them, who knew.
“You could tell me now,” Sansa suggested as she rested her head on his shoulder. “I’ve never heard any legends from Westerlands. Please, Sandor, you’re such a gifted story-teller.”
Sandor snorted in amusement, but then he realized the girl was being completely serious. Seven hells. Sandor loved it when Sansa was being affectionate with him like this, he always longed for more. She didn’t touch him nearly as often as Sandor would have preferred, but he’d never complain about it, he didn’t want to look like a desperate fool. Sansa spent her days being a perfectly composed, serious Lady Stark, the noble heiress, the future head of Winterfell Copper. It was a role that didn’t suit her and she didn’t like it, so Sandor wanted Sansa to relax in the evenings and be herself with him, do whatever she wanted. She could be insecure, she could be silly, she could be immature, but she felt safe being that way with Sandor and that was all that mattered. And her hand was now on his thigh, just an inch away from his cock, that somewhat mattered at the moment, too.
“Sansa,” Sandor groaned, pressing little kisses down her slender throat. He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her closer to him.
“Sandor,” she admonished him, giggling. “Stop it, you’re tickling me!”
“Am I?” he smiled against her skin. “You haven’t answered me yet, little bird. When will we go to Westerlands?”
“It’s too soon, Sandor,” she claimed. “We can go to Westerlands some other time perhaps, there is no rush for that.”
No rush. No rush. Sansa didn’t want to rush into anything, she always kept thinking everything through. They’d been together for half a year and they had never travelled together, never woke up next to each other. Sandor didn’t like thinking anything through, he wanted to be with Sansa all the time. He wanted them to live together, be together, eat together, sleep together. They cared for each other, what was there to think about? He wanted everything. Now.
“I’m not rushing,” he grumbled. “I’m just asking on which date I should book the flight.”
“Not this month, Sandor, you know it’s the exam period.”
Exams. Exams preceded holidays, didn’t they? In one month Sansa would have holidays, she wouldn’t go to school. “We could go there after the exams then,” he agreed. “I was thinking about going to Summer Isles, too. Show the little birds the prettiest bird of all. But we could go to Westerlands first, if you want, climb up a few mountains and then relax by the sea, what do you think?”
Sansa pulled away again, smiling the aristocratic smile Sandor couldn’t stand. Sansa used it whenever she was politely trying to get out of something very unpleasant. Sandor didn’t mind her using this noble expression to brush off anybody else, but he hated it when she smiled like this at him. He was Sansa’s man, he wanted an honest smile from her, a real one, or real anger, real sadness, anything, anything she felt, just not polite pretending. “It does sound very nice, Sandor,” she chirped. “I do want to visit Westerlands one day, but you know I have to go back to the North for the holidays.”
“When you return then. The holidays take three months, don’t they?”
“They do, but I’ll be spending all three months in the North,” she explained in her beautiful voice.
“Why?” He didn’t understand it. “We haven’t been together anywhere yet, little bird, we could go at least for a week. Think about it, a week, just the two of us.”
“It’s not possible, Sandor, you know I have a duty to my family.”
“I know, I know, family, duty and winter are coming,” Sandor snickered. “But what about your health, little bird? Seven hells, you’re nineteen, girl, nobody can expect you to work all year long without holidays!”
“I’m not working all year long, I’m studying, too.”
“And when will you rest, little bird?” he scowled.
“At night,” Sansa giggled. Sandor didn’t find it very amusing. Sansa worked and studied too much in King’s Landing without finding any joy in it. She’d be working even more now. It wasn’t healthy. It wasn’t right.
Sandor shook his head. “I’ll move there for those three months then,” he sighed. “I can help you. As long as there’s an internet connection, I can get my work done in the North, too.” It was obvious they’d be living in the North one day anyway, Sandor could just as well start getting used to it.
“Oh,” Sansa blinked. “You’d do that for me?”
“Of course I would, you think I’d rather be for three months without you?”
Sansa lowered her lashes and blushed, suddenly looking embarrassed.
“You thought I’d be three months without you?” Sandor repeated, incredulous. “Sansa, how in the seven hells could you think that?” he growled. “How...”
“No, no, Sandor,”she stood up and within a moment she seated herself upon Sandor’s lap, curling her thin arms around his neck. “I didn’t mean it like that. I thought I’d squeeze in two weekends to go to King’s Landing.”
It was just sounding worse and worse. What was Sandor to her anyway? A dog she could easily leave behind without explanation and return only when she had nothing better to do? “Two weekends? Two bloody weekends?”
“No, Sandor, please don’t be angry,” she nuzzled his cheek, kissing it. She brushed her fingers through his hair and planted soft kisses along his jaw, knowing perfectly well what affect she had on him. She wasn’t playing fair at all. “I didn’t realize you had other plans,” she confessed.
His little bird had really expected him to be without her for three months. She really had. Wouldn’t she miss him at all? Wouldn’t she long to be closer to him? “Sansa, what in the seven hells… we’re together, aren’t we?” he blurted out his fears without thinking. “I mean... a couple. We’re a couple.”
“Of course, we are a couple, why are you asking like this?” Sansa’s brows knitted together and she looked at him, pouting adorably. Sandor wanted to kiss her, but it had to wait.
“And we are...” he swallowed. “We’re exclusive, right?”
“What do you mean?”
“We’re not seeing anyone else.”
He anxiously watched for her reaction, but she was only frowning more and more. “Are you asking me whether I’m cheating on you?”
“No, I mean...”
“And how have you even got this idea? Are you cheating on me?” She was starting to be suspicious and her cute frown was replaced by a wolf-like expression. A suspicious little wolf.
“No, Sansa, I just wanted to be sure. That we’re together. Only together.”
“Hmm,” she said, her voice full of scepticism. “What are you trying to confess, Sandor?”
“What?” he asked, confused. “No, nothing! I’m just asking whether we’re exclusive.”
“Relationships are always exclusive,” she stated decidedly.
“Well, that’s not... I used to... I mean, some people... well...” He scratched his head. Let’s not go there. No, no. With the speed in which Sansa’s expression was changing, she’d soon turn into a real wolf.
He tightened his embrace and kissed her ear softly. “So you’re mine, right?”
“Only if you are not cheating on me.”
“I’m not such an idiot to cheat on a perfect little bird,” he tried to reassure her, suddenly feeling very awkward. He rather kissed her again. He didn’t know how to put his feelings into words, it always felt stupid, he wanted to show it to Sansa instead. Seven hells, he wanted to show her. Sansa’s lovely ass was pressed against his hardening cock, didn’t she feel it at all?
“I could fly to King’s Landing every other weekend,” she offered.
“There’s no need. It’s really not a problem for me to move to the Noth, little bird.”
“No, Sandor, it’s very sweet of you, but somebody would notice in the North.”
Sandor was too occupied with kissing her bare shoulder to pay much attention to her words. He’d never known there could be such a thing as a sexy shoulder. But sure enough, Sansa had even two of them. “So what? There’s nothing to hide about our relationship, let people know.”
“But we’re not married!”
“Who cares?” Sandor gently bit the soft skin of her collarbone, making her shiver.
“I do,” she said breathlessly.
“I don’t give a rat’s arse about people, you’re the only one that matters.”
Sansa pulled away from Sandor and gave him a reproachful look. “Sandor, stop it, you know we should avoid such temptation.”
Chirp, chirp, chirp. Sandor wanted to hear his lady use her lovely voice to moan his name in ecstasy. He’d make her beg for his cock soon, he would. Just the way she was looking at him now, those eyes, those lips… What was Sansa talking about again? And why was she straightening his tie? Sandor enjoyed when she did it, especially in public. It was the most intimate gesture she was willing to make in public and it seemed very possessive to Sandor. The tie had been a gift from her, too, a matching tie to her dress. Her tie, her man. Sandor always wanted Sansa to be possessive of him. But now, in the privacy of his flat, Sandor would have much preferred for Sansa to take the tie off and strip him naked instead. Did she dream about ripping the clothes off him? She was free to do so, no need to restrict herself.
She smiled at the tie approvingly. “I’ve told you that blue suits you best.”
Sure enough, even his balls were blue these days, bluer than her eyes.
“It suits you, too, little bird,” he cupped her face with his hands. “You look like an angel in that dress.”
“Really?” she blushed prettily.
“My little angel,” he nibbled her ear and she pressed herself to him again. Her face was flushed, her chest heaving, seven hells, her body was really reacting to him.
The dinner was over, but now was finally the time to feast. Sandor lifted Sansa up and carried her over to his sofa. She was so small and delicate in his arms, so wonderfully different from him. “My beautiful little angel.” He kissed his way down her neck, across her collarbone, and buried his face in the valley of her breasts.
“Sandor,” she moaned, but there was no complaint in her voice, quite the contrary. When Sandor tentatively run his palms over her body, Sansa arched her back and pushed her breasts more firmly against his hands. Sandor could feel her nipples harden even through the layer of her dress. The dress. He quickly pulled it down, exposing a blue lacy bra. Sansa was so fucking gorgeous, Sandor had no idea how he could have waited this long. He was quickly losing the last shreds of self-control. He just had to taste every inch of her smooth skin, he had to claim her, make her...
Seven hells, he really was an idiot, wasn’t he? He’d prepared everything, he’d planned this. He’d never taken any woman to his flat, he wasn’t used to it, but it was still no excuse for leaving the condoms in his bathroom. “I’ll be right back,” he groaned, tearing himself away from her. Idiot, bloody idiot.
Sandor hurried to the bathroom, the tent in his trousers making him look like an even bigger fool. He quickly grabbed one condom, or two. He grabbed the package and rushed back, to the beauty on his sofa. But she’d already pulled the dress back up.
“Sandor, I should go. It’s late and I don’t think...”
“No,” he quickly silenced her with his mouth. “No,” he pulled her under him and stroked her thigh, trying to nudge her legs open. He loved Sansa's legs, they were perfect. So long and soft, Sandor needed to be nestled between them.
“Sandor, we can’t do this!” she protested feebly, but eagerly kissed him back.
“We have to,” he groaned against her throat. “I need you Sansa, I know you do, too.” He tried to take her dress off, but Sansa held it in place with her hands.
“Sandor, don’t make this even harder,” she whined. “Please.”
Harder? Sandor wasn’t the one making things hard in this bloody room. Just Sansa’s scent alone could make a dead man come alive. But Sansa pushed Sandor away and she sat up. “I should go,” she straightened her dress, while her hair remained tousled alluringly around her flushed face. She’d never had a better hairstyle.
“Why?” Sandor didn’t understand anything. She wanted him, he was sure of it. Sansa Stark wanted him inside her body and she should never be denied anything.
She took a deep breath. “We both need to calm down now, Sandor, you know we can’t do these things before the wedding!”
“What? What wedding, why?”
Sansa pouted and started to chirp something about the Seven. Seven hells. A wedding, a wedding. Was that all it took? Chirp, chirp, chirp. How long could it take to get married anyway? A week? A month? Seven hells, Sandor wasn’t prepared to wait that long, surely he could arrange it faster. Weddings didn’t actually take much, Sandor only needed to get a few papers, some cloaks and flowers, a guest or two and a white dress. He already had enough suits, he was always ready. Mother would have approved. He didn’t need a week to arrange a wedding. Sandor looked at his little bird. She was so damn perfect. Sandor would take care of everything, she didn’t need to worry. Sansa was only chirping now, but she'd be singing at the altar soon.