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Sansa squirmed, laying on her stomach, under her covers. Daylight was streaming in through her windows, signalling she she should have been up sometime ago. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her mind racing.
She could see him, a figure in the dark, feel his hands. She pressed her fingers harder against herself, gasped into her pillow. The Hound’s hands worked against her sensitive flesh in her mind, propelled her closer to the edge as he had done in the godwoods. He bit her lip in her mind, and Sansa cried out, shuddering as her orgasm wracked her lithe body, let her panting and tingly.
Slowly, she pushed herself up, her face flushed. There was no one to see her, but still she was embarrassed. She had seen the Hound the day after he had found her in the godswood, seen him around the Red Keep. At first she had simply blushed and looked away from him, and he had let her, as he was preoccupied with his Kingsguard brothers. But later, as the night drew closer, he had stared openly at her from across one of the long halls, had smirked and let his eyes roam over her every curve. She’d been so frustrated she wanted to run over and pound on his chest, but at the same time, it had made that ach return between her thighs.
Locked in her chambers that night, she had listened to him. She’d closed her eyes and tried to mimic the way he had touched her, tried to imagine what it would be like to have ser Loras do it, or any of the other young knights that seemed to be appearing in the city. And while her touch had brought her breathing to a hitch, it was only when she remembered the feeling of the Hound’s calloused fingers did she peak.
Sansa stood up, knew her maids would be in shortly to dress her for the day. She had been invited to lunch with the Tyrells, and she had to look her best. She tried to push the Hound from her mind, but it was growing hard. Every time she touched herself, she thought of him, and it made a low, perpetual ache grow between her thighs.
She wanted him to touch her again, and she couldn’t blame the wine this time. It made her queasy, to think of wanting him, of throwing away her highborn teachings to rut around with him such. But Sansa felt as if she had little choice in the matter. If she didn’t get some relief soon, she was sure she’d go mad.
Lunch with the Tyrells had been trying. She had not been sure if she dared to confess to Margery and lady Olenna that Joffrey was a beast of a boy, a bastard in actions. The words had choked her, she did not know if she trusted the Tyrells, but she wanted to. When she her spilled the sentences over cheese and golden wine, she was sure that the Lannisters would appear from nowhere and punish her. But the Tyrells had only remarked that it was a shame, and gone about their meal.
The only good thing to come truly from the event had been the confession of their intention to marry Sansa to Willas. To wisk her away from King’s Landing and to Highgarden. He was gentle, they said, a smart young man, who would please her, even with his crippled leg.
Sansa had claimed she was joyous, but truly, she wasn’t sure. She walked around the Red Keep now, not wanting to return to her chambers and brood alone. The idea of leaving the city was enough to set her to dancing, but she wasn’t sure if Willas was what she wanted. They claimed him handsome enough, kind enough, and she would still hold a hefty status if she married him- but the idea didn’t send chills through her body as she thought it might.
Only the Hound made her shiver, and she cursed herself for such a realization.
She was making her way back to her room, when she saw him, leaning against her door. She stopped, and he turned to her, smirking his knowing smile. How she wanted to slap his face, but feel those lips again. She felt her dress growing tight around her chest as her breath sped up.
“Little bird,” he said, walking towards her. He was in his white armor, the glimmering plate of the Kingsgaurd, though it seemed less pure and honorable on him, more ominous.
“What do you want, ser?” The armor put her off- Sansa liked to forget he served and protected Joffrey with his life. As of late, she liked to think he protected her, the way he had shielded her from Joffrey over her time spent in the city.
And in the dark, she liked to think he servied her, with those rough hands.
He stopped in front of her, frowned. “You know I’m no ser,” he said, annoyed. “Can a man not visit his little bird in her cage?”
“Not when she’s a proper highborn lady,” Sansa said, straightening up, squaring her shoulders and holding her head high.
He chuckled. “Because you were so proper with my fingers in your sopping cunt.”
Sansa turned redder than the keep itself, feeling the breath rush out of her. Frowning, she shoved past him, heading towards her door. She reached it and threw it open, but not without hearing him call to her first.
“Come out tonight,” he said, “to the stables. I’ve got something else to show you, girl.”
She glared at him, then slammed it shut, and he walked away grinning like a mad fool.
Sansa shivered, wrapped her arms around herself under her dark cloak. It was dark, she could only find her way by the moon above and the few torches that lit the paths. The stable itself was brightly lit, she could hear stable boys talking, horses within.
She wasn’t sure what had made her come out. Maybe she simply wanted to slap the Hound, wipe that smirk off his face, those vile words from his lips. Or maybe she wanted those lips on her neck again, those teeth on her shoulder. The bruise he had left had faded over the past few days, but still left her skin discolored.
I shouldn’t be here. If I turn back now, I can get back to my room and he never has to know I came out.
Before Sansa could though, she saw a hulking black stallion trotting towards her, and she knew it was too late. Stranger was just a ominous and obvious as the Hound himself.
He reined up in front of her and gave her a rather pleasant smile, though Sansa told herself not to fall for the trap.
“I’ll be back in a moment,” he said, dismounting and leaned in to grip her chin, tilted her face up, daring to give her lips a quick kiss. Sansa’s eyes darted around, horrified someone may have seen, but the night was deserted. Any men living and waking were within the stables, and she watched as the Hound walked his horse over, reached up to touch her lips, trembling slightly with excitement.
Oh, seven hells...
He returned quickly, she watched him stroll towards her in the low light. He lacked his armor, wore cloth and leather, and had his sword strapped to his hip, his own cloak billowing around him, black as Stranger’s coat. Sansa wondered if she was staring at the Stranger himself in that moment, and the thought made her quiver, made her want him to slip a hand under her skirts right then and there. By the Seven she truly had gone mad.
“Come little bird,” he said, turning her gently to walk with him. She followed obediently, stayed hidden under her cloak. It would do no good to have someone recognize her, question her reasoning for being out in the dark of night with one of the Kingsguard- the Hound, of all of them.
“Shouldn’t you be with the King?” she asked as they entered into another portion of the keep.
“Meryn has time tonight,” the Hound said, “tomorrow I’ll get to stand by while he had his bloody wet dreams.”
Sansa’s face turned red, and she felt him run a hand down her back as the walked, stopping on the small of her back to guide her. “I know you’re blushing girl.”
“How can I not?” she asked, lifting her skirts as they ascended some old stone stairs. “To speak of such things-“
“Is not below a dog.” His chuckle made her want to slap him again. Sansa was discovering she wanted to slap him more oft than not. He opened a door for her, and Sansa realized they had left the stairs and wondered down a hall. She paused, then entered the dark chambers, which grew black as death when the door closed and latched.
“I can’t see any-“ She gasped as she felt his arms around her, lifting her up, cutting off her speech. She squirmed, but didn’t fight him, let him carry her through the room. He dropped her onto something soft, and Sansa realized it was a bed. His bed.
Oh gods, these are his chambers. What have I done?
She heard the heavy sound of his cloak hitting the floor, felt the bed shift, his body brushing along hers as he crawled over her. He kissed her in the dark, her eyes unable to give her warning. Sansa fell into it, despite her better judgement telling her this was a place she should not be. His mouth was too tempting, too knowing in its movements, it’s tastes and textures. She shivered, reached up and clutched at his leather jerkin, played with the lacing. One of his hands was between them, grasping at her breast, rougher than before, though not unpleasant.
He made short work of her gown, opening it up so he could access her breasts freely, his mouth moving down to ravage them. Sansa pushed her chest up, moaning, tipping her head back. He bit one rosy nipple, heard her gasp, felt her squirm.
“Do you like that, little bird?”
Sansa gasped, “yes,” and he bit the other, making her cry out. It hurt, but sweetly so, in a way that left them tender to his tongue and lips after. She ran her hands over his shoulders, stroking the tight muscles under his skin, the cloth and leather that kept her from him. She tugged on it without much thought, and within moments he reared up, nearly tore it off, and resumed his kisses bare chested.
She wanted to kiss him again, as much as she loved the hot tingles he was sending through her chests. “Kiss me,” she breathed, and like lightning he was there, mouth devouring her. She seized the moment to run her hands along his chest, through the black hair that covered the hard muscles. She whimpered, one of his hands tugged on dress, pulled it down to her hips. Somehow in the dark, it felt less indecent. He couldn’t see her, after all.
You really are a stupid girl to think that makes this decent.
“Have you missed this?” he asked against her lips, one of his hands reaching up under her skirts, stroking along her womanhood through her smallclothes. Her breath hitched.
“Yes,” she hissed, not meaning to speak at all. He slipped beneath the cloth, felt how slick she was, how ready she was for his touch, hungry for it. He kissed her again, teasing her, wanting nothing more than to rip the flimsy cloth away and drive his cock into her, feel her quake around him. Bloody hells, how bloody sweet.
But not yet. He had so much more to teach her, so many other ways to torment her. The prize at the end would be even sweeter that way.
“How much did you miss me?” he asked, his words hot breath on her lips. Sansa shuddered as the pleasure tightened in her belly. Miss him?
“So much,” she breathed, ignoring her thoughts. “I can’t make myself feel this good.” She squirmed, pushed towards his hand, in the dark couldn’t see the dangerous, deviant glimmer in his eyes. She would have cured her slip of tongue, had she the wits left to even realize what she confessed.
“So the little bird took my advice,” he said, and in one quick motion he ripped her smallclothes off her body, tearing them to near shreds. “You’ve been a vile thing, haven’t you, Sansa?” He kissed her again, bit her lip, circled her bundle of nerves faster. “Do you like playing with your own cunt?”
Sansa squeaked in shock, and suddenly his fingers delved lower, pushing against her entrance. He slipped a finger inside, felt her breath rush out of her, her walls so warm and bloody tight. He groaned, and Sansa bucked her hips as he rolled his thumb over her nub, crying out loud into the dark as her pleasure exploded. Her cunt hugged the Hound’s finger tight, he felt her muscles ripple in wild contractions over it, gritted his teeth and cursed, nearly spilling himself in his breeches.
The girl would be the death of him.
Sansa was panting when he pulled away from her. He felt her quivering as he tugged on her dress, pulling it completely off her body, leaving her naked on the bed. She started to protest, but he placed a slick finger to her lips, and Sansa realized it was wet because of her.
“I’m not finished with you yet, little bird.”
He gripped her thighs, spreading them, pushing them up so her feet rested flat on the bed. Sansa couldn’t see him, and her heart thumped in her chest as she wondered what he could possibly do to her now. In the dark she didn’t see him lay flat on the bed, or dip his head between her legs, but she did feel his hot, soft tongue trace up her slit, lap at the wetness her earlier pleasure had caused. She cried out, reaching up to cover her own mouth with her hand, whimpering and moaning into it as he did it again, and again, and again.
Then his tongue was swirling around her nub, making her squirm, bit her hand, afraid she’d cry out. He dipped it into her entrance, groaned because she tasted like honeyed wine and sweet innocence.
“Move your hand,” he growled into her cunt, and Sansa obeyed, crying out into the dark as he gripped her hips and pulled her closer, his mouth driving her right back to an aching mess of near hysteria. She gripped the bed, nearly tore at it, panted and rocked her hips with him, the knot in her tummy so tight it could tear her in two. His scars rubbed against her soft thighs, rough and uneven, but she relished it, knowing it meant it was him between her thighs and no other. He dipped his tongue into her again, then returned to her aching nerves, rougher this time, and Sansa let go, crying out even louder, babbling his name with a string of sweet words, her hips jerking up. He gripped her still and lapped up the evidence of her pleasure, pressed his aching cock against the bed and rocked his own hips, so close to his own pleasure he threatened to throw himself over the edge.
He crawled up her body, kissing her mouth with such passion that Sansa melted. She tasted herself, realized she liked how she tasted, and licked his lips. He groaned again, his body between hers, the ache between his own legs digging into her sweetness, his breeches growing damp. He didn’t care.
Sansa traced his chest, coming down from her high, could feel how badly he wanted her. She wrapped one arm around his neck, buried her fingers into his hair, tugged on it gently as her mouth yielded, and her other hand traced down between them, toying with the laces of his breeches. The Hound froze, his mouth stilling, pulling away.
“Sansa-“
“Can I do something?” Stop talking before you get yourself into real trouble. “It... it wouldn’t be right to let you suffer so, when you’ve... you’ve pleased me.” Are you mad?
Mad and drunk on him. And still so thirsty...
The Hound rolled off of her, laying on the bed next to her. Sansa turned on her side, traced her fingers along his chest again, down his abdomen, worked delicately on the laces of his straining breeches. The Hound’s breath escaped him when her soft hand reached inside and freed his cock, held it so gently. Sansa chewed her lower lip, unsure what to do. He felt so big and heavy in her hand, and her heart was fluttering wildly in her ribs.
“What do I do?” she asked, and felt his big hand cover hers, guide it slowly up, than back down along the long shaft.
“Stroke- aye, just like that little bird.” She obeyed, let her hand move with his, before he lifted his own away and left her to move on her own. She felt his hips rock slightly with her movements, could tell he was restraining himself. She should be thankful, but part of her, most of her, wanted him to be as wild as he encouraged her to be.
She stroked faster, squeezing around the head of his cock carefully. He groaned deep, and she kept her grip tight. She wondered if she could kiss him as he had her. Would he like that? Would it be okay to put that part of him in her mouth? Was it something only whores did?
She knew by the way his groans rumbled from his chest again she wouldn’t know- not tonight. She stroked faster, and with a growl like a rabid dog, he thrust up into her hand, shook, and she felt something hot and sticky leaking onto her fingers. She stroked him through it, until his hips stilled and he softened somewhat in her hand.
Unsure what to do, Sansa draped over him, pressing her breasts to his naked chest, kissed his chin and then the tip of his nose. The raspy, rumbling chuckle he gave her made her blush. She wanted to rest her hands on him, but one was still sticky, and she didn’t think he’d like that.
As if he was in her head, swimming in her thoughts, he pressed some cloth into her hand. “Here,” he said, and she wiped her hand clean.
“What is it?”
She didn’t see his smirk in the black of night. “Your smallclothes.”
Sansa turned bright pink and dropped them. She smacked his chest, shoved him, wanted to pound into his chest. “How will I wear them back to my room?”
“You won’t.” She felt the bed shift, and he moved, standing and fumbling for her dress in the dark. He tossed it onto her, and it covered her legs. “Now get dressed. If I keep you too long you’ll be missed.”
“Surely I can stay another moment.” Sansa didn’t want to leave. She wanted to curl up against his broad chest, with one of his strong arms around her, and doze. She was tired suddenly, as if he had drunk all the energy from her body.
“If you do,” he said, “I may bloody well take all of you.”
Sansa paled, and obeyed. She dressed, hastily tying her dress in horrid knots, and pulled her cloak over her. Just a she finished she felt his big arms wrap around her, pull her back against his bare chest, hold her there.
“If I could keep you I would,” he said, gentler now. “But you’ll be missed. We can’t have the castle finding you in the dog’s bed, little bird.”
Sansa relaxed against him, but nodded. Just another moment, so her legs could turn from jelly to steel. Just another moment...
He escorted her to the door of the tower, but no further. “Go to the godswoods,” he said, “so you have a reason to be out this late. Stay there for a few minutes, then leave to your chambers. That is where you were all night.”
She nodded, and dared to stand on her toes and plant a kiss on his lips. He kissed her back, gripped his chin with his strong fingers, then let her go, watched her rush off. Until next time, until her next lesson.
Sansa knelt on shaking knees in the godswoods, not praying per say, but thanking something, anything. She should be cursing for her silly willingness to let the Hound touch her, but truly to relished it, wanted it. If she could, she could have stayed in his chambers all night- woken before dawn and begged, pleaded for him to kiss her between her thighs again.
As she stood, she trailed her hands over some of the wild branches growing from the weirwood. It was well past high moon, and she knew she would be tired come morning, but Sansa didn’t care. Her veins buzzed with blood and excitement, her chest tight with some strange, fluttery feeling.
A feeling she felt for beautiful knights in glimmering armor once, when she was a girl. But she was a woman, and as a woman, her chest and sex ached for a man with rough hands and scars, big enough to engulf her, but just gentle enough to never crush her.
She wanted the Hound, lusted after him like a wanton whore, and as she walked to her chambers, she giggled like a girl and didn’t care. It felt too good to want someone so badly for her to care if it was proper, if she should feel shame. She liked his hands and his lips and the thick hair on his chest. She like how rough his scars felt on her thighs, and the way her heart sped up when she thought of him touching her.
She liked him, enough so to dare think she’d have to visit him again, and soon. She was sure he could teach her much more than just a slip of his tongue.