FIC: A Hut in the Woods in Winter (Sansa/Sandor) for envielestrange
Mod's note: envielestrange, your anon artist/writer was generous and you get two gifts this round!
Recipient: envielestrange
Title: A Hut in the Woods in Winter
Author: diadelphous
Rating: R
Pairing: Sansa/Sandor
Word Count: 1268
Summary: Alayne Stone visits a stranger in the woods.
Warning: none
Alayne kept the basket tucked underneath her cloak as she moved through the falling snow. The valley forest was silent save for the soft crunch of her footsteps. It had been nearly two weeks since last she came; she didn’t dare make the trip unless enough snow was falling to cover her tracks.
She had not forgotten the path. How could she? Even in the snow and the murky winter twilight the dead, black trees were recognizable, their branches crooked at familiar angles, their long shadows cast in familiar ways. Ten more paces and she would arrive at the little stone hut - already she could smell the faint whiff of smoke. In the snowstorm it seemed an extension of the scent of cold, which had always reminded her of metal. She had forgotten that the outside world could smell any other way.
The hut was waiting for her, as she knew it would be, half-hidden by trees and snow drifts. Smoke rose from the roof and disappeared against the grey of the sky. Alayne’s heart fluttered, and there was that moment of doubt: Two weeks. Does he still wish to see me? What if he’s left? What if it isn’t even him burning wood in the hearth?
She knocked on the door.
A silence compounded by the snow. Then: the slurred thump of his footsteps, a key turning in the lock. The door sprang open, letting out a hand’s width of light. Alayne pushed it the rest of the way open. The hut was filled with golden, flickering firelight.
“I brought you something,” Alayne said.
Sandor grunted. He had dragged himself back to the chair in front of the hearth, although he glanced at her over his shoulder when she stepped into the hut, the unscarred part of his face made unrecognizable by light and shadow. Alayne set the basket on the rickety table in the corner. “Littlefinger somehow had stores brought in from, I don’t know, Dorne or some place -“
“Don’t say his name.” Sandor turned back to the fire.
Alayne pulled out a little jar of lemons packed tightly with sea salt - a treasure she should not have stolen from the kitchens, but she had hoped that with the flurry of excitement from the new food stores it would remain unnoticed. “You should try this.” She knelt down at his feet and opened the lid. She could feel him watching her, a heaviness that made her cheeks prickle and the hairs on her arm stand on end. “Here.” She pulled out a strip of lemon and handed it to him.
He stared at it for a long time.
“Go on!” she said, laughing. “Take it, it’s good.”
This hut was the only place she truly laughed anymore.
Sandor took the lemon and ate it. “If you’re going to risk your life to bring me food, you’d better have brought something that’ll actually keep me alive till the next time you bother to come out here.”
“There’s smoked meat and a loaf of bread baked this morning - that was hard for me to get, by the way, so you better appreciate it. And some pickled vegetables.”
“Wine?”
“No,” Alayne said sweetly, and she set the jar of lemons aside to reach up and smooth his hair away from his face. He stared at her as she touched him, eyes glittering like the fire. Her body felt like a furnace. The heat of it was enough to transform the melted snowflakes caught in her hair into steam.
She kissed the places where his hair had hung: his forehead, his eyelids, the ripples of his scars.
“You married yet?” he said.
“No.” She curled up in the chair beside him, her legs and skirts draped over his lap. He kept his gaze on her, and it burned her at a place that was not quite her heart, a burning that she longed for every cold night that she lay awake staring at the shadows and moonlight swirling across the ceiling of her bed chamber. His hand slipped up under her dress, a motion so slight she was hardly aware that he was moving. But she was aware of his skin against hers.
“And I take it Baelish hasn’t made good on his other promise, either.”
“The time isn’t right.”
“So no songs about the retaking of Winterfell, then, of lovely little Sansa Stark -“
“Don’t,” Alayne said, pressing two fingers against his lips, “say her name.”
Sandor’s face flickered, a darkness moving across his features that Alayne chose not to dwell on. His hand had come to rest on the inside of her thigh, and his fingers moved in soft, feathery circles. The fire crackled in the hearth, and Alayne’s heart crackled in her chest. For a moment they were as frozen as the forest. And then Sandor snapped her forward and pressed his mouth against hers, rough and sweet, and his hand was between her thighs, igniting a second fire that burned and burned until she was exhausted and panting.
But Alayne knew the secrets of Sandor’s body as well, had learned them easily in the year since he first appeared in the valley, gaunt and starving from midwinter travel. So she touched him until he jerked in the chair and grunted against her neck, his breath hot on her skin.
They stayed that way for a long time, curled up against each other, not speaking and not moving. Firelight danced across the walls, and Alayne imagined the snow falling so thickly that it coated the hut in ice, preserving them until spring, when ships could take them across the Narrow Sea. In some new sun-splashed city she could shed Alayne like a snake skin. She could chose her own name this time. And this new girl, with her new foreign name, could be whomever she wanted.
She knew it was a silly fantasy, as silly as a song, but she still allowed herself to think of it. Sometimes.
“I wish you’d marry the whoreson,” Sandor mumbled into her neck, after a time. “Get on with it. You know what I want to do with you.”
A blush crept up Alayne’s cheeks.
“Or find some other way. The whores drink something, to keep from -“
“It’s impossible to brew in the winter,” Alayne said. “You can’t get the herbs.”
He grunted and pulled her closer, his hand snaking around her waist. She never wanted him to stop touching her, but she couldn’t offer him that part of herself yet, much as she wanted. It was too much of a risk. After her wedding night, she had told him, he could take her and take her and take her.
And he’d understood, in his way.
“Besides,” Alayne whispered, speaking into the rough skin of his neck. “You know what I promised you. When I am Queen of the North, my sons will be your sons.”
He didn’t say anything, but she felt his heartbeat quicken beneath the rough fabric of his tunic. She closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of him, which was nothing like the sterile metallic scent of snow and cold and winter - his scent was heat and blood and sweat. It was running through the woods during the hottest days of summer, it was two bodies pressed together in a reenactment of desire. It was a promise of spring’s warm sun.
It was life.
And every time the snows fell, Alayne left her winter tomb and came here, to this hut in the woods in winter, and reminded herself that she was alive.
Recipient: envielestrange
Title: A Hut in the Woods in Winter
Author: diadelphous
Rating: R
Pairing: Sansa/Sandor
Word Count: 1268
Summary: Alayne Stone visits a stranger in the woods.
Warning: none
Alayne kept the basket tucked underneath her cloak as she moved through the falling snow. The valley forest was silent save for the soft crunch of her footsteps. It had been nearly two weeks since last she came; she didn’t dare make the trip unless enough snow was falling to cover her tracks.
She had not forgotten the path. How could she? Even in the snow and the murky winter twilight the dead, black trees were recognizable, their branches crooked at familiar angles, their long shadows cast in familiar ways. Ten more paces and she would arrive at the little stone hut - already she could smell the faint whiff of smoke. In the snowstorm it seemed an extension of the scent of cold, which had always reminded her of metal. She had forgotten that the outside world could smell any other way.
The hut was waiting for her, as she knew it would be, half-hidden by trees and snow drifts. Smoke rose from the roof and disappeared against the grey of the sky. Alayne’s heart fluttered, and there was that moment of doubt: Two weeks. Does he still wish to see me? What if he’s left? What if it isn’t even him burning wood in the hearth?
She knocked on the door.
A silence compounded by the snow. Then: the slurred thump of his footsteps, a key turning in the lock. The door sprang open, letting out a hand’s width of light. Alayne pushed it the rest of the way open. The hut was filled with golden, flickering firelight.
“I brought you something,” Alayne said.
Sandor grunted. He had dragged himself back to the chair in front of the hearth, although he glanced at her over his shoulder when she stepped into the hut, the unscarred part of his face made unrecognizable by light and shadow. Alayne set the basket on the rickety table in the corner. “Littlefinger somehow had stores brought in from, I don’t know, Dorne or some place -“
“Don’t say his name.” Sandor turned back to the fire.
Alayne pulled out a little jar of lemons packed tightly with sea salt - a treasure she should not have stolen from the kitchens, but she had hoped that with the flurry of excitement from the new food stores it would remain unnoticed. “You should try this.” She knelt down at his feet and opened the lid. She could feel him watching her, a heaviness that made her cheeks prickle and the hairs on her arm stand on end. “Here.” She pulled out a strip of lemon and handed it to him.
He stared at it for a long time.
“Go on!” she said, laughing. “Take it, it’s good.”
This hut was the only place she truly laughed anymore.
Sandor took the lemon and ate it. “If you’re going to risk your life to bring me food, you’d better have brought something that’ll actually keep me alive till the next time you bother to come out here.”
“There’s smoked meat and a loaf of bread baked this morning - that was hard for me to get, by the way, so you better appreciate it. And some pickled vegetables.”
“Wine?”
“No,” Alayne said sweetly, and she set the jar of lemons aside to reach up and smooth his hair away from his face. He stared at her as she touched him, eyes glittering like the fire. Her body felt like a furnace. The heat of it was enough to transform the melted snowflakes caught in her hair into steam.
She kissed the places where his hair had hung: his forehead, his eyelids, the ripples of his scars.
“You married yet?” he said.
“No.” She curled up in the chair beside him, her legs and skirts draped over his lap. He kept his gaze on her, and it burned her at a place that was not quite her heart, a burning that she longed for every cold night that she lay awake staring at the shadows and moonlight swirling across the ceiling of her bed chamber. His hand slipped up under her dress, a motion so slight she was hardly aware that he was moving. But she was aware of his skin against hers.
“And I take it Baelish hasn’t made good on his other promise, either.”
“The time isn’t right.”
“So no songs about the retaking of Winterfell, then, of lovely little Sansa Stark -“
“Don’t,” Alayne said, pressing two fingers against his lips, “say her name.”
Sandor’s face flickered, a darkness moving across his features that Alayne chose not to dwell on. His hand had come to rest on the inside of her thigh, and his fingers moved in soft, feathery circles. The fire crackled in the hearth, and Alayne’s heart crackled in her chest. For a moment they were as frozen as the forest. And then Sandor snapped her forward and pressed his mouth against hers, rough and sweet, and his hand was between her thighs, igniting a second fire that burned and burned until she was exhausted and panting.
But Alayne knew the secrets of Sandor’s body as well, had learned them easily in the year since he first appeared in the valley, gaunt and starving from midwinter travel. So she touched him until he jerked in the chair and grunted against her neck, his breath hot on her skin.
They stayed that way for a long time, curled up against each other, not speaking and not moving. Firelight danced across the walls, and Alayne imagined the snow falling so thickly that it coated the hut in ice, preserving them until spring, when ships could take them across the Narrow Sea. In some new sun-splashed city she could shed Alayne like a snake skin. She could chose her own name this time. And this new girl, with her new foreign name, could be whomever she wanted.
She knew it was a silly fantasy, as silly as a song, but she still allowed herself to think of it. Sometimes.
“I wish you’d marry the whoreson,” Sandor mumbled into her neck, after a time. “Get on with it. You know what I want to do with you.”
A blush crept up Alayne’s cheeks.
“Or find some other way. The whores drink something, to keep from -“
“It’s impossible to brew in the winter,” Alayne said. “You can’t get the herbs.”
He grunted and pulled her closer, his hand snaking around her waist. She never wanted him to stop touching her, but she couldn’t offer him that part of herself yet, much as she wanted. It was too much of a risk. After her wedding night, she had told him, he could take her and take her and take her.
And he’d understood, in his way.
“Besides,” Alayne whispered, speaking into the rough skin of his neck. “You know what I promised you. When I am Queen of the North, my sons will be your sons.”
He didn’t say anything, but she felt his heartbeat quicken beneath the rough fabric of his tunic. She closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of him, which was nothing like the sterile metallic scent of snow and cold and winter - his scent was heat and blood and sweat. It was running through the woods during the hottest days of summer, it was two bodies pressed together in a reenactment of desire. It was a promise of spring’s warm sun.
It was life.
And every time the snows fell, Alayne left her winter tomb and came here, to this hut in the woods in winter, and reminded herself that she was alive.