sweet dreams are made of these 1/1
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Which sucks because HBO and their writers FAILED. But you know, that’s just my honest opinion talking. It’s just so…depressing, so here’s my offering. It’s probably awful and I am oh-so very new to this fandom, so bear with this atrocity but it’s been spinning in my head and won’t leave me alone. But again, I own nothing.
Author’s Note: This is maybe-kind of-not entirely sure where this lands- AU. It’s up to you guys to decide. I’m putting it up as a warning, but if you squint your eyes, just a little then maybe it’s considered AU. I apologize for anything that may be wrong and for my grammar errors. I hope I don’t offend anyone!
Rating: M (to be safe in some parts)
Word count: 1080
_______________________________________________________________________________
sweet dreams are made of these
one-shot
Sweet dreams are made of these
Who am I to disagree?
I travel the world and the seven seas
Everybody is looking for something
_______________________________________________________________________________
In her dreams she is not Alayne. She does not have brown hair. In her dreams she is Stansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell. In her dreams she has hair the color of fire (no, not fire, anything but fire). In her dreams, she is back home, running her fingers across familiar stones and watching memories (long gone wasted memories) dance in front of her.
She is in a daze as she stumbles into her room. She feels sick to her stomach every time she sees Littlefinger (Father, in nothing but the name, and even then nothing). She wants to wail at him, she wants to hit him and she feels untamed (and she’ll always wonder if this is how Arya feels, always) when thoughts of killing him enter her mind. But she is not strong like Arya. No, instead she is Sansa (and she will always be Sansa in her solitude) and she is a Lady.
This is why it is so easy for her to fall asleep and succumb to her dreams.
She does not dream of Knights anymore. She has stopped dreaming about Knights. Instead, she dreams of a man who long ago left her when he said he wouldn’t. She dreams of a man, who by all likelihood is dead (why does her heart ache so much at the thought?). At night, in her dreams, she dreams of the Hound. Of Sandor.
She used to wonder why her dreams always turn to him, until one day she finally realizes it, (he’s the only one who cares about her. Not her title, her).
At least this is what she dreams.
__________________________________________________________________________________
She should feel shamed. She should push him away from her but she can’t. She is helpless and limp against his fingers. She can feel her heart fluttering and there is something in her stomach building, pressing against her until she bursts and she moans. His lips attach to her neck, sucking and biting.
She looks up at him, his cool grey eyes and scarred face, as he moves between her legs. She bites her lip but does not look away. She will never look away from him again.
He’s gentle with her (he’s always gentle with her and it makes her want to cry), he pushes away her memories of torture. He shatters every dream she ever had about Knights and she knows that they do not exist anymore. He makes her realize that Knights only exist in stories and songs and in the process he shows her something better, something real.
“Sandor.” She whispers over and over, the name rolling off her tongue so easily. She can feel the same pressure build in her again and she thrusts her hips wildly to match his. “I love you.” She tells him through her release. “I love you.”
He smiles softly at her (it comes out crooked and others would find it disgusting but she finds it so hauntingly beautiful) and he leans forward, pressing his mouth against her ear, to whisper a secret. She finds herself hoping, wishing, and praying that he tells her he loves her. She wants to hear the confession come from his lips. “Wake up, Little Bird.”
“What?” In her passionate haze, the meaning becomes clear. “No. No! Please.”
“Wake up, little bird.”
___________________________________________________________________________________
When she awakes, she is still in bed and she feels sticky. She presses a hand to her face and feels clear liquid. She falls back onto her bed and cries silently.
Sometimes, she wishes she could dream forever.
___________________________________________________________________________________
In his dreams, she is older. Her body is fuller and she smiles for him. She picks flowers for him. She sings for him. In his dreams, she always looks at him, she never shies her eyes away, she never turns her head, instead, she grasps his face in her delicate hands and looks at him.
(In his dreams, he never leaves her. He comes back for her, always).
He stumbles, in a drunken haze, to his room and falls onto the bed. When he dreams, he dreams of blue eyes staring adoringly at him. He dreams of a future (that will never happen) where she is his and he is hers.
In his dreams, they are always in Winterfell because it is her home and he knows that he would do anything for her. Anything. Her hair will be as bright as fire (flames that he will gladly be engulfed in) and skin porcelain. She is his Little Bird. His Sansa.
At least this is what he dreams.
___________________________________________________________________________________
“I fucking hate the cold.” He tells her, as he enters their chambers. He tells her this all the time (everyday), yet he knows, just as she knows, they won’t move, ever. They like the solitude of the North. Away from everything.
She is in bed and smiles at him. His heart constricts (she is his redemption) and he makes his way over to her. She grabs his hand, holds it and stares him in the eyes. She places kisses all over his face, not hesitating to kiss his scarred cheek and he wants to grab, he wants to tell her that he loves her, his Little Bird, his little wolf in sheep’s skin.
He doesn’t, he’s gentle with her. He’s always gentle with her.
He calls her his Little Bird as he teases her, but he always (always) calls her name when he can’t hold it in anymore, (when the pleasure, the utter bliss) becomes too much.
He presses his forehead against hers and glances down at their hands, still intertwined. He doesn’t say the words; he doesn’t think he has to.
She smiles sadly at him and then disappears.
And he is left alone (always).
_________________________________________________________________________________
He wakes in a sweat, his breeches tight against him and he groans. He wants to take his hand and swipe it against the room. He wants to hear things shatter and crash; he wants to create a mess.
He doesn’t. Instead, he puts his head in his hand and mourns. “Little Bird, what have I done?”
If he could dream forever, he would.
___________________________________________________________________________________
One month later
Littlefinger dies and in the darkness, she dons a cloak and runs away with the shadows.
She does not know if she’s going the right way, but she goes North (the stable boy pointed her in the right direction, she hopes). She wants to go back to Wintefell. She wants to go home.
The days blend into nights and the nights bleed into days. She has lost track. She knows that Arya would have been to Winterfell by now. And it’s the thought of Arya (and then her Lady Mother, Lord Father, Robb, Bran, Rickon and Jon…even Jon!) that she starts crying. She pulls the reins of her horse and she jumps off, she crawls towards a tree and sobs.
It is all her fault. She knows this. Everyone knows this.
She cries harder knowing that if he were alive, he would think it too.
She does not know how long she cries. But she gets up, gingerly, (her legs are so sore) when she hears a branch snap. She looks around wildly, her heart thumping with fear.
When she turns around, the breath is knocked out of her body.
They stare at each other for a while, not believing their eyes.
“Buggering hells,” he rasps, “what the fuck did you do to your hair?”
She lets out a small sob and throws herself into his arms. He catches her easily (she always knew he would). “Let’s go home." She tells him, grabbing his and holding tightly.
He does not say anything for a while, he just holds her hand. She smiles at him, trying to reassure him that yes, she means home, Winterfell, her home. Their home. He nods curtly and helps her get settled.
___________________________________________________________________________________
They sleep on the road that night. He hasn’t said anything to her the whole day. “Ser.”
“Don’t call me Ser.” He automatically replies, his voice growing hard.
She smiles. “Sandor.” His head whips around to face her, but she’s already crawling into the bedroll. “Sandor, lay next to me. Let us dream together.”
He ends up sliding next to her, (never behind, or in front, always next to her), and pulls her tightly against him.
He falls asleep thinking its dream. Then he wakes up to her singing and smiling at him (and her smile is so honest, so real) and he knows then that this is not a dream.
This is real.
He never wants to dream again.
__________________________________________________________________________________
The song at the beginning is Sweet Dreams by the Eurthymics. Hopefully you all liked this. Like I said, my first SanSan. Reviews are very much appreciated and who knows? Maybe I’ll write more (that aren’t so crappy)…take that HBO. I’m still so bitter. Is that bad?
Thank goodness for fanfiction or else I’d lose my mind.
Much love,
Bex.
Author’s Note: This is maybe-kind of-not entirely sure where this lands- AU. It’s up to you guys to decide. I’m putting it up as a warning, but if you squint your eyes, just a little then maybe it’s considered AU. I apologize for anything that may be wrong and for my grammar errors. I hope I don’t offend anyone!
Rating: M (to be safe in some parts)
Word count: 1080
_______________________________________________________________________________
sweet dreams are made of these
one-shot
Sweet dreams are made of these
Who am I to disagree?
I travel the world and the seven seas
Everybody is looking for something
_______________________________________________________________________________
In her dreams she is not Alayne. She does not have brown hair. In her dreams she is Stansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell. In her dreams she has hair the color of fire (no, not fire, anything but fire). In her dreams, she is back home, running her fingers across familiar stones and watching memories (long gone wasted memories) dance in front of her.
She is in a daze as she stumbles into her room. She feels sick to her stomach every time she sees Littlefinger (Father, in nothing but the name, and even then nothing). She wants to wail at him, she wants to hit him and she feels untamed (and she’ll always wonder if this is how Arya feels, always) when thoughts of killing him enter her mind. But she is not strong like Arya. No, instead she is Sansa (and she will always be Sansa in her solitude) and she is a Lady.
This is why it is so easy for her to fall asleep and succumb to her dreams.
She does not dream of Knights anymore. She has stopped dreaming about Knights. Instead, she dreams of a man who long ago left her when he said he wouldn’t. She dreams of a man, who by all likelihood is dead (why does her heart ache so much at the thought?). At night, in her dreams, she dreams of the Hound. Of Sandor.
She used to wonder why her dreams always turn to him, until one day she finally realizes it, (he’s the only one who cares about her. Not her title, her).
At least this is what she dreams.
__________________________________________________________________________________
She should feel shamed. She should push him away from her but she can’t. She is helpless and limp against his fingers. She can feel her heart fluttering and there is something in her stomach building, pressing against her until she bursts and she moans. His lips attach to her neck, sucking and biting.
She looks up at him, his cool grey eyes and scarred face, as he moves between her legs. She bites her lip but does not look away. She will never look away from him again.
He’s gentle with her (he’s always gentle with her and it makes her want to cry), he pushes away her memories of torture. He shatters every dream she ever had about Knights and she knows that they do not exist anymore. He makes her realize that Knights only exist in stories and songs and in the process he shows her something better, something real.
“Sandor.” She whispers over and over, the name rolling off her tongue so easily. She can feel the same pressure build in her again and she thrusts her hips wildly to match his. “I love you.” She tells him through her release. “I love you.”
He smiles softly at her (it comes out crooked and others would find it disgusting but she finds it so hauntingly beautiful) and he leans forward, pressing his mouth against her ear, to whisper a secret. She finds herself hoping, wishing, and praying that he tells her he loves her. She wants to hear the confession come from his lips. “Wake up, Little Bird.”
“What?” In her passionate haze, the meaning becomes clear. “No. No! Please.”
“Wake up, little bird.”
___________________________________________________________________________________
When she awakes, she is still in bed and she feels sticky. She presses a hand to her face and feels clear liquid. She falls back onto her bed and cries silently.
Sometimes, she wishes she could dream forever.
___________________________________________________________________________________
In his dreams, she is older. Her body is fuller and she smiles for him. She picks flowers for him. She sings for him. In his dreams, she always looks at him, she never shies her eyes away, she never turns her head, instead, she grasps his face in her delicate hands and looks at him.
(In his dreams, he never leaves her. He comes back for her, always).
He stumbles, in a drunken haze, to his room and falls onto the bed. When he dreams, he dreams of blue eyes staring adoringly at him. He dreams of a future (that will never happen) where she is his and he is hers.
In his dreams, they are always in Winterfell because it is her home and he knows that he would do anything for her. Anything. Her hair will be as bright as fire (flames that he will gladly be engulfed in) and skin porcelain. She is his Little Bird. His Sansa.
At least this is what he dreams.
___________________________________________________________________________________
“I fucking hate the cold.” He tells her, as he enters their chambers. He tells her this all the time (everyday), yet he knows, just as she knows, they won’t move, ever. They like the solitude of the North. Away from everything.
She is in bed and smiles at him. His heart constricts (she is his redemption) and he makes his way over to her. She grabs his hand, holds it and stares him in the eyes. She places kisses all over his face, not hesitating to kiss his scarred cheek and he wants to grab, he wants to tell her that he loves her, his Little Bird, his little wolf in sheep’s skin.
He doesn’t, he’s gentle with her. He’s always gentle with her.
He calls her his Little Bird as he teases her, but he always (always) calls her name when he can’t hold it in anymore, (when the pleasure, the utter bliss) becomes too much.
He presses his forehead against hers and glances down at their hands, still intertwined. He doesn’t say the words; he doesn’t think he has to.
She smiles sadly at him and then disappears.
And he is left alone (always).
_________________________________________________________________________________
He wakes in a sweat, his breeches tight against him and he groans. He wants to take his hand and swipe it against the room. He wants to hear things shatter and crash; he wants to create a mess.
He doesn’t. Instead, he puts his head in his hand and mourns. “Little Bird, what have I done?”
If he could dream forever, he would.
___________________________________________________________________________________
One month later
Littlefinger dies and in the darkness, she dons a cloak and runs away with the shadows.
She does not know if she’s going the right way, but she goes North (the stable boy pointed her in the right direction, she hopes). She wants to go back to Wintefell. She wants to go home.
The days blend into nights and the nights bleed into days. She has lost track. She knows that Arya would have been to Winterfell by now. And it’s the thought of Arya (and then her Lady Mother, Lord Father, Robb, Bran, Rickon and Jon…even Jon!) that she starts crying. She pulls the reins of her horse and she jumps off, she crawls towards a tree and sobs.
It is all her fault. She knows this. Everyone knows this.
She cries harder knowing that if he were alive, he would think it too.
She does not know how long she cries. But she gets up, gingerly, (her legs are so sore) when she hears a branch snap. She looks around wildly, her heart thumping with fear.
When she turns around, the breath is knocked out of her body.
They stare at each other for a while, not believing their eyes.
“Buggering hells,” he rasps, “what the fuck did you do to your hair?”
She lets out a small sob and throws herself into his arms. He catches her easily (she always knew he would). “Let’s go home." She tells him, grabbing his and holding tightly.
He does not say anything for a while, he just holds her hand. She smiles at him, trying to reassure him that yes, she means home, Winterfell, her home. Their home. He nods curtly and helps her get settled.
___________________________________________________________________________________
They sleep on the road that night. He hasn’t said anything to her the whole day. “Ser.”
“Don’t call me Ser.” He automatically replies, his voice growing hard.
She smiles. “Sandor.” His head whips around to face her, but she’s already crawling into the bedroll. “Sandor, lay next to me. Let us dream together.”
He ends up sliding next to her, (never behind, or in front, always next to her), and pulls her tightly against him.
He falls asleep thinking its dream. Then he wakes up to her singing and smiling at him (and her smile is so honest, so real) and he knows then that this is not a dream.
This is real.
He never wants to dream again.
__________________________________________________________________________________
The song at the beginning is Sweet Dreams by the Eurthymics. Hopefully you all liked this. Like I said, my first SanSan. Reviews are very much appreciated and who knows? Maybe I’ll write more (that aren’t so crappy)…take that HBO. I’m still so bitter. Is that bad?
Thank goodness for fanfiction or else I’d lose my mind.
Much love,
Bex.