Marching Song, Part 6/?

[kimberlite8]

I wrote this for
dealbreaker19 as a part of the SansaxSandor letter exchange. It blossomed from what was suppose to be one letter into a full blown epistolary romance. This is the sixth letter of several letters.

Title: Marching Song
Author:
kimberlite8
Summary: Sandor's war letters to Sansa while he is on campaign. An epistolary smutfic.  "It feels so sweet to fall asleep with your words in my head, your letters underneath my hand. Like I could actually believe that with all the world has to offer, you chose to sit in this muddy tent only because I was here."
Rating: Explicit
Warning: warfare
Pairing: SanSan
Word count: 5100
Beta: A special thanks to
redgoddemandsit


12/28/303,

Sansa,

Just kissed your miniature “good night” and despite my kisses, your face doesn’t look too happy with me. Why is that? Couldn’t be because my letters have never been as sparse as they are right now, could it? Beg your pardon, my lady and if it makes you feel any better, I got a real guilty conscience about it. It’s getting to be a nasty habit of mine to be neglectful in writing but I’ve been so busy losing this war that I haven’t found much time to do anything else.

For the past month, we’ve been preparing the grounds around the Dreadfort to support the siege engines. Dismantling palisades, filling in ditches full of water and sharp spikes, smoothing slopes for the towers’ wheels. The kind of work that is so punishing and near thankless that I sleep like a dead man each and every night. Maester Theomore said we would be done today while smiling that tight, smug smile of his. I ought to have wiped it off his face with the back of my hand. Damn him and damn me for whatever trust I put in him before. My own pike pierced the soil and the dirt was loose enough to send a siege tower four stories high and packed with assault troops toppling sideways.

It has been one round of setbacks after another and nothing’s done to my satisfaction ever. I’m feeling too weary tonight to even be angry. Or might be I spent all my anger on Theomore when I mashed his soft white face into the loose soil. We started exchanging words while I was inspecting the grounds until he wore out my patience with all the noise he was making. I pulled that fat fuck from off his horse and roughed him up a little. Foremost, for his arrogant ignorant foolishness. But also because I hate having to look up at a man while arguing with him, especially those who were born to be looked down upon. Bloody quarrelsome fool, thinks he’s Lann the Clever and you can’t be at his turkey-necked age without showing it before. And I don’t give a shit that the Citadel granted him an iron link either. I had a mind to consign him to White Harbor or the Citadel or to the buggering Seven Hells but Maester Samwell protested that we need as many healers as we can get. Believe me, I’d have to be at death’s door before I’d ever call for that condescending bastard. The only pain I'd like that Theomore to remove is the pain in the arse he gives me.

I tell you Sansa, we give these whoresons too much regard when the machines they build are often little better than coffins for the assault soldiers who ought to be granted the true credit for victory. Who else does all the pretty work of swimming moats and scaling high walls and fighting in close quarters against desperate men who have every advantage in their own grounds? Seven bloody buggering hells, I’ll never forget the storming of the castle of Pyke. I was the same age as you are now, armed and armored with little better than a dagger and boiled leather, when the soil caved in from the weight of the siege tower. The maester who built it named it Checkmate, Gods’ rot him - it wasn’t ‘checkmate’ for the Greyjoys but for the company of green boys inside the thing. Those that weren’t killed by the collapse were left to burn when the buggering ironborn poured down buckets of boiling grease and then raked the wooden contraption with showers of incendiary arrows. Frontal fire and cross fire and diagonal fire and my sole retreat blocked by more fucking fire. The heat got so bad I could feel it stabbing against my back, sharp as any spear. And the bloody noise! Did you know fire has a sound, little bird? One that you even can’t begin to fathom when you’re warming your hands over a crackling campfire. But when you’re surrounded by it, inside of it, the sound is deafening:  a roaring, devouring beast that muffles even the loudest of screams. Some men jumped to their death, not that I blame them. If I hadn’t torn off those animal hides covering the framework - well, I wouldn’t be here now asking you not to angry at me so I sleep in peace at night, would I? Seven hells, no man can truly understand a terror far beyond dying unless he’s personally been trapped and felt the fire’s flames.

As you can expect, the rot set in after that and for the rest of the day, I was snarling at everyone and everything and every idea and ended the evening by screaming “fuck” outside my tent because it was only possible response to meet the justice of the day. The curse was delivered with such violent promise that Theomore tripped over his own feet and fell down. You’d think that would have at least made me crack a smile but my sense of humor disappeared along with the dregs of the last wineskin. Yes, wine rations are low and I have more or less stopped drinking, which under these conditions is like deliberately inciting a nightmare. Gods, what I wouldn’t give for a flagon of Dornish sour. Granted, it’s not completely dry here. Turnip took to brewing this sour soupy ale that smells like the contents of my chamber pot and which I have to force down like medicine. Vile thing only succeeds in making me feel cold and nasty. Ever notice that when you’ve been drinkless for a long time, the stench of liquor is revolting, while milk and water begin to taste good? Queer, that. Well, I suppose you don’t know, good girl that you are. I’ve only seen you tipsy that one time, the evening before I left Winterfell. If you did know, you’d appreciate my feelings. Believe me, I hate sots that live by, for, and through, liquor. How bloody pathetic is it to go through life in a drunken haze, never sure of what you said or did the day before? But it’s damned if you do and damned if you don’t. Because I tell you, walking this murderous world as sober as a stone is bloody frightful. I’d forgotten how afraid men are. And how desperate. And how dull. More grievous than that, I miss my own quiet. I have so many thoughts crowding my brain all the time. Not brilliant thoughts like you have, pretty bird. Just this ugly, loud noise that hollers right in my ear and that wine helps to mute.

Anyhow, I shall continue with these confessions of a drunkard at another date. I’m boring even myself and whether I curse or complain, it changes nothing. I still share a tankard with you at dusk every day, except it’s with water now instead of wine, so don’t you stop that. Sansa, believe me, I wouldn’t put this load on anyone save you. You’re the only one to whom I can moan. I’m moaning and groaning on your very soft and very naked perfumed shoulders. Be kind to me, won’t you? It all seems so futile sometimes. But it must end soon because I have just got to see you and be with you again before long.

Now to your letters. I received four since I wrote to you last. The latest arrived just this  morning and I read the whole bloody thing dear right before breakfast. Afterwards, I had to shut my eyes so I could give myself over to how good you make me feel. The scent of your perfume on the paper, it messes me up bad but in the nicest possible way. Made me forget where I was for a moment and all the frustrating agonies of the hour. My sweet Sansa, my little bird - you know why I’m always calling you ‘little’ this and ‘little’ that? I got what, thirteen inches on you? Less than what I have on most women, so I suppose you’re not so small, but 'little' has such a pleasing sound to it. When a man says it, he thinks of someone sweet and loving and lovely, someone he wants to hold in his arms and pet and cuddle and kiss. The kind of girl who has that thing about her, the thing that makes you want to walk beside somebody for as long as it lasts. I suppose that has been my life’s ambition since I met you - finding ways to run into you by working out when you’d be there and then being there too. Sansa, I don’t think you have any idea what it means to me when you write me these letters. It feels so sweet to fall asleep with your words in my head, your letters underneath my hand. Like I could actually believe that with all the world has to offer, you chose to sit in this muddy tent only because I was here.

“I shall be yours, I must; anything else is unthinkable” - that line cracked me right open, knowing what you feel for me goes that deep, that you’re weighing passion against reason and saying fuck you to the latter. I have to share something with you that was a bit embarrassing. My squire came into the tent and caught me in the act, hunched over your letter like I was a starving animal guarding my last morsel of food.  I wonder if he could tell what was in your letters? I’m too stupid to know how to read without my lips moving. Even if I could read as well as you do, I’d still like to mouth the words because when I read your letters, I want to hear them in my mind, in your sweet voice. You’re as bland as butter, but damn me, I don’t how you do it. I imagine it's some spell you got me under. One that makes reading about kisses feel almost as good as the real thing and your words about licking my nipples can burn a hole right through my body. There doesn’t even seem to be any kind of build to it either. One moment I’m real calm and still inside, then I see you write about how much you want to “please me” and “hope no other girl has ever done it better” and at the sight of your neat, ladylike handwriting with two of the sweetest words in the Common Tongue underlined and I can feel my pulse just about ready to leap out of my body. And Sansa, you sure can make me laugh too. When you admitted to being tormented by your thoughts of the imaginary hordes of women you fear I’ve been fucking under your nose at Winterfell and outside your sight at this pisspot: “don’t go off with her, I’ve got something to offer too.” Gods, that was good! I’m dying; I’m dead. You are ridiculous, girl. But I’m grateful for a little ridiculousness right now. I’ve never been a maiden’s fantasy before, just some whore’s regret.

My sweet Sansa, my little bird, my little cuntie. Does it bother you if I call you that? I don’t know how lovers’ talk, so possibly I'm butchering it. Might be you’d rather I call you my lady love but that doesn’t sound half so tender to me as little cuntie. “Sandor, if it was your name day, what should I do to treat you? I want to spoil you rotten.” When I read that question, I got the biggest grin on my face. Don’t you know that my favorite pastime and simultaneously my worst torture is imagining five hundred new ways to fuck you? I've lain awake night after night, the incessant noise of the camp giving away to the sweet press of my bedtime fantasies of you. What do girls think about when they think about laying with a man? Hmm? Four letters later and still you play coy. Well, whatever girls think about, I’d wager it’s a good deal nicer than what men think about. Men are a dirty disgusting lot. I don’t think I’ve ever had a beautiful thought about you that wasn’t chased by some filthy thought about you. If I haven’t been so blunt about them, well, it’s only because I’ve been cautious, the way a man gets when he’s trying to give a good girl what he assumes she wants. I’m not going to do that anymore, not that I ever did a marvelous job of it in the first place. All I got is the truth. I hope maybe you’ll like it.

Remember how you said that you daydreamed about “being a kitchenmaid, as light and as carefree as one of those brazen common wenches whose loves make no difference to the world beyond their own bed?” I liked that. I go there in my head a lot now since you wrote about it. To the kitchens of Winterfell in the pre-dawn dark and that’s where I find you. My shy beautiful young little bird, dressed in thin peasant clothes. Because you’re not you, you’re not the Lady of Winterfell, and nobody gives a rat’s arse in whose bed you lay. And I’m not me either, I’m just a common soldier. One who has pried you open with wine and words and kisses. Until you're melting like a snowflake and I find in your sweet body the desires your lips won't ever admit to. Sansa, Sansa, why is it that you never ask for the pleasure you want? Just like with all your cryptic letters, you make me give to you. Is that what you like? I don’t mind, being baited, if that’s what you like. I want to be all kinds of ways with you. Helpless sometimes. But cruel too. The way a man gets when he wants a woman so bad that all reason and courtesy abandon him. Do you remember the first time I embraced you? It was the day before the Battle of Blackwater. I saw you stumble on the turnpike stairs and I reached out to grab you, terrified that you meant to do yourself some kind of harm. You kept crying “let go of me” and fought me. You were so squirmy in my arms, the way a girl gets when she wants to come. Sometimes our feet touch at the supper table, do you ever notice that? When that happens, it takes my breath away, just from feeling your feet touch mine through our shoes. So you can imagine what I felt that day, holding you like that, the way animals do it. I could only pull you closer, harder up against me. It was so sweet to hold you, it had to be enough just to hold you, on that awful day, with Stannis’ men preparing to seize the city and I felt my death was nearer than ever before. Might be that’s why my head goes to dark places sometimes with you. Or might be it’s because I just like dark things. After all, dismantling stakes, sapping foundations, storming a castle under siege, is so much merrier than strolling invited through open gates.

Have I made you run for the hills screaming yet? Or do you want to hear more? I want you so bloody bad right now. How lonely the body becomes after dusk. Is it the same with you? I miss you so much more in the evenings, in an intense, violent way that I don’t feel during the heat of the day. Like I’m walking around with a knife in my side that I just don’t know about until the night falls and that dreadful loneliness descends. It’s too much to suffer sometimes. I long to be with you, play with you, fondle you, seduce you. I can see you now, my sweet Sansa. Your eyes are as big as fists when I grab your arse in the palms of my hands and lift you off your feet. I rub my cock against the rise of your sweet cunt, so there’s no mistaking what you do to me. You start squirming and I can feel your hands push against my chest but their force is pleading, not fighting. They tell me to stop, but in a voice so quiet I know it’s not meant to be heard. You struggle as I unlace you, as meek as a dove, with nothing save little sighs to mark your protests. Finally, I have you down to just your linen shift. My hands pull the linen taut around the roundness of your teats and the fabric is so thin that I can see two little stiff points poking right out, all rosy and rude and insistent.

Gods’ bless, your breasts must be a beautiful sight. They tilt up a little, don’t they? That time we actually met in the kitchens, the sweetest torture I tell you: I saw how they strained against your bedgown. Did you notice how I kept kneading my thighs whenever you leaned in? I had to do it to keep my fingers from going where they wanted to go - to that little blue ribbon at your neckline. Imagine me pulling on it now, unwrapping you like I was unwrapping my name day present. Your skin’s so pretty, as luminescent as a pearl in the dim torchlight. And pale, as pale as winter, so that the blue of the ribbon highlights your veins, giving you this ethereal look, like you were some magical creature I captured, one with its very heartbeat painted across its skin. I slide my fingers through your hair, the auburn strands are so soft that they could have belonged to a young child. Then I run my hands along your belly and rib cage and your skin’s soft there too, softer than the threadbare shift that sought to hide it. At last, I cup a single breast, taking pleasure in the way your skin warms against my palms. Your breasts are full and heavy, with just that little tilt, and at the end, those rosy tips.  So beautiful that the thought of them makes my eyes water, so luscious I can taste them now from three hundred leagues away. Would you like that? My kisses there and there? I think you would. You’ve got the kind of teats made for suckling a babe. Or a man.

I’m hard now, writing this. I’ve been hard since that part about grabbing your arse. Everything feels swollen down there and I’m kneading my thigh with my left hand to keep it from going inside my breeches. I never imagined I’d get hard from writing a letter. Is it the same with you, reading one? It drives me mad, the thought of you touching yourself while thinking of me. Will you do that for me, Sansa? Go on, girl, lick your fingers and rub the wetness over those stiff little points. Imagine my mouth there, my hands there, squeezing and suckling you softly, then a bit meaner. Do it until your nipples look kiss-bruised and slick from all the licking I gave them. I want to kiss you there for a long time, for as long as I needed, until everything cold and miserable inside of me turns hot. Burning hot. So hot it’s a relief when I feel your cool hands on my skin. Greedy, greedy girl, you’ve had your fill with my hunger and now want to touch me back. You’re touching me all over, fiddling with my tunic, your ticklish fingers making my stomach muscles all jumpy and tense as they circle lower and lower until I feel your thumb right there, rubbing that special spot I like - the sensitive groove on the underside of my cock. And all the while your mouth is on mine, kissing me back, thirsty, wallowing kisses, like I was a wine you wanted to get wrecked on. I’d do anything to feel that. To feel you kissing me while you tease my cock with your long cool fingers until my balls are bluer than a bruise.

You wanted to know how big I am, little bird? "Even your fingers looked absolutely immense, Gods only know what other parts would do. Split me in two, perhaps, though the thought never seemed half as bad as it should.” My cock jerked a little when I read that passage. It slavers like a rabid dog whenever your sweet arse is around - I have to yank the beast back with a choke chain. I didn’t think girls cared about how cocks looked, only about feelings. Well, go on, have your way then. Turn this page over, I traced it for you on the back. See how hard and thick I got for you? Thick as your wrists, girl. As for my length, this parchment is not room enough to show you. I’ll give you this though - your dog’s got a  bone in his breeches that’s as long as a Northern summer’s day. You’ll have to measure me when I get back to find out precisely how long that is.

I’m touching myself now. I sat on my left hand until it went numb so I could pretend better that the fingers stroking my body were yours. No tricks could give me my sweet, tender girl but it still feels good. Especially knowing you're reading this and maybe touching yourself too. Should I describe what I'm feeling? Well, I got my legs slightly apart and the cool night air feels sweet against my skin. The band of my smallclothes is binding my balls in a tight, uncomfortable way that’s strangely perfect. You think you could circle me with your forefinger and thumb? I’d wager no. You’d have to clasp me palm to palm. Like you were in the middle of prayer. I’m imagining you like that, on your knees, beseeching my cock to slide through your slippery palms, fill your hot hungry mouth, fuck your tight wet cunt and bugger that sweet arse that never shits, in the most pious manner. That’s making me laugh.

My little bird wouldn’t have the first notion of what to do with my cock if she had the chance. That’s fine by me. I’d get to show you what I like with my hands on yours. Real slow and tight to start, then faster. Harder. That’s how I’d like to fuck you too. I’m going to have to be on top the first few times, Sansa. You’d be so sweet and tight and wet that I’d die if I couldn’t move the way I wanted to. You want that too, don’t you? You’re the kind of girl that wants to be taken, I reckon. You’d need to yield before you can feel ready to take for yourself. I’d try not to be rough though, I promise. I’d move sweet and slow to start. Not just for you but for me too. I’ve been so bloody patient, waiting and hoping until its almost more than I can bear. It’s been five long years since I felt anything other than my own fists. I just want to revel in that feeling of being pulled in, of being sucked on, almost, by your breathing, beating, hairlined cunt of heaven.

If I could, I’d make that moment last a hundred years. But I probably couldn’t last five minutes, not with my little cuntie clenching around me every time I move a muscle. By the end of it, you’d have me so riled up I can’t promise I’d be gentle anymore. I want to show that to you, though. Show you the sweet side of a man’s aggression for once. Flip you over until you’re on all fours and fuck you like the dog I am. Would you like that? I can picture you now, your hair dangling down, your arms braced forward, your knees sinking into the bed. That slippery cunt, so wet and ready for me, pink from the fucking I already gave it. I’d rest my cock against the cleft of your arse cheeks, just to admire the view, before grabbing your hips and sinking myself inside of you. I’d kill to see that, see my cock withdrawing and disappearing inside of you in fast, steady strokes. You’d be so tight that way, make me feel like I had the biggest cock in the Seven Kingdoms. And I could wrap my arm around you and tease that little button just above your sweet cunt. You’d want to look at my face though, wouldn’t you? Good girl, you’d turn to face me, gazing at me with those quiet, dark blue eyes, your sweet mouth slightly parted so I can see your tongue tenderly coiled when you moan those soft, desperate little moans.  Bloody hell, I’d fuck that mouth at the same time too if I could - have you tasting my cock even as it's owning your cunt. I want to be your entire fucking world, Sansa. And when you start moaning my name because you’re not far from coming all over that big cock I’m fucking you with, that’s when I’d really learn the meaning of patience. Not some bullshit seven second pause but really holding it off, until frustration isn’t frustration anymore but another level of desire. And I’m curling right over your body because its too bloody sweet. And I can feel everything, every beat, every breath, every tiny ridge of your sweet pulsing cunt as it milks my cock of every single last drop of come. I’d like to die like that way, buried deep inside of you and without a single bloody useless thought in my head. Brain as blank as a cloudless sky. Fucking heaven.

Well, I’m absolutely dripping over that fine Myrish carpet you thought to lard my tent with. I’ve never come from writing a letter, so I hope you’re proud of yourself. My sweet Sansa, my little cuntie, my little fuck bird, I can’t write any more. You've left me so peaceful and cleaned out feeling that all I can do now is drop off to sleep. I’m going to go and lie down but I’ll continue this letter tomorrow. I hope you sleep well and maybe even dream of me.

My little bird, tonight is the 29th of the month. I’m not going to bother reading what I wrote above but I hope I didn’t say anything that would offend you. It’s all nonsense anyhow, whatever I wrote. Especially the part about buggering you. I just like saying the word ‘bugger’ and I don’t know why. Enough of my foolery. Now for your questions:

Twenty thousand quarrels and a hundred sheaves of arrows. Above all, make sure we get wine - half a dozen carts at least. Morale’s bad without wine and even worse, I fear the spread of water-borne illnesses. “Famine and foul water alone vanquishes the invincible and by itself can take cities” - I read that from the book you sent me, History of the Rhoynish Wars. Some of Beldecar’s advice is not terrible but he’s one of those assertive bastards which makes me long to argue back.

I did get Rickon’s letters but haven’t found the time to respond. The boy’s writing needs some work. It’s no surprise, given he lived with unlettered wildings all those years. My own father cracked the bullwhip about my lessons. He was mighty proud that an upjumped House such as ours was able to retain a maester so that his own children could have the smattering of scholarship that he never received. You’d be astounded by how many high lords’ gets can’t read or write worth shit. Joffrey’s own script looked like chicken scratches. I’ve gotten much better at writing, maybe you can tell. I can write for more than an hour now as long as my parchment is patient and my inkwell doesn’t run dry. No more hand cramps either and your sly dog can do it all with only one paw on the table.

I didn’t eat the lemoncakes. They were moldy by the time they arrived. Save them for yourself as lemons are too dear to be wasted like that. Truth be told, I was never a lover of cake to begin with. Potted meat to improve my lunch would be nice instead and crocks of butter are always welcome. Sansa, little bird, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way but you must stop worrying about me. I told you before: I'm not through with living yet and I just know that I will return to you, safe and sound. So if I’m not worried about me, then you shouldn’t worry about me either. It’s getting pretty old, to be honest. It’s not so much I mind hearing about it but you’re making yourself sick with all your pointless worrying. So promise me, no more tears, my brave girl. And please, stop worrying and stay well and dress warm and watch out for rats or spiders or anything else that might cause you harm. I'd lay down and die if anything should happen to you, don't you know that? My little bird, I'm kissing you on your forehead now with every confidence that I’ll be seeing you just as soon as fate allows. Until then, I am yours as you are mine, on these pages. I love you.

Sandor