The love-philtre, chapter 18
New chapter!
Title: The love-philtre, chapter 18
Author: Maroucia
Summary: Sansa and Sandor both accidentally drink from a wineskin containing a love-philtre. GOT AU
Disclaimer: I own nothing. The characters in this story are all GRRM’s propriety and I won’t make a buck out of this.
Rating: NC-16
Warning: AU, underage, dubcon, suicidal thoughts
Pairing: SanSan
Word count: 5275
Beta: A special thanks to Wildsky Sheri for her help with this chapter.
Sandor
All was beauty, comfort and softness around him, yet the featherbed Sandor was in didn’t have much to do with the warmth he felt inside. No, the sole true cause of his blissful state was the incomparable sensation of tender limbs holding onto him and the smooth-skinned body that flanked him. Although he usually was not a man to lie-in, this morning he simply didn’t have the heart to break the harmony that surrounded him. Nevertheless, the fact that he would very soon have no choice but to get moving was undeniable. Sandor knew he and Sansa should already have been on the road by now and yet, anytime he gazed at his new wife’s peaceful face, he postponed the moment he would have to call her name and gently shake her awake.
Asleep, the little bird looked like a bloody angel and the innocent and pure aura it gave her reminded Sandor of just how young she truly was. It had been easy to forget as they consummated their marriage yesterday afternoon and evening. While her body still had the youthful slenderness characteristic of her age, it was shapely as only a woman’s could be. There was no guilt though. As eager and warm as she was becoming, it was clear as the day she was well ready for a man. Each time he took her, she lost more of her maidenly shyness and given how much they had been at it yesterday, there wasn’t much left of that anymore. Both of them were exhausted when they had finally fallen into oblivion after hours of alternately coupling, kissing and chatting. The bedding had left the man completely drained of his energy as well as his semen but as he drifted into sleep, he had truly felt happy for the first time in his buggering existence
Sandor snorted at the thought. How his bloody life had changed since the love-philtre! Once that was all over, he would need to find a way to thank the pyromancer for what the poor old bugger was sure to believe was the worst mistake of his career. I’ll give him gold. Isn’t that what everyone always wants? Sandor mused, his mouth twitching with contempt. Still, the time to relax and celebrate hadn’t come yet. The little bird and he still needed to evade the Lord Hand a little while longer. Yawning, he stretched his arms before folding them behind his head. We should go now, he thought despite not moving an inch. Then watching the girl’s dainty, sleeping features, he relented and changed his mind. I’ll give her just another half-hour, Sandor decided, feeling his own eyelids grow heavy.
He must have dozed off then, because the next thing Sandor knew, he was roused by an ugly, brutal noise.
BANG! BANG! Loud knocks reverberated from the door.
His soldiering reflexes instantly taking over, the man rose to his feet even before he was fully awake. What the fuck is that? he wondered numbly as he did.
“Open!” a commanding voice ordered from the corridor.
Fuck! Sandor mused, running stark naked to the window and looking down. As he had feared, a group of men were gathered below. The bastards were gazing up, some with complacent little smiles, others with sneers twisting their mouths. Thank to the contrast between the bright outside light and the relative dimness of the room, none of them could glimpse him, however Sandor himself could discern them well enough. These were the men who had beaten him up after he’d been caught fleeing from the little bird’s chamber just a few days ago. These were Stark men.
Seven Hells. They’ve found us, Sandor cursed inwardly, dread and most of all, wrath at himself viciously pulling at his stomach. What a damned fool he had been to let himself grow so sloppy. They should never have stopped so soon or at least, not laid in bed for so fucking long. There was no wondering why falling in love was a warrior’s most common downfall. It transformed a previously careful man into a reckless idiot and Sandor was no exception to the bloody rule.
“Answer! We know you’re in there!” the same voice vociferated.
“Sandor,” Sansa whispered nervously. He hadn’t noticed she was awake but was it really surprising with that buggering racket? The poor girl was clutching the covers up to her chin, her eyes wide with terror. “It’s my lord father!”
“I had guessed as much, little bird,” Sandor hissed dryly.
“Answer him, Sandor! Please!” she begged, getting more agitated by the second.
He had no other bloody choice. They had no way out with those armed men waiting beneath their window and anyway, Sandor had not planned on fleeing from her father forever. He’d just have preferred to wait a bit longer before they had to face him again.
Resigned, he nodded at Sansa and turned to gaze in the door’s direction. “You’ve found us,” he replied sourly, pitching his voice louder to be sure he was well understood. “And nice job by the way. I looked out the window and I do realise we’re stuck. You’ve won this round, Lord Stark.”
Even through the thick wooden door, Sandor could feel the man’s relief at hearing he was willing to talk. “Perhaps but I hardly see what it’s worth at this point,” Ned Stark uttered with obvious bitterness. “There’s not much I can do to change what’s been done.”
Sandor relaxed slightly at that. To hear the Hand all but admit his failure was a good sign, yet it was best he didn’t become too confident either. “Well in that case, why did you follow us?”
“My daughter. Is she well? Is she still with you at all?” he asked with palpable worry.
Sandor almost laughed at that. “Of course she is! What the fuck did you believe? That I would go through all that trouble just to abandon her or worse, kill her the moment I was out of your sight?!”
Ned Stark didn’t acknowledge his comment. “Sansa? Answer me, please!” he demanded of his daughter.
Sandor glanced at his wife. She was still snuggling anxiously under the covers and apparently waited for his approval to speak. “Go ahead, little bird,” he whispered to her while walking to the chamber pot.
“I’m here, Father,” the girl announced in a timid but somehow strong voice.
“Are you well?” the Hand immediately inquired, his tone pathetically urgent as only an anxious father’s could be.
“Of course! Sandor would never hurt me!” the little bird cried so honestly that it warmed Sandor’s heart.
“So you weren’t forced into this?”
“Why, Father! Never!” she retorted, slightly offended.
Sandor snorted with pride at that, the first drops of his long retained piss flowing into the chamber pot and echoing as it landed inside.
“I know you and Clegane are… married…” Ned Stark continued uneasily. “We’ve met the septon that celebrated your union. Forgive my insistence, Sansa, but I want you to assure me you truly agreed of your own free will. There are enough men around this inn to get you out of this situation if that is your wish.”
Sansa’s pretty face became red and she tossed the covers she had held so tightly onto her lap. “Oh, no! Father, please!” she exclaimed, her voice losing its usual poise. “Sandor and I are in love! This is a true marriage, truer than any other! I love him!”
From the silence that followed, Sandor could sense the Hand’s exasperation even while he didn’t see him. The notion filled him with satisfaction and he shook his cock to rid himself of the last urine drops that still clung to its end, a smirk on his lips.
A long sigh was heard coming from the corridor. “Well, Sansa, to be truthful I can’t pretend I wasn’t expecting your answer, with the potion and all that… that followed,” Ned Stark admitted, each of his words spoken with difficulty, as if they added weight to a burden he was carrying on his shoulders. “I thought about it and although it doesn’t please me to concede to it, I’m not sure there would be much sense in opposing… what has come to pass. I realise it’s too late and that with this potion you’ve both drunk, neither of you will ever see reason,” he mumbled tartly. “I take it the marriage has already been - ah -”
“Consummated? Yes, many times and more,” Sandor cut in without missing a beat.
At hearing his reply, the little bird eyed him reprovingly, yet despite how shocked she obviously was, Sandor couldn’t keep himself from snickering. Averting his stare, he retrieved his underclothes from the floor and put them on, all the while biting at his lip to stop himself from looking too pleased.
“All right, Clegane, I don’t need details,” the Lord Hand was responding with evident distaste and annoyance. “I said I wouldn’t fight the inevitable and I’ll hold to my word. Still, I’d like to have a private talk with you both. I have a few conditions before I recognise your union. Please, let me in.”
Ned Stark’s words finally dawning on him, Sandor’s heart skipped a beat. Had he really heard right? The girl’s so stuck-up and noble father had agreed so easily? Disbelieving, he glanced at Sansa and at seeing her smile, he grinned in turn. “All right,” he started more calmly than he felt, squaring his shoulders and walking towards the door. “I’ll let you in but first you need to assure me that you won’t have my throat cut the first chance you get and most of all, that you won’t hurt Sansa.”
A growl of outrage was heard. “Why would I ever allow anyone to do any harm to my own daughter?”
“Some men do when they feel they have been dishonoured,” Sandor pointed out sharply.
“I would never!” the man responded, his anger plain.
“Fine, don’t take it like that. I was just making sure. I might be nothing to you, Lord Stark, but believe my buggering word: as long as I live I’ll not let anyone lay a single finger on Sansa, not even her bloody father.”
A few heartbeats passed before the Lord Hand spoke again but when he did, his fury had receded and he had regained his usual cold composure. “You won’t ever have to protect her from me, Clegane. In that, we can be allies at least,” he reluctantly replied. “And you don’t have to worry about your own safety around me and my men or that I will condemn your marriage later on.”
Gazing at the door with eyes narrowed with suspicion, Sandor hesitated for a couple of seconds. “That’s all good, I guess. Let’s just hope you won’t change your mind as soon as I open the door though.”
“Sandor! My lord father is an honourable man! He would never break his word!” the little bird interjected, frowning at him with her lithe arms folded over her pert little teats.
“My daughter is right, Clegane,” the Hand added stiffly.
Truth be told, Sandor knew he could trust him and had voiced his comment only to goad him. The Starks’ honour was nothing if not legendary, after all. “Forget what I said then. I’ll open it but you need to give us time to dress first.”
“Of course,” Ned Stark spat dryly. Being reminded that his daughter was naked with the Hound didn’t seem to please him in the least and Sandor’s lips curled into a smirk at the awareness.
“Oh, Sandor! Can you believe this?” Sansa murmured, both her hands cupped over her mouth. Her eyes were wide and astounded and shone with elation.
“Barely,” he replied, cracking a grin at her. “Hurry up, little bird. You don’t want to make your father wait so long that he changes his mind, do you?”
“Of course not!” Sansa exclaimed happily while jumping off the mattress.
The room was a bit messy after yesterday’s actions and their clothes were piled pell-mell on the floor. Sandor went through the stack and found Sansa’s fancy gown, shift and underclothes first and handed them to her before putting on his breeches and tunic. Once he was decently covered, he raised his gaze to the little bird to see that she was struggling with the laces on the side of her gown.
“Need help,” Sandor stated more than he asked while taking the strings from her hands and tying them clumsily for her. “You’re all set now.”
“Thank you, my lord,” the girl breathed melodiously, looking up at him with that adoring gaze she often had for him.
They strolled to the door arm in arm, the short distance crossed in a question of seconds. Although her smile was undeniably genuine, Sandor could feel the little bird was nervous to face her father as a married woman for the first time. Hoping to give her courage, he stroked her lower back very briefly before removing his hand and pushing the bolt open.
Through the slit of the ajar door, Sandor noticed other men were present in the corridor with the Lord Hand. While their backs were lazily leaning against the opposite wall, the carelessness of their poses was deceptive for their hands were all near the hilts of their weapons and their stares fixed upon him. Straight as an arrow, Ned Stark was waiting before the threshold - lost in his undoubtedly dark thoughts - but when he saw the door move, his eyes instantly grew alert and darted to it. Sandor’s large build was all the man could see from the chamber and he thus resigned himself to not search for his daughter and gaze at him instead, the wordless battle of their stares lasting a couple of awkward heartbeats. The Hand was in a horrible state and it was easy to tell he hadn’t known a full night of sleep for quite some time. His features were so taut that every tendon of his face was visible through its wan skin and the circles under his eyes were almost as dark as tar.
“Come on in,” Sandor rasped, moving aside to allow him to enter.
Ned Stark didn’t wait an instant to oblige. Once the door was closed behind him, he immediately turned his attention to his daughter, appraising her with a mix of curiosity and wariness. The girl smiled timidly at him, breathing a meek, “Good morning, Father,” while blushing a deep shade of pink but she rapidly lowered her stare to where her hands were nervously clasped before her, the heavy scrutiny of her father apparently too much for her. As if gazing their way burned his eyes, the Hand was squinting as he looked both his daughter and Sandor up and down, the sight of their dishevelled appearance making him wince. Sandor smirked. They were indeed not very presentable. Sansa’s hair was pretty as always but terribly messy and her gown was not properly adjusted and hanging loosely around her curves. Sandor wasn’t in any better state: the laces of his tunic weren’t closed at all - giving the Lord Hand an unobstructed view of the hair of his chest - and as he glanced down at himself, he realised he was still barefoot. Oh well, he thought, the corner of his mouth curling up mischievously. That will teach the man to go knocking on newlyweds’ doors mere hours after their bedding. He was bound to see something he didn’t like.
Ned Stark’s gaze was travelling around the chamber and his aversion only grew stronger when it fell on the unmade featherbed over which the hollowed shape of their bodies could still clearly be discerned. Exhaling loudly and looking away with an expression of utter disgust, he frowned and set his lips in a thin, white line.
“I’ll be honest with you,” he started tensely. “I’d rather have this discussion elsewhere, but as long as we are in this inn we won’t get privacy anywhere but in this chamber. I’ll not waste either of our time. The sooner I’ve told you all I need, the sooner we can be on our way to King’s Landing.”
Revelling in the Hand’s unease, Sandor allowed himself a faint smile. “That seems reasonable enough to me,” he agreed as pleasantly as his rough voice permitted.
“Father, Sandor,” Sansa called from where she stood next to the table. “Why don’t we all have a seat while we talk?”
Ned Stark grunted in approval and walked to the chair his daughter was showing him to. Sandor installed himself at the opposite side of the table and pulled a chair near his for Sansa to sit in. Once they were all settled, he poured two glasses of wine from the half-full jug that remained from the previous evening’s late-night snack he and the little bird had ordered. A half-loaf of bread, some cheese and a few pieces of sausage had also been left untouched and were spread on the table between them. Sandor nodded at the food.
“Hungry, Lord Stark? Have your pick. Be my guest,” he offered nonchalantly.
“No, thank you. I’ll wait after this is settled and eat something warm in the common room with my men,” the Lord Hand replied in that polite but frigid, dry tone so specific to him.
“You’ll take some wine at least?” Sandor inquired just as dryly, pushing one of the two tankards to him.
The man nodded. “Yes, thank you,” he muttered, taking a sip without raising his gaze from the dark-red liquid.
Gallantly, Sandor indicated to Sansa to have their common tankard first. After having delicately wetted her lips on the wine, she handed it to Sandor and he took a long gulp out of the mug before settling it on the table.
Ned Stark cleared his voice and started. “As I said before you let me in, I’m agreeing to this marriage but I have a few conditions.”
“Go on,” Sandor encouraged, tearing chunks of bread from the loaf for him and Sansa and biting greedily into one. The Lord Hand might not be hungry but he was.
“Well, as you may have already deduced, the fact that you eloped is well known by now in King’s Landing. Still as we speak, neither I nor the king have publicly acknowledged any of this and therefore, the court’s acquaintance with the matter stands solely on rumours. I’ll make an official announcement as soon as we get back to the capital, however, I don’t think this will be enough to make your union appear legitimate. While I don’t believe the latter is truly possible, I do think organising another ceremony at the keep might help your cause. That thieves wedding you’ve had might be legal, its circumstances are still terribly dubious. I’ll wager some will doubt it has even happened at all.”
Sansa brought both her hands to her chest in excitement. “Really, Father? Another wedding?”
Sandor snorted in amusement at that.
“Nothing grand, Sansa,” Ned Stark severely told his daughter. “It will be as intimate as a court wedding can be and take place in the keep’s sept. Afterwards, there’ll be a small reception with a modest feast and that will be it.”
Despite his warning, the little bird was still as enchanted. She was all but wriggling in her seat in enthusiasm while smiling sweetly at Sandor and her reaction made the Hand’s face wrinkle even more.
“All right. I’ve no problem with that,” Sandor consented. With his dagger, he cut two slices of cheese and gave one to Sansa before biting into his. “Any other demands?”
“Of course,” Ned Stark replied. “Once you’re wedded, I’ll send both of you to Winterfell. I don’t want Sansa to be mocked for having married so much lower than she was destined. You might not care about what people think or say, Clegane, but unlike you Sansa is sensitive and despite what she’ll assure you, being disregarded will affect her. I’m not pretending no one will judge you in the North but at least people respect our family enough not to voice their disapproval aloud and the mentalities are not as elitist up there either. Besides, we have no real court to speak of at Winterfell so there is less gossip and bickering. Consider yourself lucky for that also, Clegane. I do miss the peace and quiet I had there.”
Sandor’s mouth twitched and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “We’ll see what Cersei has to say about that.”
“Cersei will do as her husband asks and the king will agree with me,” Ned Stark declared crisply. “If she proves me wrong and resists too much, I’ll compensate her. Take it as Sansa’s dowry to you.”
“I’ve gold too, you know,” Sandor hurriedly reminded him, irked at the notion that he may owe the man even more. “You don’t need to buy me off as if I were bloody cattle at a livestock market. Furthermore, in spite of what they probably think, the Lannisters don’t own me. I may have sworn loyalty to them but I’m not a serf and as free as any other House-born man of this realm.”
Not the least moved by Sandor’s assertion, the Hand kept his harsh gaze fixed on him, his brows lowered over his eyes and face impassive. “I’ve never questioned that,” he uttered flatly. “Still, your foremost allegiance will need to be to House Stark from now on and I don’t want to create any conflicts with the Lannisters thank to that. If needs be, I’ll pay and believe me, Clegane, if I lost out where you are concerned, I’ll save a small fortune with the princely dowry I won’t have to pay. What I might end up granting Cersei for you won’t have anything to do with all I was supposed to cede to the King, or in fact, what I’d have given to whichever appropriate suitor I’d have chosen later on if Sansa had not been betrothed to the prince.”
“If you say so,” Sandor assented without much enthusiasm. That any man would ask for gold or land to marry Sansa was beyond him. He’d have been ready to pay to have her. “Is all set now or do you have other conditions still?”
“I have only one left and then we’ll be set,” Ned Stark promised, watching him over the rim of his tankard.
Popping a piece of sausage into his mouth, Sandor waited for the man to continue.
“Although your wedding will be modest, there is nonetheless decorum to follow and preparing everything will take time.” As he finished his sentence, the Hand’s face turned ashen. “I’ll also have to write to your mother as soon as we get back to King’s Landing,” he added quietly while glancing at Sansa, the dread the idea woke in him all too clear. “I’ll not set a date before I have received her reply in case she wants to attend. If it’s her wish, the wait will be even longer.”
Sansa smiled empathetically. “I’m sure Mother will understand. You don’t have to worry, Father. You’re not to blame for any of this after all and once she sees how happy I am, she’ll surely share my joy,” she kindly assured him. “I do hope she decides to come even though it will delay our wedding. It would be so wonderful to have both of you present!”
Nodding grimly, the man returned his attention to Sandor. “As you have probably deduced, chances are up to two moons will have passed before the day of your wedding. Until then, I think it’d be preferable that Sansa lived at the Tower of the Hand with me and that you, Clegane, kept your own quarters.”
Unwilling to believe he had understood correctly, Sandor was speechless for the fleeting instant it took the man’s meaning to hit him. “Seven buggering Hells! Do you realise what the fuck you’re asking here?!” he roared when it did at last, abruptly getting to his feet. “She’s my bloody wife! We’re fucking married, by the damned Stranger!”
“Sandor, please!” Sansa tried to soothe him, pulling at his sleeve to incite him to retake his seat.
“I’m sorry but this is my request and I’ll stand by it,” Ned Stark retorted stiffly, his stare boring defiantly into Sandor’s. “Since no one that matters has witnessed your first marriage ceremony, in the eyes of the court the second one will be the only that will count. If you live together in the meantime, people will talk. Adding to the ill reputation your union is sure to have is the last thing we all need.”
“This is bloody ridiculous!” Sandor hissed, fuming like never before. His upper body slightly bowed toward the Hand over the table, Sandor was glaring down at him, all the while ignoring Sansa as she vainly pulled at his sleeve in hope that he would sit back in his chair. “Do you truly think anyone will believe I made off with your daughter for a few days without taking her maidenhead? You’ll not fool anyone with that mummer’s farce - only deprive a rightful husband of his wife!”
“I know well enough the court won’t be duped, Clegane,” Ned Stark retaliated irritably. “Nevertheless, keeping up appearances is important, vital even in your case. While people thinking badly of your alliance and how it has come to happen is inevitable, they’ll never dare make their opinion public if none of your actions speak against you. Since I cannot undo the mess you have created, Clegane, I’ll at least assure myself no further harm is done and salvage some of my daughter’s honour.”
“But we are married, Lord Stark! There’d be nothing improper about us living together! You just have to tell the court - and the whole buggering world too if you like! - that we are and that will be it. I’m not sure that I can agree to see my rights as a husband be taken away like this. I-”
“Sandor! Stop it, please!” Sansa cried out, tugging hard enough at Sandor’s arm to make him reel. “My lord father has been very conciliatory so far and it’d be very unfair if we didn’t agree to do our part also!”
Taken aback by the girl’s scolding, Sandor wordlessly stared at her for an eye blink or two, unsure of how he should react or even what he should think.
“Thank you, Sansa,” Ned Stark murmured, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and fingers.
“Father, if we agree, I’ll be free to go where I will in the castle as before the philtre, won’t I?” Sansa asked calmly, the deep flush of her face the only reminder of her previous outburst.
The Hand seemed to hesitate but then he grimaced and gave in. “Of course.”
“Then, we’ll be able to see each other, Sandor! It won’t be so bad and afterwards, we’ll be together forever!” Sansa pleaded, her eyes hopeful and insistent at once.
His hands balled into tight fists, Sandor clenched and unclenched his jaw a few times, all the while glaring at Sansa and that bloody father of hers. They had teamed up against him and now it was becoming all too obvious he would have no other fucking choice but to yield, he realised, exhaling loudly and throwing his head back in frustration. “All right then,” he snarled, letting himself fall heavily into his chair. “I’ll sleep in my poxy little chamber, alone in the same damned pallet I’ve known for all those long years until the wedding if that’s what you two want! I hope you’re happy, Lord Stark.”
“Happy would be an overstatement but yes, I am content that you have agreed,” the man answered, his voice as stern as his northern weather.
“But, Father?” Sansa called suddenly. “I too have my own conditions before all is set.”
Both Sandor and the Hand momentarily forgot their respective misery to eye her with curiosity.
“I won’t be taking moon tea once we get to the Red Keep. In fact, I don’t think I’ll drink that awful beverage ever again!” she announced, anger piercing through her usually so polite and mild façade. “I swear now that I am married, Father, if you force me to ingest some, I’ll ask Sandor to kidnap me all over again!”
Narrowing his eyes at his daughter, Ned Stark examined her with the same appalled caution one would a poisonous beast. “That won’t be necessary Sansa. I think we can take that risk,” he acceded after a moment of obviously painful reflection. “Anyhow if you were to be… with child, it won’t show until you are gone from the capital and the exact date of your union won’t be something people will worry about in the North.”
Sansa jolted in her chair in jubilation. “Oh, thank you, Father!” she let out happily, beaming at him.
“Don’t thank me, Sansa. If it had been in my power, I would never have allowed any of this,” the Hand reminded her darkly. Still, despite his words and general demeanour, the little bird’s joy seemed to mollify him for his lips curved in the slightest of smiles. It lasted no more than a second or two though and after having swallowed down the last of his wine, the man pushed his tankard to the middle of the table and turned toward Sandor. “I won’t lie, this is far from the fate I had dreamed of for my daughter but I’m nevertheless relieved we have come to an agreement. Since I don’t see what profit I’d gain from being bitter about your union, I’ll work on trying to accept the situation yet believe me, the battle’s not won yet.” With that, Ned Stark stood. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to your packing and head downstairs to eat my first real meal in more than a day. I’m starving.”
“As you wish, Lord Stark,” Sandor muttered lethargically, not moving an inch from the chair he was slumped in.
“We’ll be ready to go when you are, Father!” Sansa promised with all the energy Sandor was lacking as Ned Stark shut the door behind him. “Oh Sandor! I’m so happy!” she then exclaimed, rising from her chair and jumping onto Sandor’s lap, both her legs closing around his waist. Her little hands were clutching at his shoulders and she was smiling at him, her eyes sparkling so very beautifully.
His hands sliding over her sides, Sandor kissed her neck before leaning his brow in its crook. “Gods, little bird,” he breathed desperately. “I’m torn between elation and anguish. Do you realise how fucking long it could take for your mother to receive the raven and arrive in King’s Landing? How the Hells am I suppose to wait so long to have you in my bed again?”
Cajoling, Sansa massaged the back of his head and neck, her long and agile fingers digging pleasantly into his skin. “But we’ll have the rest of our lives afterwards! And besides, we can meet during the day and… and sneak to your room,” she added in a whisper, the good girl apparently still too shy to voice such a naughty proposition out loud.
That was a reassuring prospect, one Sandor had somehow not thought about. “Yes, you’re right,” he acquiesced, his palms unhurriedly caressing her thin waist. Yet in spite of his words, he was still anxious. “Perhaps I’ll make it after all,” he rasped, hoping to convince himself.
Title: The love-philtre, chapter 18
Author: Maroucia
Summary: Sansa and Sandor both accidentally drink from a wineskin containing a love-philtre. GOT AU
Disclaimer: I own nothing. The characters in this story are all GRRM’s propriety and I won’t make a buck out of this.
Rating: NC-16
Warning: AU, underage, dubcon, suicidal thoughts
Pairing: SanSan
Word count: 5275
Beta: A special thanks to Wildsky Sheri for her help with this chapter.
Sandor
All was beauty, comfort and softness around him, yet the featherbed Sandor was in didn’t have much to do with the warmth he felt inside. No, the sole true cause of his blissful state was the incomparable sensation of tender limbs holding onto him and the smooth-skinned body that flanked him. Although he usually was not a man to lie-in, this morning he simply didn’t have the heart to break the harmony that surrounded him. Nevertheless, the fact that he would very soon have no choice but to get moving was undeniable. Sandor knew he and Sansa should already have been on the road by now and yet, anytime he gazed at his new wife’s peaceful face, he postponed the moment he would have to call her name and gently shake her awake.
Asleep, the little bird looked like a bloody angel and the innocent and pure aura it gave her reminded Sandor of just how young she truly was. It had been easy to forget as they consummated their marriage yesterday afternoon and evening. While her body still had the youthful slenderness characteristic of her age, it was shapely as only a woman’s could be. There was no guilt though. As eager and warm as she was becoming, it was clear as the day she was well ready for a man. Each time he took her, she lost more of her maidenly shyness and given how much they had been at it yesterday, there wasn’t much left of that anymore. Both of them were exhausted when they had finally fallen into oblivion after hours of alternately coupling, kissing and chatting. The bedding had left the man completely drained of his energy as well as his semen but as he drifted into sleep, he had truly felt happy for the first time in his buggering existence
Sandor snorted at the thought. How his bloody life had changed since the love-philtre! Once that was all over, he would need to find a way to thank the pyromancer for what the poor old bugger was sure to believe was the worst mistake of his career. I’ll give him gold. Isn’t that what everyone always wants? Sandor mused, his mouth twitching with contempt. Still, the time to relax and celebrate hadn’t come yet. The little bird and he still needed to evade the Lord Hand a little while longer. Yawning, he stretched his arms before folding them behind his head. We should go now, he thought despite not moving an inch. Then watching the girl’s dainty, sleeping features, he relented and changed his mind. I’ll give her just another half-hour, Sandor decided, feeling his own eyelids grow heavy.
He must have dozed off then, because the next thing Sandor knew, he was roused by an ugly, brutal noise.
BANG! BANG! Loud knocks reverberated from the door.
His soldiering reflexes instantly taking over, the man rose to his feet even before he was fully awake. What the fuck is that? he wondered numbly as he did.
“Open!” a commanding voice ordered from the corridor.
Fuck! Sandor mused, running stark naked to the window and looking down. As he had feared, a group of men were gathered below. The bastards were gazing up, some with complacent little smiles, others with sneers twisting their mouths. Thank to the contrast between the bright outside light and the relative dimness of the room, none of them could glimpse him, however Sandor himself could discern them well enough. These were the men who had beaten him up after he’d been caught fleeing from the little bird’s chamber just a few days ago. These were Stark men.
Seven Hells. They’ve found us, Sandor cursed inwardly, dread and most of all, wrath at himself viciously pulling at his stomach. What a damned fool he had been to let himself grow so sloppy. They should never have stopped so soon or at least, not laid in bed for so fucking long. There was no wondering why falling in love was a warrior’s most common downfall. It transformed a previously careful man into a reckless idiot and Sandor was no exception to the bloody rule.
“Answer! We know you’re in there!” the same voice vociferated.
“Sandor,” Sansa whispered nervously. He hadn’t noticed she was awake but was it really surprising with that buggering racket? The poor girl was clutching the covers up to her chin, her eyes wide with terror. “It’s my lord father!”
“I had guessed as much, little bird,” Sandor hissed dryly.
“Answer him, Sandor! Please!” she begged, getting more agitated by the second.
He had no other bloody choice. They had no way out with those armed men waiting beneath their window and anyway, Sandor had not planned on fleeing from her father forever. He’d just have preferred to wait a bit longer before they had to face him again.
Resigned, he nodded at Sansa and turned to gaze in the door’s direction. “You’ve found us,” he replied sourly, pitching his voice louder to be sure he was well understood. “And nice job by the way. I looked out the window and I do realise we’re stuck. You’ve won this round, Lord Stark.”
Even through the thick wooden door, Sandor could feel the man’s relief at hearing he was willing to talk. “Perhaps but I hardly see what it’s worth at this point,” Ned Stark uttered with obvious bitterness. “There’s not much I can do to change what’s been done.”
Sandor relaxed slightly at that. To hear the Hand all but admit his failure was a good sign, yet it was best he didn’t become too confident either. “Well in that case, why did you follow us?”
“My daughter. Is she well? Is she still with you at all?” he asked with palpable worry.
Sandor almost laughed at that. “Of course she is! What the fuck did you believe? That I would go through all that trouble just to abandon her or worse, kill her the moment I was out of your sight?!”
Ned Stark didn’t acknowledge his comment. “Sansa? Answer me, please!” he demanded of his daughter.
Sandor glanced at his wife. She was still snuggling anxiously under the covers and apparently waited for his approval to speak. “Go ahead, little bird,” he whispered to her while walking to the chamber pot.
“I’m here, Father,” the girl announced in a timid but somehow strong voice.
“Are you well?” the Hand immediately inquired, his tone pathetically urgent as only an anxious father’s could be.
“Of course! Sandor would never hurt me!” the little bird cried so honestly that it warmed Sandor’s heart.
“So you weren’t forced into this?”
“Why, Father! Never!” she retorted, slightly offended.
Sandor snorted with pride at that, the first drops of his long retained piss flowing into the chamber pot and echoing as it landed inside.
“I know you and Clegane are… married…” Ned Stark continued uneasily. “We’ve met the septon that celebrated your union. Forgive my insistence, Sansa, but I want you to assure me you truly agreed of your own free will. There are enough men around this inn to get you out of this situation if that is your wish.”
Sansa’s pretty face became red and she tossed the covers she had held so tightly onto her lap. “Oh, no! Father, please!” she exclaimed, her voice losing its usual poise. “Sandor and I are in love! This is a true marriage, truer than any other! I love him!”
From the silence that followed, Sandor could sense the Hand’s exasperation even while he didn’t see him. The notion filled him with satisfaction and he shook his cock to rid himself of the last urine drops that still clung to its end, a smirk on his lips.
A long sigh was heard coming from the corridor. “Well, Sansa, to be truthful I can’t pretend I wasn’t expecting your answer, with the potion and all that… that followed,” Ned Stark admitted, each of his words spoken with difficulty, as if they added weight to a burden he was carrying on his shoulders. “I thought about it and although it doesn’t please me to concede to it, I’m not sure there would be much sense in opposing… what has come to pass. I realise it’s too late and that with this potion you’ve both drunk, neither of you will ever see reason,” he mumbled tartly. “I take it the marriage has already been - ah -”
“Consummated? Yes, many times and more,” Sandor cut in without missing a beat.
At hearing his reply, the little bird eyed him reprovingly, yet despite how shocked she obviously was, Sandor couldn’t keep himself from snickering. Averting his stare, he retrieved his underclothes from the floor and put them on, all the while biting at his lip to stop himself from looking too pleased.
“All right, Clegane, I don’t need details,” the Lord Hand was responding with evident distaste and annoyance. “I said I wouldn’t fight the inevitable and I’ll hold to my word. Still, I’d like to have a private talk with you both. I have a few conditions before I recognise your union. Please, let me in.”
Ned Stark’s words finally dawning on him, Sandor’s heart skipped a beat. Had he really heard right? The girl’s so stuck-up and noble father had agreed so easily? Disbelieving, he glanced at Sansa and at seeing her smile, he grinned in turn. “All right,” he started more calmly than he felt, squaring his shoulders and walking towards the door. “I’ll let you in but first you need to assure me that you won’t have my throat cut the first chance you get and most of all, that you won’t hurt Sansa.”
A growl of outrage was heard. “Why would I ever allow anyone to do any harm to my own daughter?”
“Some men do when they feel they have been dishonoured,” Sandor pointed out sharply.
“I would never!” the man responded, his anger plain.
“Fine, don’t take it like that. I was just making sure. I might be nothing to you, Lord Stark, but believe my buggering word: as long as I live I’ll not let anyone lay a single finger on Sansa, not even her bloody father.”
A few heartbeats passed before the Lord Hand spoke again but when he did, his fury had receded and he had regained his usual cold composure. “You won’t ever have to protect her from me, Clegane. In that, we can be allies at least,” he reluctantly replied. “And you don’t have to worry about your own safety around me and my men or that I will condemn your marriage later on.”
Gazing at the door with eyes narrowed with suspicion, Sandor hesitated for a couple of seconds. “That’s all good, I guess. Let’s just hope you won’t change your mind as soon as I open the door though.”
“Sandor! My lord father is an honourable man! He would never break his word!” the little bird interjected, frowning at him with her lithe arms folded over her pert little teats.
“My daughter is right, Clegane,” the Hand added stiffly.
Truth be told, Sandor knew he could trust him and had voiced his comment only to goad him. The Starks’ honour was nothing if not legendary, after all. “Forget what I said then. I’ll open it but you need to give us time to dress first.”
“Of course,” Ned Stark spat dryly. Being reminded that his daughter was naked with the Hound didn’t seem to please him in the least and Sandor’s lips curled into a smirk at the awareness.
“Oh, Sandor! Can you believe this?” Sansa murmured, both her hands cupped over her mouth. Her eyes were wide and astounded and shone with elation.
“Barely,” he replied, cracking a grin at her. “Hurry up, little bird. You don’t want to make your father wait so long that he changes his mind, do you?”
“Of course not!” Sansa exclaimed happily while jumping off the mattress.
The room was a bit messy after yesterday’s actions and their clothes were piled pell-mell on the floor. Sandor went through the stack and found Sansa’s fancy gown, shift and underclothes first and handed them to her before putting on his breeches and tunic. Once he was decently covered, he raised his gaze to the little bird to see that she was struggling with the laces on the side of her gown.
“Need help,” Sandor stated more than he asked while taking the strings from her hands and tying them clumsily for her. “You’re all set now.”
“Thank you, my lord,” the girl breathed melodiously, looking up at him with that adoring gaze she often had for him.
They strolled to the door arm in arm, the short distance crossed in a question of seconds. Although her smile was undeniably genuine, Sandor could feel the little bird was nervous to face her father as a married woman for the first time. Hoping to give her courage, he stroked her lower back very briefly before removing his hand and pushing the bolt open.
Through the slit of the ajar door, Sandor noticed other men were present in the corridor with the Lord Hand. While their backs were lazily leaning against the opposite wall, the carelessness of their poses was deceptive for their hands were all near the hilts of their weapons and their stares fixed upon him. Straight as an arrow, Ned Stark was waiting before the threshold - lost in his undoubtedly dark thoughts - but when he saw the door move, his eyes instantly grew alert and darted to it. Sandor’s large build was all the man could see from the chamber and he thus resigned himself to not search for his daughter and gaze at him instead, the wordless battle of their stares lasting a couple of awkward heartbeats. The Hand was in a horrible state and it was easy to tell he hadn’t known a full night of sleep for quite some time. His features were so taut that every tendon of his face was visible through its wan skin and the circles under his eyes were almost as dark as tar.
“Come on in,” Sandor rasped, moving aside to allow him to enter.
Ned Stark didn’t wait an instant to oblige. Once the door was closed behind him, he immediately turned his attention to his daughter, appraising her with a mix of curiosity and wariness. The girl smiled timidly at him, breathing a meek, “Good morning, Father,” while blushing a deep shade of pink but she rapidly lowered her stare to where her hands were nervously clasped before her, the heavy scrutiny of her father apparently too much for her. As if gazing their way burned his eyes, the Hand was squinting as he looked both his daughter and Sandor up and down, the sight of their dishevelled appearance making him wince. Sandor smirked. They were indeed not very presentable. Sansa’s hair was pretty as always but terribly messy and her gown was not properly adjusted and hanging loosely around her curves. Sandor wasn’t in any better state: the laces of his tunic weren’t closed at all - giving the Lord Hand an unobstructed view of the hair of his chest - and as he glanced down at himself, he realised he was still barefoot. Oh well, he thought, the corner of his mouth curling up mischievously. That will teach the man to go knocking on newlyweds’ doors mere hours after their bedding. He was bound to see something he didn’t like.
Ned Stark’s gaze was travelling around the chamber and his aversion only grew stronger when it fell on the unmade featherbed over which the hollowed shape of their bodies could still clearly be discerned. Exhaling loudly and looking away with an expression of utter disgust, he frowned and set his lips in a thin, white line.
“I’ll be honest with you,” he started tensely. “I’d rather have this discussion elsewhere, but as long as we are in this inn we won’t get privacy anywhere but in this chamber. I’ll not waste either of our time. The sooner I’ve told you all I need, the sooner we can be on our way to King’s Landing.”
Revelling in the Hand’s unease, Sandor allowed himself a faint smile. “That seems reasonable enough to me,” he agreed as pleasantly as his rough voice permitted.
“Father, Sandor,” Sansa called from where she stood next to the table. “Why don’t we all have a seat while we talk?”
Ned Stark grunted in approval and walked to the chair his daughter was showing him to. Sandor installed himself at the opposite side of the table and pulled a chair near his for Sansa to sit in. Once they were all settled, he poured two glasses of wine from the half-full jug that remained from the previous evening’s late-night snack he and the little bird had ordered. A half-loaf of bread, some cheese and a few pieces of sausage had also been left untouched and were spread on the table between them. Sandor nodded at the food.
“Hungry, Lord Stark? Have your pick. Be my guest,” he offered nonchalantly.
“No, thank you. I’ll wait after this is settled and eat something warm in the common room with my men,” the Lord Hand replied in that polite but frigid, dry tone so specific to him.
“You’ll take some wine at least?” Sandor inquired just as dryly, pushing one of the two tankards to him.
The man nodded. “Yes, thank you,” he muttered, taking a sip without raising his gaze from the dark-red liquid.
Gallantly, Sandor indicated to Sansa to have their common tankard first. After having delicately wetted her lips on the wine, she handed it to Sandor and he took a long gulp out of the mug before settling it on the table.
Ned Stark cleared his voice and started. “As I said before you let me in, I’m agreeing to this marriage but I have a few conditions.”
“Go on,” Sandor encouraged, tearing chunks of bread from the loaf for him and Sansa and biting greedily into one. The Lord Hand might not be hungry but he was.
“Well, as you may have already deduced, the fact that you eloped is well known by now in King’s Landing. Still as we speak, neither I nor the king have publicly acknowledged any of this and therefore, the court’s acquaintance with the matter stands solely on rumours. I’ll make an official announcement as soon as we get back to the capital, however, I don’t think this will be enough to make your union appear legitimate. While I don’t believe the latter is truly possible, I do think organising another ceremony at the keep might help your cause. That thieves wedding you’ve had might be legal, its circumstances are still terribly dubious. I’ll wager some will doubt it has even happened at all.”
Sansa brought both her hands to her chest in excitement. “Really, Father? Another wedding?”
Sandor snorted in amusement at that.
“Nothing grand, Sansa,” Ned Stark severely told his daughter. “It will be as intimate as a court wedding can be and take place in the keep’s sept. Afterwards, there’ll be a small reception with a modest feast and that will be it.”
Despite his warning, the little bird was still as enchanted. She was all but wriggling in her seat in enthusiasm while smiling sweetly at Sandor and her reaction made the Hand’s face wrinkle even more.
“All right. I’ve no problem with that,” Sandor consented. With his dagger, he cut two slices of cheese and gave one to Sansa before biting into his. “Any other demands?”
“Of course,” Ned Stark replied. “Once you’re wedded, I’ll send both of you to Winterfell. I don’t want Sansa to be mocked for having married so much lower than she was destined. You might not care about what people think or say, Clegane, but unlike you Sansa is sensitive and despite what she’ll assure you, being disregarded will affect her. I’m not pretending no one will judge you in the North but at least people respect our family enough not to voice their disapproval aloud and the mentalities are not as elitist up there either. Besides, we have no real court to speak of at Winterfell so there is less gossip and bickering. Consider yourself lucky for that also, Clegane. I do miss the peace and quiet I had there.”
Sandor’s mouth twitched and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “We’ll see what Cersei has to say about that.”
“Cersei will do as her husband asks and the king will agree with me,” Ned Stark declared crisply. “If she proves me wrong and resists too much, I’ll compensate her. Take it as Sansa’s dowry to you.”
“I’ve gold too, you know,” Sandor hurriedly reminded him, irked at the notion that he may owe the man even more. “You don’t need to buy me off as if I were bloody cattle at a livestock market. Furthermore, in spite of what they probably think, the Lannisters don’t own me. I may have sworn loyalty to them but I’m not a serf and as free as any other House-born man of this realm.”
Not the least moved by Sandor’s assertion, the Hand kept his harsh gaze fixed on him, his brows lowered over his eyes and face impassive. “I’ve never questioned that,” he uttered flatly. “Still, your foremost allegiance will need to be to House Stark from now on and I don’t want to create any conflicts with the Lannisters thank to that. If needs be, I’ll pay and believe me, Clegane, if I lost out where you are concerned, I’ll save a small fortune with the princely dowry I won’t have to pay. What I might end up granting Cersei for you won’t have anything to do with all I was supposed to cede to the King, or in fact, what I’d have given to whichever appropriate suitor I’d have chosen later on if Sansa had not been betrothed to the prince.”
“If you say so,” Sandor assented without much enthusiasm. That any man would ask for gold or land to marry Sansa was beyond him. He’d have been ready to pay to have her. “Is all set now or do you have other conditions still?”
“I have only one left and then we’ll be set,” Ned Stark promised, watching him over the rim of his tankard.
Popping a piece of sausage into his mouth, Sandor waited for the man to continue.
“Although your wedding will be modest, there is nonetheless decorum to follow and preparing everything will take time.” As he finished his sentence, the Hand’s face turned ashen. “I’ll also have to write to your mother as soon as we get back to King’s Landing,” he added quietly while glancing at Sansa, the dread the idea woke in him all too clear. “I’ll not set a date before I have received her reply in case she wants to attend. If it’s her wish, the wait will be even longer.”
Sansa smiled empathetically. “I’m sure Mother will understand. You don’t have to worry, Father. You’re not to blame for any of this after all and once she sees how happy I am, she’ll surely share my joy,” she kindly assured him. “I do hope she decides to come even though it will delay our wedding. It would be so wonderful to have both of you present!”
Nodding grimly, the man returned his attention to Sandor. “As you have probably deduced, chances are up to two moons will have passed before the day of your wedding. Until then, I think it’d be preferable that Sansa lived at the Tower of the Hand with me and that you, Clegane, kept your own quarters.”
Unwilling to believe he had understood correctly, Sandor was speechless for the fleeting instant it took the man’s meaning to hit him. “Seven buggering Hells! Do you realise what the fuck you’re asking here?!” he roared when it did at last, abruptly getting to his feet. “She’s my bloody wife! We’re fucking married, by the damned Stranger!”
“Sandor, please!” Sansa tried to soothe him, pulling at his sleeve to incite him to retake his seat.
“I’m sorry but this is my request and I’ll stand by it,” Ned Stark retorted stiffly, his stare boring defiantly into Sandor’s. “Since no one that matters has witnessed your first marriage ceremony, in the eyes of the court the second one will be the only that will count. If you live together in the meantime, people will talk. Adding to the ill reputation your union is sure to have is the last thing we all need.”
“This is bloody ridiculous!” Sandor hissed, fuming like never before. His upper body slightly bowed toward the Hand over the table, Sandor was glaring down at him, all the while ignoring Sansa as she vainly pulled at his sleeve in hope that he would sit back in his chair. “Do you truly think anyone will believe I made off with your daughter for a few days without taking her maidenhead? You’ll not fool anyone with that mummer’s farce - only deprive a rightful husband of his wife!”
“I know well enough the court won’t be duped, Clegane,” Ned Stark retaliated irritably. “Nevertheless, keeping up appearances is important, vital even in your case. While people thinking badly of your alliance and how it has come to happen is inevitable, they’ll never dare make their opinion public if none of your actions speak against you. Since I cannot undo the mess you have created, Clegane, I’ll at least assure myself no further harm is done and salvage some of my daughter’s honour.”
“But we are married, Lord Stark! There’d be nothing improper about us living together! You just have to tell the court - and the whole buggering world too if you like! - that we are and that will be it. I’m not sure that I can agree to see my rights as a husband be taken away like this. I-”
“Sandor! Stop it, please!” Sansa cried out, tugging hard enough at Sandor’s arm to make him reel. “My lord father has been very conciliatory so far and it’d be very unfair if we didn’t agree to do our part also!”
Taken aback by the girl’s scolding, Sandor wordlessly stared at her for an eye blink or two, unsure of how he should react or even what he should think.
“Thank you, Sansa,” Ned Stark murmured, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and fingers.
“Father, if we agree, I’ll be free to go where I will in the castle as before the philtre, won’t I?” Sansa asked calmly, the deep flush of her face the only reminder of her previous outburst.
The Hand seemed to hesitate but then he grimaced and gave in. “Of course.”
“Then, we’ll be able to see each other, Sandor! It won’t be so bad and afterwards, we’ll be together forever!” Sansa pleaded, her eyes hopeful and insistent at once.
His hands balled into tight fists, Sandor clenched and unclenched his jaw a few times, all the while glaring at Sansa and that bloody father of hers. They had teamed up against him and now it was becoming all too obvious he would have no other fucking choice but to yield, he realised, exhaling loudly and throwing his head back in frustration. “All right then,” he snarled, letting himself fall heavily into his chair. “I’ll sleep in my poxy little chamber, alone in the same damned pallet I’ve known for all those long years until the wedding if that’s what you two want! I hope you’re happy, Lord Stark.”
“Happy would be an overstatement but yes, I am content that you have agreed,” the man answered, his voice as stern as his northern weather.
“But, Father?” Sansa called suddenly. “I too have my own conditions before all is set.”
Both Sandor and the Hand momentarily forgot their respective misery to eye her with curiosity.
“I won’t be taking moon tea once we get to the Red Keep. In fact, I don’t think I’ll drink that awful beverage ever again!” she announced, anger piercing through her usually so polite and mild façade. “I swear now that I am married, Father, if you force me to ingest some, I’ll ask Sandor to kidnap me all over again!”
Narrowing his eyes at his daughter, Ned Stark examined her with the same appalled caution one would a poisonous beast. “That won’t be necessary Sansa. I think we can take that risk,” he acceded after a moment of obviously painful reflection. “Anyhow if you were to be… with child, it won’t show until you are gone from the capital and the exact date of your union won’t be something people will worry about in the North.”
Sansa jolted in her chair in jubilation. “Oh, thank you, Father!” she let out happily, beaming at him.
“Don’t thank me, Sansa. If it had been in my power, I would never have allowed any of this,” the Hand reminded her darkly. Still, despite his words and general demeanour, the little bird’s joy seemed to mollify him for his lips curved in the slightest of smiles. It lasted no more than a second or two though and after having swallowed down the last of his wine, the man pushed his tankard to the middle of the table and turned toward Sandor. “I won’t lie, this is far from the fate I had dreamed of for my daughter but I’m nevertheless relieved we have come to an agreement. Since I don’t see what profit I’d gain from being bitter about your union, I’ll work on trying to accept the situation yet believe me, the battle’s not won yet.” With that, Ned Stark stood. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to your packing and head downstairs to eat my first real meal in more than a day. I’m starving.”
“As you wish, Lord Stark,” Sandor muttered lethargically, not moving an inch from the chair he was slumped in.
“We’ll be ready to go when you are, Father!” Sansa promised with all the energy Sandor was lacking as Ned Stark shut the door behind him. “Oh Sandor! I’m so happy!” she then exclaimed, rising from her chair and jumping onto Sandor’s lap, both her legs closing around his waist. Her little hands were clutching at his shoulders and she was smiling at him, her eyes sparkling so very beautifully.
His hands sliding over her sides, Sandor kissed her neck before leaning his brow in its crook. “Gods, little bird,” he breathed desperately. “I’m torn between elation and anguish. Do you realise how fucking long it could take for your mother to receive the raven and arrive in King’s Landing? How the Hells am I suppose to wait so long to have you in my bed again?”
Cajoling, Sansa massaged the back of his head and neck, her long and agile fingers digging pleasantly into his skin. “But we’ll have the rest of our lives afterwards! And besides, we can meet during the day and… and sneak to your room,” she added in a whisper, the good girl apparently still too shy to voice such a naughty proposition out loud.
That was a reassuring prospect, one Sandor had somehow not thought about. “Yes, you’re right,” he acquiesced, his palms unhurriedly caressing her thin waist. Yet in spite of his words, he was still anxious. “Perhaps I’ll make it after all,” he rasped, hoping to convince himself.