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Chapter Text

Sandor led them to a room at the end of a short corridor. The only light came from muted starlight pushing through a set of thick curtains, but he maneuvered easily in the darkness to light a series of brass-bottomed kerosene lamps. 

It was his bedroom, though Sansa might have thought she was in a chamber in Casterly Rock. He had a set of black walnut furniture, well-worn and heavy. There was a wardrobe, a writing desk, and a massive bed with ornate carvings of goldencup and moonbloom atop each of its four towering posts. A huge wooden crossbow hung next to the bed, with an iron safe as tall as Sansa just beside it. 

It would have intimidated her more if the whole room wasn’t as dusty and cluttered as the living room. There were books, rumpled clothes, and enough scattered paper to make Sansa question whether or not he had a waste basket. Her favorite part of all was the art—a collection of frayed tapestries lined the wall. They were ethereal, depicting scenes of fair-haired maidens and their dashing knights. 

Sansa's heart thundered against her ribs. I shouldn't know this, she reminded herself. She shouldn't be in a stranger's bedroom well past midnight, with an insistent wetness between her legs, and only the wickedest thoughts on her mind. She ran her fingers along the crossweave of a maiden's golden locks, wondering how many other pretty girls had been taken in by Sandor's dark charm. 

"Do you like it?" 

He was across the room, poised on the edge of his bed. He had been watching her with a predatory fascination. 

Sansa nodded. She was the prey. 

And for once, it excited her.  

"Come here, little bird." 

Sansa couldn't resist the way he called to her, stern but not quite severe, so she did as she was told. She padded over to Sandor and lowered herself onto her knees. Her hands found the right spot this time, placed delicately over one other in her lap. She waited to be addressed. 

Sandor liked this. He ran his tongue along his teeth, his lips curling into a satisfied smirk, then he scooped up Sansa's cheek. His rings were warm on her skin. 

"You're quick to learn," he mused.  

Sansa blushed up at him from beneath her lashes. He was monumental at this angle, a chiseled statue with untold strength at his disposal, and she was nothing but a diligent schoolgirl, eager to please. Her septas had always told her so. 

"W-what are the rules?" she found herself asking. 

Sandor loosed a breath that smelled of hemp smoke and rye. "The rules…." He thought for a second, absently twisting a lock of her hair. He tucked a finger under her chin when he'd made up his mind. "You follow my lead, and we stop if it's too much. Understood?" 

"Yes, I understand."   

"That's a good girl." 

Sandor brushed his thumb over Sansa's upturned lips, then roamed lower. He ran his fingertips lightly down her sweater, swirling them across her nipples. They stiffened immediately under his touch, and Sansa bit back a whimper.  

"Let's get this off." Sandor tugged her turtleneck free from the waistband of her skirt, then pulled it over her head. Bashful, Sansa drew her arms around herself, but Sandor easily pried them away. "Much better." 

She had worn one of her favorite bras, black Myrish lace with underwire for support. It pushed her apple-sized breasts up into a pretty round shape, or so Sansa would like to think. The only men who had seen them bare were Joffrey and her uncle, neither of whom were very appreciative. 

She was too shy to look Sandor in the eye.

He stuck a finger underneath one of the straps. "Take this off, too."

Sansa reached behind herself and unhooked the bra with shaky fingers, then slid it from her shoulders. Her nipples hardened the moment they met the open air. 

"Gods," Sandor groaned under his breath. "Look at you, little bird. You're lovely." 

He lifted Sansa's chin. He was grinning down at her with a hand over his bulge, which somehow looked even bigger than before. Sansa shifted her hips, a sordid attempt at calming the pulse between her legs. She had never been so hot down there, hot to the point of discomfort, but she saw all her discomfort, all her longing, reflected back tenfold in Sandor's eager eyes. 

Every single impulse she'd followed had led her here, half naked, to the feet of a dark giant. 

And he liked what he saw. 

She smiled back up at him. She didn't feel as shy anymore, so she picked up his hand and put it where his eyes had been, on the gentle slope of her breast. She was small in his hold. His fingers covered all of her, but even so, he treated her like she was a precious thing, soft porcelain that could only withstand the lightest touch. When he brushed his thumb over Sansa’s swollen nipple, warmth rippled across her skin, and her breath hitched. 

"You like that?" 

Sansa nodded. 

"Good girl. You have such a nice body. So soft, so...yielding." He gripped her breast harder, burying his thick fingers in her tender flesh. This time, Sansa moaned, and her eyes squeezed shut from the force of it. She could hear Sandor smile. "That's a pretty sight, isn't it?" 

Sandor took her face again, and Sansa rested there, in that coarse palm that swallowed up half her face. She wouldn't have thought that this crude man, a brooding guitarist from Sow's End, would treat her more sweetly than any noble boy she had ever met. He's a knight, she reminded herself. And of course he was—he was massive, seven feet of hulking muscle, trained to kill. Gooseprickles rose up on Sansa's arms and legs. But he’ll be gentle.

"What are you thinking of?" 

Sansa blinked up at Sandor. 

"I want—I want to see you." She reached over his lap to finger the hem of his tunic. "I want to see your body too." 

Without a word, Sandor crossed his arms over himself and shed his tunic, tossing it carelessly onto the floorboards. 

"Oh," Sansa puffed, speechless. What had she expected? His body was devastating, a rigid wall of thick, contoured muscle, his tanned skin glistening with sweat. 

It was the tattoos that surprised her. 

He had hardly any bare skin at all. His body was blanketed in dark ink and darker hair. Sansa stared at the same grim image from the Heartsbane poster—three snarling hounds with pointed teeth and razor sharp claws guarding a weeping weirwood, whose trunk rose up from his abdomen and spread its leaves across his vast chest. There were faded runes scattered in the empty spaces, and there were scars, too. Bullet wounds. Sansa counted three—two beneath his ribcage, and one lower on his belly. They were deep and dark red, contrasting starkly with the expanse of black ink that covered the rest of him. 

They were the everlasting marks of war. 

Of a warrior. 

Sansa ran her fingers over everything, from the weirwood's leaves peppered with black and grey hair, to the tree's sorrowful eyes, and then down his thick abdomen, to a longer scar just above his beltline. 

"Did they hurt?" she asked. 

"Bad enough." 

Sansa hummed, and her hand lingered low, dangerously close to the swell in Sandor's jeans. 

"What do you want, little bird?" 

Startled, Sansa put her hands back in her lap and gaped innocently up at Sandor, but he knew where her eyes had been. He was watching her like a starved wolf. There was no point in lying. 

"I want to see..." she began, but her tongue got in the way. "I want to see your..." 

Her face flushed. She couldn't get the word past her lips—she didn't know what to call it amongst her girlfriends, let alone an intimidatingly handsome, much older, retired knight. She twisted her hands in her lap. 

"Go on," Sandor urged. 

Sansa only turned redder, cursing her prudishness and digging each of her fingernails into her thumb in turn. His hand was still there, on his jeans, and Sansa could already see him. He gripped himself tightly enough to display an imposing outline that ran along the top of his leg. The sight put a thousand butterflies in Sansa's belly.

He's huge. 

In the next instant, he snapped up her chin and commanded her eye. His face was steel. 

"I see you staring at my cock, little bird, and I know you want it. But you're going to have to tell me."  

Sansa winced, not from the rigidness of Sandor's hold, but from the pervasive ache between her legs. He knew just how to torment her, as though he could read her mind, poaching all her dirty thoughts and dragging them out for display. 

She would do better to surrender them.

"I want—I want to see your cock." 

Sandor sucked his teeth disapprovingly. "Close," he said, mashing her lips together like soft clay. "But where are your manners?" 

Sansa swallowed down her nerves, then replied, "I would like to see your cock, please."

"Ah, there's my good girl," he smiled. "It sounds so pretty when you say it like that, doesn't it?" He delivered a pat to her cheek before releasing her. His hands went to his silver belt buckle. "I'll give you what you want, since you asked so nicely." 

She would never have been ready for it, no matter how mature she fancied herself. Sandor was just as huge as she could have ever imagined, as long as her forearm and wide enough to fill his own fist. And he was hard. His manhood stuck straight up from his jeans, deep red, with thick veins coursing towards his swollen tip. 

Sansa had to push her mouth shut—it had somehow fallen open.

"What do you think of me, little bird?" 

"You're so…so big. "

 Sandor forced a ragged breath through his nose. "Is that so?" 

"Yes," she answered, transfixed. He stroked himself, a ringed hand working steadily up and down his length. It was a familiar motion, Sansa knew, and it seemed so private, so intimate, that she squirmed in place. He was just as molten as her. 

"You did this to me," he growled.

Sansa looked up to meet his low-lidded eyes. "I did?" 

"Of course you did," he said, taking up her face again. "With those soft pink lips and sweet kisses. And your breasts…." His hand wandered lower. "Such pretty little nipples, as pink as your blush. I've been hard all damn night, since you cornered me in the den and brought your sweet smelling hair and even sweeter smile with you. I can't resist a girl with good manners." 

Sansa beamed—she had always prided herself on her manners, which proved time and time again to be her ultimate strength. They had even won over Sandor. 

Suddenly confident, Sansa asked, "May I touch you?" 

Sandor grunted his approval. Sansa wasn't sure exactly where to begin—Joffrey had always commanded her hand for her—so she let her fingertips find him first. She traced them lightly along a hardened vein up his length, withholding the pressure she knew he craved. His cock throbbed at her touch, surging towards his abdomen of its volition. Sansa giggled. 

"Careful, little bird," Sandor warned, but he sounded more strained than stern. Sansa liked her taste of power. With a coy smile spread across her face, she wrapped her hand at the base of his cock, resting gently against his dark pubic hair. Her fingers couldn't reach all the way around his girth, but they were strong enough, so she squeezed, hard. 

"Fuck," he groaned. "Just like that."

She found her rhythm. It was like a game. She eased her hand up his length, shifting the pressure of her fingers the same way she played scales on the piano, one wave after the next. If she performed well, he would throb in her hold. If she performed really well, he would grunt and fumble through her hair, or clasp at her shoulder as though he would fall without her support. 

As Sansa worked faster, a small bead of moisture formed at the tip, so she spread it over his reddened skin, making it gleam in the lamplight. Curiosity got the better of her, and she found herself lowering her head, bringing her mouth that close to him. She set her lips lightly on the tip, then cautiously swirled her tongue, lapping up the warm taste of salt and cotton. 

"There's a good girl," he groaned. He buried a hand in Sansa's hair and took it by the root. "I want more of that mouth." 

A protest climbed up Sansa's throat, but her mouth was full, and her thoughts were muddled by Sandor's tight claim on her head. So she did all she knew to do, all Joff had taught her to do, when bent-kneed before him. She pushed Sandor further down her throat, swallowing as much of his monstrous length as she could. And like any man, he wanted even more. He eased her head down and kept her there, her mouth filled with pulsating flesh, drool leaking from the corners. 

And he did it again. He dragged her up and down his cock, now soaked in her spit. Each thrust forced more air from her lungs, and she couldn't reclaim it fast enough. She gagged and sputtered, her scalp sore from Sandor's unforgiving grip. She couldn't perform, she couldn't play his game, so she let her mind go blank. 

In the darkness, she heard Joff's voice. 

You're disgusting. You're worse than a whore. Whores don't gag. 

"Little bird," came a different voice, a concerned voice. "Sansa, look at me." 

She blinked. She could breathe again. Sandor cupped her chin and directed her gaze to him. 

"It's too much," she whispered. Her eyes were hot with tears, and she hoped desperately that Sandor couldn't see them. 

"Shhh," he soothed. "If it's too much, we stop. Remember?" 

Sansa meekly nodded. 

"I lost you for a second there, little bird. I'm sorry." He ran his thumb over her lips, wiping away the cold strings of spit that still clung to them. "What would you like to do next?" 

"I want…" Sansa started, shifting uneasily on her knees. "I want to lie down." 

Sandor helped her up off the ground and onto his bed. She melted into his buttery soft velvet comforter, her head cradled by an equally soft pile of pillows. His scent was everywhere—smoky cedar and clove billowed up from the bedding and swallowed Sansa whole. It reminded her of Winterfell, in a way. Of the Wolfswood on a clear summer night. Nothing to fear. 

Sandor fell into bed next to her. He had shed his jeans, and laid on his back with his hands tucked behind his head. His manhood had softened some but still rested proudly over his toned stomach, the sight of which made Sansa's heart race. If he had a mind to take her, he certainly could, but instead he remained perfectly still. 

Sansa shifted onto her side, propping her head beneath her elbow. She asked him the first thing that came to mind. 

"Do you have women over often?" 

Sandor peered at her from the corner of his eye. "Why do you ask?" 

"I was only wondering," Sansa returned. She put her hand on his chest and absently traced the inky, sweat-slicked branches of the weirwood on his skin. "I imagine you would." 

"Often enough," he answered, curt. "And what of you? Do you make a habit of chasing men all over Lannisport and letting them bed you?" 

"No, I—" she was blushing, Seven forbid. "I've only ever had one boyfriend." 

Sandor hmmed but said nothing more, while Sansa circled a healed-over bullet wound beneath his ribcage. When she dipped too low, Sandor's cock stirred. Sansa pulled in her lip—something inside her had stirred, too. She still wanted him. 

"Will you touch me?" she asked. 

"Of course, little bird," Sandor said. He pulled up to sitting and placed a powerful hand on her waist. "I'll do whatever you like." 

"I've never—my boyfriend—he never used his hands. He didn't want to get them dirty." 

"Sounds like a shit boyfriend," Sandor scoffed. "Is that what you want then? My hands?" He went lower. He smoothed a wide palm over the front of Sansa's skirt and pressed down between her legs. Blood rushed to the exact spot he held, and she whimpered. 

"That's good, is it?" 

Sansa nodded. 

"Let's get you out of this skirt." 

Sandor put himself between her thighs and had her skirt off in one fluid sweep. He left Sansa in nothing but her underwear, a pair of high-cut lace briefs that had matched her bra. They were her best, a gift from Uncle, which meant they had cost more than some men made in a month. Sansa was glad she had worn them, and from the gleam in Sandor's eye, she knew he liked them too. 

"Pretty panties for a pretty girl," he growled, sliding his hands up her thighs and underneath her waistband. "But they need to go." And just like that, he peeled them off and cast them to the other side of the room. 

Then she was naked, spread open for Sandor, and he looked at her as though he hadn't eaten since the equinox. He put his hands on her the crease where her hips met her thighs and ran his thumbs through her maidenhair. "Seven hells, little bird, look at you." He went lower, deftly easing her open to get a better view. He let out all his air. "You're soaked."  

Sansa made a pitiful noise—it was true. Each lapse of air on her sensitive, swollen skin made her wetness known, and Sandor's hands were right there, taunting her with their proximity. What she needed was obvious, but she knew she'd have to ask. 

"Please, Sandor," she whispered. "Please touch me." 

Sandor grinned down at her. "You want this?" He brushed his thumb over her most tender spot, the bud of flesh with its own pulse, and Sansa gasped. Pleasure surged through her like an electric shock. "Oh, you like that, do you? You like when I touch your sweet little clit?" 

Sandor touched her there again, harder, and moved in slow, rhythmic circles. Sansa gripped the bedspread and pushed her hips into him. He was giving her exactly as much as he cared to, but she was desperate for more of that exquisite friction. Nothing had ever felt so good down there, not even her own hand. He knew her body better than she did. 

"Tell me, little bird," he commanded, mercifully deepening the press of his thumb. "Tell me you like my hand on your swollen clit." 

"I like it," Sansa moaned. 

"Do you want more?" 

"M-more?"

"Do you want my fingers inside of you?" He circled her entrance, teasing her with his warmth, and she knew more than anything she needed to be filled. But when Sansa arched into his touch, he withdrew. 

"No, little bird. Answer me." His tone was grave, his eyes even more so. "Beg for it." 

"Please, Sandor," she whimpered. 

"Please what?" 

"Please put your fingers inside me. I need—I need—"   

"What do you need?" 

He combed through her maidenhair, purposefully avoiding the part of her that ached for him most. Her blood screamed for even a sliver of relief. 

"I need to feel you inside me," she said, her jaw trembling. "I need your fingers inside me. I need you, please. "

"Good girl. I'll give you what you want." 

He eased one finger inside of her, down to the metal band of his ring, and ten times the electricity rippled through her. Sounds she had never made before tumbled from her lips, but she couldn’t stop herself. His finger was warm, and thick, and strong, and he knew just how to use it. His touch was as deft as it had been on the guitar. He moved in and out of her, winding his finger in circles, igniting places Sansa didn’t even know of. He pressed upward, into one of those spots, and she felt herself melt, as though she was filled with liquid gold. She would surely gild Sandor’s hand. 

When his thumb found her clit again, Sansa gasped. She liked the heat. She liked how every gentle, insistent touch made her pulse flare more wildly than the last. 

“More,” she breathed. She didn’t bother to open her eyes. “Please, Sandor. I want more of you.” 

Without hesitation, he put another finger inside her slickness. He stretched her ever so slightly, but it was a sweet hurt, and Sansa relaxed into him. She pushed against his thumb, and ground herself against his fingers, down to the inflexible ridge of his rings.

When she dared to look down at herself, at Sandor's strong hands working steadily on her flower, all that viscous, glowing warmth threatened to burst. He was drawing something from deep inside her, the same way he had coaxed melodies from his guitar. His fingers again found that sweet spot, the gilded spot, and he massaged it with twice the strength. Sansa’s blood hummed; her pulse roared in her ears. She would empty herself on him. 

But just as she was about to let go, he withdrew. He put a coarse palm on her thigh to keep her open, and extracted his other hand, his fingers glistening by the lamplight. Sansa throbbed in protest of his sudden absence.

“What a mess you are, little bird,” Sandor teased, inspecting the stickiness she left on his skin. His steel eyes cut straight to the quick of her, gleaming with a wayward amusement. “What would your septas think of you? Spread apart for a stranger, dripping all over the covers. Is this what they teach all you noble young ladies at the Sevenschool?” 

Sansa let out a pitiful whimper. Sandor grinned. 

“I thought so. Here,” he stooped over her, sliding his fingers into her mouth. “Be a good girl, and clean up your mess.” 

Sansa let herself be filled. She sucked away her own nectar—sweet, salty, sticky. Though she had never tasted herself, she knew it was only right. She liked keeping clean. Sansa wrapped her lips around his fingers to pull them deeper, running her tongue over the runes on his rough skin. 

“Hungry little bird,” Sandor growled. He stroked himself with his other hand—he was rock hard, and so, so close to her. Sansa made a muffled, pathetic noise. She was just as hungry as him, if not more. 

“No,” Sandor scolded. He gripped her jaw. “Look at me.” 

Sansa did as she was told and held onto those glittering grey eyes, partially obscured by the dark hair that fell over his face. Even with half his face black and ruined, his features were heroic, lifted from the most robust likeness of the warrior imaginable. There are songs about him, Sansa thought. The warrior kissed by flame.  

As if he had read her mind, he said, “The little bird likes this picture.” His hand moved deliberately along his length, she could tell, but she didn't dare lower her eyes. “You told me yourself. You think this old dog is handsome. Very handsome. That’s what you said, isn't it?” 

He was teasing her again, playing their game, but his face was stone. Sansa squirmed. 

"Yes,” she whined. 

Sandor smiled down at her, softening momentarily. “I thought so.” 

“Do—do you want me?” Sansa asked. 

Sandor tilted his head. “Do I want you?” He took her by the hips and pulled her against him so that his swollen sex rested firmly against hers. He throbbed there. “I’ve never wanted anything more.”  

Sansa moaned—he was heavy and warm on her clit like white iron.  

“Tell me,” she whispered. 

Sandor’s eyes narrowed to predatory slits. “Tell you what?” 

“Tell me what you want to do to me.” 

He snarled as though she had somehow wounded him—until she realized she had only stoked his appetite. "I want to fuck you, little bird." He lifted his hips, ran his length along her slick, sore entrance. "Gods know I've wanted to fuck you all night, so that's what I'm going to do. I'm going to fill that sweet, noble little cunt of yours with every last inch of me. It's what you deserve, for flying so far from your pretty home and landing in a stranger's bed. You're going to take my cock like a good little bird, and you're going to like it." 

Sansa bit her lip so fiercely she drew blood—she wanted the same. She was aching for him, no matter how large he was. She would be a good girl and take it all. 

“Will—will it hurt?” her voice was a husk of itself. 

Sandor laughed, and Sansa writhed against him. He was tormenting her. She was spread open, sopping wet, so agitated that even his breath on her skin lit her ablaze. She scooped up one of her breasts and traced her hardened nipple, desperate for even the slightest bit of relief. And still Sandor grinned, like a wolf with its claws sunk into a trembling rabbit. 

“Do you think I want to hurt you?” he answered at last. 

Sansa shook her head. 

“That’s right. I’ll be gentle.” He ran his fingers through her maidenhair, then let his palm rest there. “I’ll go slow. Would you like that?” 

Sansa nodded. 

“Use your words. Use your pretty manners like your septas taught you.” 

“Please,” she started, her voice wavering. She was all tremors—her heartbeat flitted in her chest, and her thighs quivered around Sandor’s, which were thick and hard as the trunk of the mightiest ironwood. Without him holding her steady, she was sure she would float to the rafters. “Please, Sandor. I want—I need you inside of me.” 

“Is that so?” He took hold of himself, and bracing one hand on her maidenhair, he put the swollen tip of his cock against her entrance. He let a mere fraction of an inch sink inside her.  

Sansa didn't know if it was a threat or a gift. 

“Beg,” he rasped. 

“Sandor,” she whined, weak, but he glared down at her with a wolf’s eyes. 

She would have to surrender.

"I've wanted you all night, too," she confessed. "I c-couldn't stop thinking about you—about your strength—and your hands on me. I wanted them all over me, ever since I first saw you. And I need you to fill me. I want your cock so badly. I need you inside of me, please. I promise I'll be good. I promise."  

“Mmm,” he groaned. "The little bird sings such sweet songs. I wouldn't dare let her down.” 

Sandor pushed into her, only an inch, and Sansa knew immediately—it was a gift. There was a fiery pressure as he stretched her open, all hot and full, but it was good pressure. Unlike her first time, she was wet enough to take Sandor in. 

"How's that, little bird?" He looked down at her the same way he had when she first touched him, like he was hurting, but in a good way. He trailed his fingers across Sansa's belly, watching her intently. "Do you want more?" 

Sansa remembered her promise, and nodded. Sandor eased himself deeper inside of her, holding himself so tensely that thick veins danced along his muscles and rivulets of sweat trickled from his temples. He was keeping his promise too, to be gentle, though Sansa could read the restraint on his tightly drawn features. If he wanted to go faster, he didn't, for her sake. 

Even going slowly, his width forced her open and split her belly in two. But Sansa had grown accustomed to the heat. She clenched around him, drawing him deeper with all her wetness, until she was certain she had taken him all. 

Sandor stopped. His pulse throbbed inside her. 

"Look at you," he said softly. "Such a brave girl. I know it's a lot, but we're almost there." 

"A-almost?" 

Sansa chanced a look down, only to discover that Sandor had put just half his length inside of her. She couldn't stop the feeble whimper that dropped from her lips, or the sudden quaking heartbeat between her legs. He was a muscled giant descending on her, a girl who weighed nine stone soaking wet, and worst of all, she wanted him. She wanted to be broken. 

"Can I have the rest, please?" 

Sandor exhaled, long and slow. His hand found her face. "Of course, sweet girl," he answered, sweeping his thumb across her cheekbone. "You've earned it." 

And just like that, she was full. Not almost full, but truly, undeniably stuffed. Sandor reached every single corner of her, igniting her frayed nerves like tinder. He went to the deepest part of her belly, and hit a spot so tender that Sansa cried out. She quickly put a hand to her mouth to quiet herself, but Sandor didn't like that. He pried her hand away and dropped down, pinning her wrists on either side of her head. He loomed over her like a solid shadow, his darkly tattooed chest heaving, and his weirwood pendant hanging low before her. 

"Is it too much?" he asked, his throat wound tight. 

Sansa shook her head. 

"Good." He fell on her, shielding her body with the warm press of his dense muscles, but somehow withholding their weight. His fingers slid up from her wrists and entwined with hers. "You have to tell me, little bird. I can't—" 

Sansa shifted her hips, unintentionally bringing him that much deeper, to her absolute end. Sandor's reactionary growl reverberated just as deeply against her ribs—it was low, carnal, famished. His head dropped to hers. 

"Oh, little bird," he gently chided, planting careful kisses across her forehead and down her jaw. "You have no idea how bloody good you feel. I could gut you, you tight little thing. But you let me in, didn't you? Your little cunt practically dragged my cock inside, with all your sweet silkiness. I think you like me here. I think you want to be gutted." 

Sansa's face twisted from the effort of caging a moan that desperately wanted to fly. He knows, was all she could think as he put more of those tender kisses on her skin. His mouth was at her neck, and each press of his half-rough lips sent more blood rushing to where he was buried inside her. How does he know ? 

“That’s a pretty face," he breathed in her ear. "I'll count that as a yes. Are you ready, little bird? Do you want me to fuck you?" 

“Yes," she whispered, breathless. 

With his rough cheek flush against her own, he began to move inside her. He was just as deliberate as before, easing himself out by a hair, then pushing gently back in. His abs worked rigidly against her belly, his control palpable in every tentative stroke. She was grateful for his delicacy. No matter how brave she was, Sandor was absolutely massive. 

Only briefly did she let herself think of Joffrey, of his pitiful size by comparison. But Joffrey hurt. She hadn’t truly wanted him there. 

It was different with Sandor. 

Her filled her entirely, so much so that her whole belly had become one raw nerve. Everything was aflame, if fire only glowed and didn’t burn, and she loved it. She let herself smile against Sandor’s scarred cheek. She drew in all her bravery from the smoke and salt that drifted from his skin and eclipsed her air. 

When Sandor next pulled out from her, Sansa met his thrust head on, rocking her hips to win all of him back. He let out a strangled groan into her hair. 

“Little bird…” 

It was a warning. 

His following thrust was thunder, slow and bone deep, and he rolled to all the way to her end, stopping only when he collided with her red-hot center. This time, there was nothing to stifle her moans. They slipped from her lips like song, and hadn’t Sandor told her how much he liked her voice? So he went faster. He was fucking her now, Sansa was certain. His palms dug into hers as he dropped into her over, and over, and over again. His sweat-kissed skin glided across hers, and she drowned in his scent, which practically rained down from his armpits, musky, earthy, and so, so masculine. 

But she was fucking him, too. Matching his steady movements, bringing him just as far she wanted him. It was a fun game. She liked clenching around him, feeling each and every throb of his cock along her achingly stretched walls. His breath was heavy against her ear, jagged as a saw, and if she held onto him just right, it would catch in his throat. That was her favorite sound of all. 

That sound let her know her own power. 

He had teased her, but he needed her.

When his lips fell on her again, she gasped. So many wicked words had spilled from them tonight, and he sealed them into her skin with every kiss. He lingered at her neck, laying those same urgent draws on her already tender flesh. Then he peppered kisses at her jaw, her cheekbones, her forehead. He saved her mouth for last, and Sansa moaned as soon as their lips connected. He tasted better than last time. She pulled as much smoke and liquor from his tongue as she could manage, and he swallowed just as much of her. 

“Do you like it,” he growled into her mouth, his breath thick and warm. “Do you like getting fucked by a stranger?” 

Sansa responded in a whimper, but Sandor went suddenly still inside her. He pulled away to force her eye. 

He wanted his answer.

Sansa searched for it in his face, in his cutting eyes and his mottled skin. She thought of the Stranger, that bleak, unknowable god. 

True, Sandor was the dark sky above her, his thick, heavily inked muscles blotting out the lamplight. But he was no stranger. He had power enough to crush her, but he withheld. His iron grip on her hands was a promise, a solemn vow. I could, he was telling her. Your bones would shatter like glass if I wanted. But I won't. 

Her fragility was his to protect. 

She knew him, then. 

“You’re not a stranger,” she let out in a strangled whisper. “You’re a knight.” 

Sandor scowled. 

“Knights don’t run from battle," he said, his voice as bitter as steel. "They don’t set down their swords." And then, "My brother was a knight." 

Sansa only had a split second to think of a courtesy, but she found it—  

"He was no true knight."

Sandor's face contorted into something bestial, dense cords of muscle tensing at his neck. His hand clamped down on Sansa’s throat, not so hard that she couldn’t breathe, but hard enough to remind her of his unspoken vow. All over again heat blossomed inside her, like Melisandre's field of firebright flowers, and met with Sandor's own heat. Their pulses burned together. 

Sansa didn't dare look away. 

“Tell me again,” he rasped, rough as unhewn stone. “Tell me what I am.” 

He slammed his entire length into her, and Sansa gasped. 

“You’re—you’re a knight,” she choked out. “A brave knight of the Kingsforce.” 

Another thrust. 

“How do you know I’m brave, little bird?”

“Because you knew—” and another, so forceful that stars sparkled in her vision “—you knew when to leave. That takes more courage than a whole army combined.” 

Sandor looked down at Sansa like he might truly break her. All it would take is one swift squeeze at her throat, and that would be the end. 

Instead, he rode her harder, his powerful body descending on hers like a thunderstorm. Sansa watched his weirwood pendant dance in time to his ruthless pace. Each thrust grounded her, charged her with that warm, sweet glow. She was certain her insides were as bright as the sun itself, and if he kept moving, kept driving into her very core, she would collapse on herself like a star. 

She groped at Sandor’s chest for anchorage. Her fingers worked over his scars, slick with sweat, but she rested her hand over his heart. It beat in time their shared pulse. 

“Sandor,” she whined. “Sandor, please.” 

"Please what?" he grunted, testing his grip at her throat. His eyes were still wild. "Are you close, little bird? Do you want to come?" 

Sansa's brows stitched together, and she managed only the slightest nod.  

If he didn’t slow down, she would burst, but that’s exactly she wanted. She was tightening around him, desperate for every single flare of pleasure. She felt only heat—Sandor’s breath, the sweat on his skin, the friction of him baring down inside her. And there was her own heat, the sun that blazed at her center. She needed the heat more than anything. She knew the only way to get rid of her heat was with more. 

She swallowed, savoring the feel of five savage fingers sunk into her windpipe. 

She couldn't forget her manners. 

"Please," she said, piecing together what precious few words she could. "Please can I come?" 

"Go ahead," Sandor answered in a tight rasp. "Be a good little bird and come on my cock." 

All it took was one more stroke, and she was there. 

“Sandor,” she whimpered, one last time, as if it were incantation. 

Her body sang. Everything was drenched in warm light, every drop of blood, every cell in her body. Her pulse had never been so loud or so strong, ringing ceaselessly beneath her skin. Sandor must have felt it, too. Her name fell from his lips, and then he was gone from her. Warm seed spilled onto her abdomen to the tune of their ragged breath.

Sandor had turned her to a puddle on the bed, a cloud fallen to earth. Her limbs were light as air and her head even lighter, still high in the heavens. She would be perfectly content to rest here forever, with soft velvet at her fingertips, because she finally understood. Sandor had helped her achieve what she had never done on her own, because she was always so frightened of being bad. But how could it be bad? 

She felt so good. 

"What are you dreaming of, little bird?" 

Sansa's eyes flickered open. Sandor watched her from above, his muscular body still stationed between her with his mighty palms nestled atop her thighs. She hadn't noticed herself smiling, but she was. A lazy grin rested on her cheeks, and she had no intention of shedding it. 

"I've never done that before," she replied. "I've never finished." 

Sandor made a grunt of disapproval. "That's a shame." 

He climbed from the bed, grabbed his disheveled tunic, and wiped his mess from Sansa's stomach. She was almost disappointed to see it go. "Your noble little boyfriend doesn't know how to make his lady come?"

Sansa shook her head. She pressed herself up against the pillows, her weight an unfamiliar and unwelcome burden. Sandor threw his tunic to the floor and stretched out at her side. 

"Joffrey didn't care." 

"Joffrey," Sandor repeated, the name curling from his lips like acrid smoke. "What's his family name?" 

"Baratheon," she sighed. 

Sandor roared with laughter. Sansa grit her teeth and drew in her knees, feeling suddenly much too naked. Her heart sunk in her chest like a block of lead—everything always led back to Joff. 

"Tell me, how far from the throne is he? Fifth in line? Sixth?" 

"Thirteenth," Sansa said, her throat tight. 

"Bloody brilliant," he spat, still beside himself. He rested a hand in his dense patch of pubic hair and scratched his chest with the other. "Never thought I would fuck a princess." 

"I'm not—" Sansa started, her voice broken and wet. "He's not my boyfriend anymore. He left me before I went to college." 

Sandor noticed her damp eyes and quieted. 

"Don't be cross," he told her. "You have to forgive a rundown dog for making light of his old masters. That boy's a fool for leaving you behind, I can tell you that much." 

"Y-you think so?" 

"I know so. Come on, little bird. Come close." 

Sandor swept Sansa to his side, a strong arm braced firmly around her shoulders. She nestled at his armpit, bound by his spell of cedar and smoke. His fingers worked gently through her hair. 

"Sandor?" she queried, peering up at him. 

"What is it?" 

"Do you like me?" 

Sandor smiled, and not to mock her. He looked almost sad. "Of course I like you. I like you more than I should." 

Sansa fingered the weirwood pendant that hung from his neck, taking care to trace every branch and burl. "How do you mean?"

"You're a pretty girl," he began with a sigh. "And that's just the thing, isn't it? Pretty girl, pretty school, pretty dreams. You'll meet a noble boy and have his noble children. You'll sing them all your sweet songs in your perfectly groomed estate, and have the prettiest little life. I almost envy you, but I don't. Riches, beauty, titles—they're sweet poison. They're nightshade with a spoonful of sugar." 

Sansa couldn't think of a reply, so she held fast to Sandor's necklace. He hadn’t intended to ridicule her, she was certain, but his words still stung. He knew just as well as she did that her life was not her own, that her fate had been sealed at birth. She would meet her prince, take his name, make his children, raise them, and then succumb to the Stranger. Like every other noble girl. 

But her prince had left her. 

"I have my own dreams," she let out in a hushed whisper. She didn't know if she meant to reassure herself or Sandor. 

"What are your dreams, little bird?"

"I'm going to write music. New music, like no one's ever heard—like Heartsbane, but even different than that. I don't even care if I'm famous. I just need to make music. It's the only thing I have left." 

"That's a good dream," he breathed, his eyes dropping shut. His hand was still buried in her tangles of auburn hair, and she liked it there. "You'll have to play me something next time." 

Sansa smiled—next time. She would see him again. But her heart dropped a second later. She still needed to get home.  

"Sandor?" 

"Mm?" he answered, not bothering to open his eyes. His breath was deep and slow, almost a snore. 

"I have to get home. It's almost—" Sansa glanced at her watch, and frowned. "It's so late." 

"In the morning, little bird," he whispered. "I'll take you in the morning." 

And he was gone, sound asleep. 

Sansa stayed awake. She watched his chest rise and fall. She memorized the neat lines of ink woven on his skin and the feel of his body heat as it meshed it with hers. Their bodies fit so well together, she decided. An arm draped delicately over his stomach, her breasts against his wide ribcage, a knee perched on his sturdy thigh. There was a cushioned spot just beneath his armpit that made the perfect pillow, and still, Sansa couldn't find sleep. 

Over and over, his words played back in her head. 

I like you more than I should.  

He had spoken those words so sorrowfully, as if to apologize. But for what? Sansa knew she wasn't imagining their shared chemistry. She would never forget the way the words good girl dropped from his half-burned lips, and she certainly wouldn't be able to ignore the soreness between her legs tomorrow. The mere thought of sitting in her theory class, squirming uncomfortably in her seat with thoughts of Sandor buried inside her—it made her pulse rage all over again. 

But Sansa shouldn't be here. She shouldn't be sharing a stranger's bed. She should be in her dormitory, asleep, virtue intact. If Uncle found out—

No. 

Uncle was miles and miles away, and Sandor wasn't any man, he was a knight. If she stayed here, held tightly against his chest, no harm would come to her. 

But she couldn't stay forever. 

The longer she idled, the more the girls in her dorm would talk. It would only be a matter of time. 

A few hours passed before dawn crept through the curtains. At first light, Sansa slid from Sandor's arm and silently collected her scattered clothing. She redressed, keeping an eye on him, but he didn't he stir. If she wanted to slip from his life, now was her chance. She could spare herself whatever inevitable pain she would bring on by sharing a bed with a Kingsforce defector from Sow's End. 

But her feet carried her to his desk. Her hand found a pen, and the pen a scrap of paper. She scrawled her phone number in her prettiest script, and signed it ' your little bird '. She hoped she was the only little bird he knew. 

She padded down the hallway and found her shoes and bag where she had left them. Stranger perked up from his post in the corner of the room and tilted his head at her. Sansa went to him, delivered a necessary goodbye kiss, then left. 

—

Two agonizing weeks went by, with midterm exams proving to be quite an unwelcome distraction. Sansa spent all her evenings hunched over her composition books in the library, the practice room, or most frequently the common room, her eyes glued to the shared dormitory telephone instead of her notes. 

She tried not to think of him, but it took so much effort that she spent all her time thinking of him anyway. Sometimes she swore she made up their evening—it was a dream, her tryst with a grisly warrior, a harrowing half-giant. She would never do something so reckless as spending the night with a man she scarcely knew. A big man. A scarred man. A knight. 

Right? 

But her pulse remembered. At every turn of the day, it would flutter at the memory of his sweet words, his expert touch, and best of all, his manhood. She longed for his call. She wanted him to remember, too. A lady shouldn't have to do her own courting. A lady shouldn't court a hound. But if she found her way into a hound's bed, and if he treated her gently, and spoke to her softly, how wrong could it be?  

These thoughts plagued Sansa. They weren't like her—not one bit. The only remedy she could find was making music, so in between her classes and her last minute study sessions, she would take out her Minimarq, and she would sing. 

The night before her advanced theory exam, Sansa was stationed at a study carrel in the far corner of the common room, the desktop cluttered with textbooks and notebooks, pens, pencils, and two mugs of bitter black tea gone cold. She had put her back to the other girls and tried to read with her hands cupped over her ears, but it was no use. Every word on the page blurred into the next as though she had spilled her tea all over them. When she blinked, the paper was as pristine as ever. 

She nearly jumped from her seat when the telephone rang. Weakly, she turned to see Beth saunter from the sofa and pick up the receiver. She was too far to hear, but from the sly twinkle in Beth's eye, Sansa knew she was flirting. 

She had only just given up and gone back to her books when Beth's singsong voice swept across the room. 

"Sansa dear, it seems you have a phone call. From a man." 

All the girls giggled, and a cold sweat broke out on Sansa's palms.

"He says his name is Sandor," Beth went on, tauntingly. "He sounds cross. You'd better hurry." 

Sansa leapt up and darted through the tangle of study tables and plush armchairs full of her gawking peers. She tried to ignore their titters and gapes as she passed, but her cheeks only grew more flushed. She snatched up the receiver from Beth without a word and pressed it to her ear. 

"Sandor?" she asked, breathless. 

"Little bird."  

Sansa's heart fluttered at the sound of her sweet pet name. She hadn't dreamt it. "I thought—I thought you might have forgotten me." 

"No," he answered gruffly. A few seconds passed and he added, "I'm not very good on the phone." 

Sansa listened to him breathe on the other end. She heard a light crackle and deep inhale, followed by stout exhale and a cough. He was smoking a joint. It made her smile, for some reason. 

"I wrote a song," she offered up. 

"Is that so?" 

"Mhm." She smiled even wider, almost laughing. "I made it with the Minimarq. I've gotten much better since I saw you last. You see, I was experimenting with pass filters, and if you set the oscillators just right, it almost makes its own voice, like a ghost. But you have to make sure you have the contour and emphasis turned to—" 

"Do you want to come over?" 

Sansa's heart skipped a beat. "C-come over? When?"

"Tomorrow. I'll make dinner, and you can play me your song." 

Sansa looked to her cluttered carrel. Tomorrow was so soon, and she would have her harp practical the next day, but… 

She thought of Sandor, stretched out on his green sofa, a joint poised between two thick, ringed fingers, and her pulse thrummed. She could practically taste the hemp smoke on his lips and the warm ember of his burned skin. 

And she knew there would be an empty spot beside him. 

"Little bird," he growled, gently. 

"I'll come," Sansa replied. "And I'll sing for you." 

From miles away, she heard him smile. 

"Good girl. Be here at seven," he said, just before the receiver clicked. 

Sansa pressed the phone to her chest and fell against the wall. 

She liked him more than she should, but oh, did she like him.