Destiny Interrupted

A Song of Ice and Fire. Sansa/Sandor. R. 700 words.

There are moments when Sansa can be herself.

Small Pleasures

The deep hush of the Eyrie coupled with the rush of wind along banners that were ever in need of mending. She could think of herself as Sansa at these moments, defying Petyr and the cautionary logic of his plans. She couldn’t be two people at once, but here with only the hush and the wind, perhaps it would be all right.

She affirmed this in a whisper as she settled down on the hard stone floor of her bedchambers, the fine full skirts of her late aunt’s dress piled high around her in peaked folds, a rippled range of velveteen mountains that surrounded her as snugly as the Vale. In the morning her knees might be bruised from her carelessness, a pattern of ugly dark splotches that Arya wouldn’t care about showing the world but which would linger embarrassingly on Sansa’s fair skin.

Sansa closed her eyes tight, her lashes squeezed together so hard and so long she could feel her face aching from the strain. There might not be another night like this for a while, when Robert was asleep in his own bed and Petyr’s watchful gaze didn’t seem to peer past her skin. There would be no thinking of Arya tonight, not when she had such precious little time. Tonight was for no one else. One of the Stark daughters was lost for certain, she couldn’t bear for her mother to lose her Sansa as well.

The stone was not the same as Winterfell’s, but hollow and chill as it was, she could pretend. As meticulous as a row of stitches, she recounted all the best moments she could summon up. One by one she lost herself in memories that had remained unspoiled when everything that she had believed was right and true had shattered. Goodness remained, and not all stories could possibly be mired in falsehoods.

Tonight she found it more difficult to spin that delicate lattice about herself, the spots as bright as gems dulled by a restlessness she’d only just begun to associate with her flowering. In a week she guessed she would bleed again, and for days she would find her body a strange thing to be trapped in, full of sensations that lingered on the very edges of fulfillment. She should have felt like this upon her wedding night, her breasts aching for the touch of her husband as they lay upon the marriage bed.

Only they had married her to the Imp, who was more ugly even than the Hound.

The hand she’d moved from smoothing her skirts to petting lightly at the peak of her thighs stilled and she bit the inside of her cheek. Why should her own flesh betray her like this, with its sudden clench and rush of heat. To do so again when she couldn’t help but remember the way he had wanted to kiss her. Sansa’s teeth now caught her lip, how different such a kiss would be than the one Petyr claimed.

He could be gentle, she knew, and yet she still feared him. Would he take her by the arms and kiss her fiercely? She imagined he would, and hold her arms so tight to her body she could do nothing but squirm as he forgot her mouth in favour of her breasts.

The tips of her fingers fluttered between her legs, coaxing wetness from her. She rocked gently, no longer caring about the stones or the bruises it would bring. If the Hound had been her husband, if she was Sansa Clegane tonight she would have more to show than a few mottled marks. Her neck would be purpled by kisses, the high flush in her cheeks praised by kind words that he kept hidden. He would surround her and fill her and she would be less afraid.

She shuddered when the tightness in her grew unbearable and vanished all at once, euphoric and beautiful and perfect like everything that should have been.

“Were I your little bird,” she said, and her words seemed even weaker than when his blade had touched her throat. “I would sing for you now.”

Outside, the banners rippled and snapped and frayed in the endless wind. Tomorrow, Alayne would have mending to do.

*

End