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The Castle was dark; it always was at this late an hour. Or was it early? Sansa supposed it depended on if one had gone to bed yet or not. She’d been into the wine stores this night. She tried to avoid it, knowing the effects that it had on her, but the past day was an especially trying one.
First there was an accident in the forge, and then one of the windows in the glass gardens had shattered, and then, to round the day out, she’d fought with him, again. Sansa had needed the drink by the time the servants had started to pour at dinner. It was very hard to remember exactly how much she had drunk since then, but the whole world appeared a little crooked and her personal chambers seemed so very far away; so she stumbled down a more familiar path to a corridor that she frequented often since coming home.
Since that return, Sansa had become the oldest living Stark in Winterfell, but was thankfully, not the only living Stark. Rickon had been found first, and then Bran had arrived from beyond the wall. Arya came back occasionally once she learned they had retaken Winterfell, but she never stayed long. Sansa was both sad and thankful for that, especially since Arya and the Master of Arms could barely agree on the colour of the sky and her visits were always tense.
Sansa found that so much of her time was eaten up by the rebuilding of Winterfell, and worrying after her younger siblings, that she got so little time for her own pursuits. Her needlework sat unfinished, books piled in her solar half read, she forgot to eat, she barely slept, and although she was so very happy to be home, surrounded by her family and free of the Lannisters, free of Littlefinger - her life felt incomplete. There was a sadness that gnawed at the edges of her existence, and lately, she felt like everyone saw it.
It was for all of these reasons why she found herself in front of Sandor Clegane’s bed chamber at four hours past midnight. She didn’t really remember the walk to get there, but she had found her way to his door just the same. She noticed somewhat absently that she still held her cup. It was the same pewter chalice she drank from every evening, and as she stood there, leaning against the cold stone of her kin’s castle, she was confident in confirming, to herself at least, that was she well in her cups.
Sansa lifted her hand to knock on the wide and imposing wooden entrance in front of her, but decided quite suddenly to cast aside her care for decorum or courtesies or responsibilities, for one night at least, and pushed forcefully on the obstacle in front of her. It didn’t give an inch. Wiggling the handle and putting all her force into turning it, she found her hopes stifled by the simple fact that the door was locked. Her already horrible day seemed to finish with a final slap to her face. She was barred out of her lover’s room.
Sighing in defeat, Sansa kicked the offensive object and made to turn and stalk down the hallway. This task was impeded, however, by the reality that her feet were horribly uncoordinated at this hour and in her current state, and instead she found herself in a tangle of skirts with her chalice skipping away from her, skittering along the stones. She laughed much too loudly at her stupidity before abruptly bringing her hand up to cover her mouth.
“What in the Seven Hells is going on out here?” Sandor’s voice was a whisper, but she knew he would have yelled if it wouldn’t have awoken anyone else.
“It’s just me,” Sansa looked up at him from her place on the floor. “Won’t you help me up?” Her arms were outstretched like a babe reaching for their mother.
Sandor could do nothing but laugh and then casually lean against his door jamb. “And what brings you here Little Bird?”
She scowled at him, and tried to heave herself up off the ground without his aid. The attempt proved futile though, and she lost her balance and stumbled right into Sandor’s upper body. Her arms flew out in front of her instinctively to brace herself, and her hands came into contact with nothing but hard muscle and smooth dark chest hair. “I’m drunk,” she stated to him plainly, peering at him from half hooded glistening eyes.
“That is obvious my Lady, the question is why? Why are you drunk, and why are you in front of my door?”
Awareness of Sandor’s lack of clothing slowly registered with Sansa’s drunken wits. He had nothing on but the blanket from his bed wrapped around his waist. She wondered briefly how he could sleep naked in this cold, but the manliness of his taut abdomen rendered her brain almost useless and her breath would only come in short gasps of air that ruffled the expanse of coarse hair just inches from her face. She could only be fascinated by the expanse of flesh before her.
Her hands had a mind of their own as they began to steal up his torso, lightly brushing over his nipples, and her eyes watched intently as they pebbled under her explorations. Too quick for her lust and drink addled brain to comprehend, her wrists are caught in Sandor’s large hands and she is spinning around into his room. The world moves fast about Sansa until she finds herself plopping down heavily on the bed under the window in his room, the door clicking closed only a moment after she’s made her impact.
“The wine has made you brave Little Bird,” Sandor’s voice was mocking, but seductive in the same breath. “Now tell me what you need of me before I take you back to your room.”
“My need is simple my Lord. It only requires us both to be naked, lying on this bed with you fucking me.” The rest of her thoughts halt suddenly to marvel at the angry but bemused look on Sandor’s face. “Stop fighting with me Sandor and make love to me instead.”
For an instant, it was almost as if Alayne was in the room and was possessing Sansa’s body, but in reality, the drink and her desires were getting the better of her practical senses.
Sandor stood silently eyeing her for a few moments before he dropped to his knees directly in front of her. He was slightly below her eye level, but his gaze was intense. “I don’t even remember what we’re arguing about Sansa,” he spoke softly, whispering her name. His rough and calloused fingers pushed a lock of auburn hair behind her ear.
“I do, but I don’t care to recall it just now,” she says as she leans into him and brushes her lips against his before he can utter another word. Her hands skate up his arms to tangle themselves in his hair as she traces his unyielding lips with her tongue. She can feel him resisting, but she knows her persistence will pay off. Biting down on his bottom lip she draws blood, and when he opens his mouth to hiss, Sansa twists her tongue with his. Wanting to deepen the kiss, she pulls herself against him, feasting on his yielding mouth. She knows he`s been won over to her cause once she feels him scoop her up and lay them both down on his bed.
Hovering over her prone form, Sandor leans in for another kiss. She brings both her hands to his face to caress his cheeks, pushing his hair back from his face. His gaze is so troubled, but now isn’t the time for problem solving. She sweeps her hands down his neck, letting them ghost over his chest, continuing to stroke along his abdomen, following the trail of hair to where the blanket is tied around his hips. Keeping her blue eyes locked to his grey, she wiggles the blanket open and pushes it off his hips. Looking down between them, Sansa licks her lips in hungry appraisal and strokes his cock twice before he halts her with his hand on her wrist.
“You’re wearing far too many clothes,” he growls and then he was sitting up and pulling at the laces of her gown. Sansa is so excited for their reunion that she was helping as best she could in her inebriated state, but found her own fingers had become practically useless. In no time though, Sandor has divested her of all of her clothing, and was once again pushing her to lie back against the sheets of his bed.
“Kiss me and let us forget all our problems,” she reaches for him, glad to have him lie next to her. The heat from his body so near to hers is the most blissful warmth Sansa has ever experienced and each time he kisses her, the rest of the world melts away. As his lips keep her own occupied, his hands roam freely over her body. He cups her teats and pinches her nipples to hardness and then strokes her sides and tickles her ribs. The desire Sandor pours into his teasing is even more intoxicating than the wine she’d been drinking earlier. When his mouth began to follow the same route as his hands, Sansa was already breathing heavily. He burns a fevered path down her neck and over her collar bone, licking and nipping at her skin. Descending further, he stopped to suckle at her breasts for a few moments, his tongue hot and wet and driving her wild before he begins blazing a path down her stomach towards her centre.
Pushing her thighs apart roughly, Sandor nestled between her legs and Sansa could feel his warm breath at her entrance. His eyes locked with hers momentarily, and at the vigorous nod of her head, his tongue began to dance over her sensitive flesh. She wanted to scream, wanted to shout, needed to moan, but instead clasped his head to her aching centre and bit her lip. When he brought his hand into play, Sansa thought she would come undone. His mouth sucking on her nub and his fingers, first one and then two, slowly pumping in and out of her seemed too much to bear. Sandor let his other hand slide up her belly to her heaving chest and began to squeeze rhythmically, rolling her nipple between his fingers as he caressed her most intimate places with knowledge of her body that only he possessed. He was truly a merciless lover, and before long, he had her panting and pulling on his hair as she reached her climax, clenching his fingers so tightly insider her he had to still his movements as she rode out her peak.
Coming down off her high, Sansa felt Sandor place kisses to each hip bone and each breast as he climbed back up her body. Nuzzling into her neck and breathing in her scent. She could feel his manhood grazing her entrance as he nibbled on her ear and caressed her thigh, guiding it to hook around hips.
Sansa cupped Sandor’s face as he lifted it from the crook of her neck. When his grey eyes met her blue she smiled at him. “I was always meant to be here with you. It was liquid courage that helped me find my way, but there is no less desire because of it. I think we have both suffered enough for our own stupidity, so please make love to me and forgive me and we will start tomorrow anew.”
“Aye, I can make peace on those terms,” and with that he thrust inside of her and kissed her simultaneously. Sansa wrapped herself around him as he began rocking his hips against her, plunging inside of her quickly before pulling out slowly. She dug her heels into his strong buttocks and encouraged his strokes to be harder and faster, but he took his time and built the fire between them as he caressed her thighs and pressed his lips to hers.
They were both panting when they broke their kiss so that they could gulp in a lungful of air. Sandor brought himself to his knees and began to move more vigorously inside of her. Whether it was the drink or the lust, Sansa wasn’t sure, but her wanton behaviour would not stop tonight, so she brought her hand to her nub and began to rub it in tight circles. Sandor’s eyes grew heated with her actions and she was soon drawn up against him, bouncing on his hard cock as she straddled his large thighs. His hands were playing roughly with her breasts and for each downward undulation he pinched her nipples and licked along her neck. All the stimulation was making Sansa feral with a need for a second release. Rocking forwards she shifted their weight and pushed Sandor onto his back.
Sitting proudly atop him, she began to ride him at a much more furious pace. They were both sweating from the exertion of their love making and Sandor’s hips were rising to meet hers with each stroke. Soon, he brought his hands to her hips and let one trail down so that his thumb rubbed where she needed it most.
Her peak required little coaxing with the delicious friction he was creating between her thighs, and he soon had her clenching around his thickness, squeezing him tightly as she rode it out on top of him. With a few more thrusts he followed soon behind her and they both found themselves coated with the evidence of each other’s need. Collapsing forward, Sansa lay stretched on Sandor’s chest listening to his heart beat like a drum. He stroked her hair absently, his softening arousal still inside of her.
“I would see you drunk more often my lady, especially if this is the result,” Sandor teased Sansa. “I shall have them stock the stores of Winterfell to the brim!” His chest was rumbling underneath her with his laughter.
“Well they’ll have to stock the Dreadfort instead,” Sansa lifted her head and rested it on her hands as she peered up at him from her place on his chest.
“What are you chirping about Little Bird?”
“I know you don’t want to be a Lord, but Bran is the Lord of Winterfell. So I will need to get drunk and please my husband elsewhere. I will ask Bran to grant us the Dreadfort.”
“That’s the wine talking Little Bird, go to sleep. We’ll speak about this when you’re sober.” Sandor’s voice was sombre as he continued to stroke her hair.
“Fine, but this conversation is not over. I will not argue with you about this again Sandor. You will be my husband, whether you like or not,” and with that, she crawled up his body to lay a smouldering kiss on his lips to silence further argument.
Breaking the kiss Sandor was laughing again. “Aye, you red haired demon. I believe it when you say it in this state of drunkenness. That’s when the truth comes out. You were born to this world to torment me for life,” he grumbled. He rolled over so that she slid to his side, and he could wrap his arm around her.
“Now we sleep and see how much of this you remember in the morning.” Sansa was already sighing and falling into blissful unconsciousness as she gripped his arm more tightly around her waist.
“You’ll see, Sandor, I’ll remember it all,” and to his great dismay, she did.