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She deserved better. She should have silk sheets and a fire to warm the bedchamber, a maid to undress her properly and some mulled wine to help her relax. She should have a handsome knight who could speak tender words to her and hold her until morning. Instead, Sansa had cold stones at her back, her skirts hoisted about her hips, and Sandor Clegane. The wine, at least, she had drunk when he offered it to her, though from a skin instead of a fine goblet. Her cheeks were flushed, whether from the drink or embarrassment he couldn't tell.
It would likely be their last chance; perhaps that was what had given her the courage to steal after him. The banquet carried on noisily without them. Her betrothed was too drunk to stand; no doubt he was also too drunk to notice that she'd left the table. She kept glancing over her shoulder, expecting to be accosted at any moment, but no one called her back or even asked where she was going.
Sandor's tent was outside with the rest of the landless, masterless men, the hedge knights and minstrels and hangers-on who had come for the wedding feast and the tourney that would follow it. A man of his standing, a former member of the Kingsguard, pardoned by the queen after the war, might have expected a room, but he hadn't complained, and Sansa, uncertain of his intentions, hadn't wanted to protest his shabby treatment for fear of arousing anyone's suspicion.
"What in the seven hells are you doing here?" he snarled when he noticed her at the edge of the firelight that danced on the castle walls.
"I could ask you the same question," she replied as coolly as she was able.
"Came to fight in the tourney and win some coin. Like everyone else," he said, meeting her eyes, as if daring her to gainsay him.
"Is that all?" she asked, suddenly shy. "You didn't come to see me?"
He shrugged. "Came to see you wedded – again. I'll go if you don't want me…"
"No! No," she repeated more softly. "I do. Want you." She thought her face might catch fire just from saying the words, but in the dim light perhaps he couldn't tell.
He stood, stepped near her, and she was aware of how powerful he was, how he could crush her with those thick arms if he wanted to. It made her shiver, but not in a bad way. He tipped her chin up roughly, forcing her to look at his face with its horrible scars. "This?" he asked. "You want this?"
"Yes," she breathed, willing him with all her heart to believe her. It would be worse than humiliating if he laughed or sent her away.
He didn't laugh. Instead he picked her up as if she weighed next to nothing, holding her close to him. She turned her head to kiss his lips, and saw his eyes widen in surprise before sliding shut.
She hadn't expected how fast he would move, how quickly his hands would be under her gown. She knew enough not to expect sweet songs and romance from him, but still, she wasn't ready for his sudden touch against her bare skin. He pressed her roughly against the wall, and she tried to ask him to stop, or to take her into his tent at least, but he wasn't listening. It was only when she laid her hand on his cheek, or what was left of it, that he seemed to come to his senses. He grabbed her wrist, pulling her hand away. "Don't," he grimaced.
"Don't treat me like a whore," she begged.
"Why not? You're no better than one, coming out here and offering to spread your legs for me. What sort of coin are you asking in return, hm? You probably need someone killed in the tourney, is that it?"
"I came because of you… because I wanted to. Not for anything else. Just once, I wanted…" Her lip quivered as her words trailed off, but she managed not to burst into tears. "I thought you wanted me."
He lowered her to the ground. "Too much," he said grimly. "Are you trying to kill me, doing this just before I watch you wed another?"
"I don't know! I don't know. I didn't want to leave things the way they were between us."
"You think there was something between us? There wasn't." He slunk back to the fireside and sat, taking a long pull from his wineskin. "Nothing but dreams."
Undeterred, Sansa crept up beside him. He offered her the slack skin and she drank the last few swallows from it, the sour strongwine burning her throat. "If there was nothing, why did you kiss me? Call me your little bird?"
Sandor glanced over at her, seemingly puzzled. "You don't have to do this," he told her at length. "If you want someone dead, just say the name and I'll make it happen."
"There's no one I want dead!" she said crossly, and slid into his lap, winding her arms around his broad shoulders and her legs about his waist. "Please, just… I've never, and I wanted to, before… before he…"
"Stop talking about him," he said, and shut her mouth with his.
She was nervous, still not wet between the thighs, as he pressed her down onto the ground. Some part of him knew he ought to take more time, to warm her up with his fingers before fucking her, but he didn't want to see her pretty face grow bored or impatient with his clumsy fumblings. Besides, he wasn't going to stop this time, didn't know if he even could stop if she suddenly changed her mind. Better just to do it quickly and have it over with.
When he started to push himself into her the first time, she cried out. She hadn't meant to, she truly wanted to please him, but she couldn't help it. He tried again, harder, and she half-screamed, trying – futilely – to push him away. He looked angry as he spat on his fingers and rubbed them roughly between her legs, and she closed her tear-stung eyes, upset that she couldn't do even this simple thing right. His third attempt still hurt, but less; his length seemed to burn slowly into her but she managed to bite her lip and not show him how it pained her. The burning soon settled to a dull ache, thankfully, and she could bear that. She'd known it was supposed to hurt the first time, but she hadn't expected how much.
His weight on top of her was heavier than she'd imagined it would be, and her breath seemed to catch in her throat, coming out only in short gasps. His face was too far from hers – she would have liked to kiss him again, but their respective heights made it difficult in this position. She'd heard that it could work with the woman on top as well – better, sometimes, if the whispers she'd overheard from her maids were true – and wondered if she dared ask him to try that. Before she could, though, he gave three or four quick, hard thrusts, grunting with each one, and then stiffened above her, a low, ragged sigh breaking from his throat. When he rolled off her she was at once disappointed and relieved.
She stood on shaky legs and brushed the dust off her gown as best as she could. At least he hadn't torn it. "I…thank you," she said stiffly, and ran off, back to home and safety, before he could muster a reply.
She deserved better. Better than the way he'd treated her; better than him. It was only natural that she should flee him. Sandor didn't know what he would have done if she'd asked to stay – it would have been a disaster, and probably wind up with both of them dead. Sansa might be willing to play the fair maid in a tragic story, but Sandor wasn't inclined to take the part of the doomed lover. Now she knew how the world really worked, if she hadn't already. He didn't allow himself to think about what he might have done differently. It was better this way.