Chapter Text
The bed creaked beneath their shared weight, trembling from their frantic giggling. Myranda lay back against the pillows, her plump cheeks flushed and quivering, her breasts heaving beneath her thin nightgown. Alayne lay beside her, tears streaming down her face, breathless from laughing so hard.
“And then he . . . he . . .” Myranda had to pause to catch her breath enough to speak. “He made this sound . . .” Myranda groaned loudly and heaved herself in Alayne’s direction, shuddering as if she was having a fit. Alayne shrieked and pushed her away. They laughed together for several minutes, each trying to catch her breath and beginning to laugh anew when they looked at the other. At last they quieted, with only the occasional hiccup of mirth to disturb them.
“Gods,” Myranda exclaimed, throwing her arms out against the downy pillows. “How hard is it to find a man worth bedding?”
There was dancing in the Great Hall. Sansa whirled breathlessly, trying to keep up with the quick pace of the drunken knight who held her in his arms. He stank of ale and sweat and unwashed linen but Sansa laughed as they danced, her blood thrumming through her for the first time in longer than she could remember. All around her men and women were dancing to the wailing music. It was wildling music, strange and pounding, but the men were drunk and the women were merry and everyone danced as if it were a song they’d always known. The air was filled with the smell of roasting meat, wine, smoke and man. Life , Sansa thought, in the spare moments when she could think. It smells like life.
In the corners where the shadows bent she could see couples tangled together. Most of them had wandered off to find some shred of privacy, but some were too needy to wait. Laces were loosening in every direction.
Along the walls where the trestle tables had been pushed to the side, feasters still feasted. She saw old Wyman Manderly at one long table, a roasted chicken leg in hand as he spoke to one of the Umbers. Wildlings in their fur sat beside men in Stark grey and Lannister red and Targaryen black. The furthest table, the one that braced the front of the Great Hall had been set aside for the Starks and their honored guests. It was mostly empty now. Jon was dancing with Daenerys Targaryen. She’d seen Arya earlier, skulking about the place with that dark haired smith trailing at her heels. Rickon had gone to bed hours before. She was glad for it, he was too young to see this lustiness descending upon the crowd. Only a few people remained at the high table. Bran was there, speaking to Meera Reed and Shireen Baratheon. And there was Sandor Clegane, sitting next to her own vacant seat, nursing a cup of wine. He was watching the celebration with a contemplative expression. Feeling her eyes on him, he turned to meet her gaze, raising a brow when he caught her staring. She smiled at him before she was pulled back into the dance.
“Your smile is sweeter than honey, my lady,” drawled the knight in her ear, his damp breath puffing against her skin.
“You are too kind, Ser Rane,” she replied, in too good a mood to be bothered by his forwardness. “And you dance very well for one who has been as merry as you have been tonight.” She pulled back a little and smiled at him knowingly, to which he threw back his head with a laugh.
“You’ve found me out,” he told her. “But I throw myself on your indulgence with only this to say,” he leaned toward her again, brushing his wet lips up against her ear, making her shudder. Looking over his shoulder, she saw Sandor Clegane staring at her, all amusement gone from his face. Ser Rane continued “That I drink partly in celebration and partly to rally my courage.”
The hands that had been holding her tightly all through the dance squeezed tighter, tugging her against him. Sansa gasped and shot another glance toward the front of the room. Sandor Clegane was no longer sitting at the table. He’d not seen the exchange.
“Ser,” she gasped, and tried pushing him away, keeping her voice light and teasing. “You are quite drunk,”
“And you are delightful,” he told her, grasping her hard again.
“Bugger off.”
They both jumped at the sound of the voice from behind them. They’d danced toward the edge of the gathered crowd, less visible than before. At the sound of the voice, Ser Rane loosened his grip and Sansa quickly disentangled herself from him.
The hulking form of Sandor Clegane leaned out of the shadows like a living nightmare, his terrible scars lit by the few flickering candles in that part of the room. Ser Rane blinked at him stupidly before whatever false courage the wine had given him veered him toward a new target.
“Excuse me, ser?” he demanded, his cheeks flaming red.
Sansa glanced between the men and nearly laughed. Ser Rane was no small man, but next to Clegane he was like a boy dressed in his father’s armor. Their expressions too, Rane’s flushed cheeks and outraged expression seemed a mummer's mask compared to the narrow look Sandor was giving him.
“I think you heard me.” Sandor’s eyes left the other man for a moment, sliding toward Sansa. She smiled and moved to stand a little behind him, relieved to be away from the petting hands of the other.
Seeing her go seemed to enrage Ser Rane and he looked ready to speak when Sansa cut him off.
“Forgive me, ser,” Sansa said in a rush, all her merriment returning now that she was no longer discomforted. “My friend isn’t always the most tactful. What he means to say is that the night is growing old and I must retire. Sandor,” She touched his arm just above the elbow, gently encouraging him to leave this bottom feeder alone. After a moment he complied, following after her with one last glare at Ser Rane.
“You should have let me clean the floor with him,” Sandor rumbled when they were a little ways away.
“Leave the sweeping to the servants,” she said cheerfully. “You have more important duties.” Sansa’s mood soared, the unpleasant situation seeming insignificant now that she was away from the offender. The music rose again, igniting another dance. “Will you dance with me?”
She almost imagined that he would. After all, this would be just the night for it. They were here and they were alive while so many others weren’t. Wasn’t that worth dancing about?
That line of thought was dashed when she heard Sandor snort. “What? With this leg?” He smacked his thigh where a knife blade had once nearly done him in. “We’d certainly make a spectacle.” He seemed about to say more when a man swooped in from the side, his breath and clothes reeking of wine. He grinned at her and tried to pull her into the dance. Sandor took a step forward with such a menacing look that the other tucked tail and ran. “Maybe you should take your own advice and go to bed,” he growled, staring at the other man as he disappeared into the crowd.
Sansa was about to protest, the glow of the party still warming her bones after so much darkness and misery. But another idea stole into her mind, making her complaints die on her lips. Instead, she meekly conceded. She tightened her hold on his arm and looked him full in the face.
“All right then,” she told him. “Lead the way.”