A Song of Ice and Fire.´Sansa&´Sandor.

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*
He wouldn’t delude himself that he was safe for the night, but he could at least allow a night’s sleep.
The dreams were different, that night.
She was in them, of course – the little bird, his little bird, Sansa Stark seemed to be fluttering around inside his head like a trapped songbird, banging off the walls of his skull. Though perhaps that was only the drink…
In the dream, he came to her in her room as the city burned green, and she was older, her body softer, a woman’s form and not a girl’s. She sat in a chair by the window and stood as he came in.
Sandor, she said, her voice lower than he knew it, richer. It was the first time she’d said his name. It nearly made him shiver. But he was angry – angry and drunk – and lurched toward her, grabbing her arm. He heard his own voice again, eyes boring into hers. I could take you away…no one would ever hurt you. I’d kill them. And she’d looked away, eyes wide with fear, and the rage had overwhelmed him and for a moment he’d been sure he would kill her…
But here, her eyes were wide with something that was not fear; and she did not look away. She reached up and touched his face, the burned half, with featherlight fingers, and that he remembered clearly enough, though he was sure that in life her fingers had not caressed like that, and sure that he could not have felt them in the same way and felt himself stirred…
She moved her hand up, ran it through his hair, looped her arms around his neck. Sandor, she said again, and this time her voice was warmer, full of promise, and then this older-Sansa-bird leaned up and kissed him, pressing her warm, full lips to his, her lips slightly parted, her sweet breath on his mouth.

*

He wouldn’t delude himself that he was safe for the night, but he could at least allow a night’s sleep.

The dreams were different, that night.

She was in them, of course – the little bird, his little bird, Sansa Stark seemed to be fluttering around inside his head like a trapped songbird, banging off the walls of his skull. Though perhaps that was only the drink…

In the dream, he came to her in her room as the city burned green, and she was older, her body softer, a woman’s form and not a girl’s. She sat in a chair by the window and stood as he came in.

Sandor, she said, her voice lower than he knew it, richer. It was the first time she’d said his name. It nearly made him shiver. But he was angry – angry and drunk – and lurched toward her, grabbing her arm. He heard his own voice again, eyes boring into hers. I could take you away…no one would ever hurt you. I’d kill them. And she’d looked away, eyes wide with fear, and the rage had overwhelmed him and for a moment he’d been sure he would kill her…

But here, her eyes were wide with something that was not fear; and she did not look away. She reached up and touched his face, the burned half, with featherlight fingers, and that he remembered clearly enough, though he was sure that in life her fingers had not caressed like that, and sure that he could not have felt them in the same way and felt himself stirred…

She moved her hand up, ran it through his hair, looped her arms around his neck. Sandor, she said again, and this time her voice was warmer, full of promise, and then this older-Sansa-bird leaned up and kissed him, pressing her warm, full lips to his, her lips slightly parted, her sweet breath on his mouth.

Filed under sandor sandor clegane sansa stark sansan san&san san x san the hound rory mccann game of thrones fanfiction

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