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A Song Given

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That damned dream again.

Sansa awoke suddenly, sweating and feeling flushed. It was still dark in her bedchambers, with only a few candles burning on the mantle and the brazier slowly fading. Sansa slowly lifted herself up to sitting to digest what she had just felt in her sleep.

She dreamt it was dark in her bedchamber, but it was not here in Winterfell. It was King’s Landing and the realization that she was back inside the walls of the Red Keep terrified her. She was breathless, and green light poured through her window managing to light up her surroundings just enough to walk towards the window. Sansa stood there looking out at the green hue enveloping the bay until a hand grabbed her wrist. She gasped, wanting to scream, but a second hand covered her mouth, turning her around towards the unknown figure.

“Hush, little bird” a deep voice rasped quickly.

It was a voice and a face that only belong to one person: Sandor Clegane, the Hound. She tried to pull herself away but only managed to make grunting noises.

“Stay quiet or it will be both our heads rotting on the wall tomorrow” he whispered in her ear. He gently removed the hand over her mouth but kept his other hand tight on her wrist.

He’s so close. I can smell the blood on him. I can smell the wine. He’s drunk. Sansa realized.

“Please, ser, my wrist. You are hurting me” she began to weep.

“Ser? When will you learn, little bird?” he replied with anger clearly building up in his voice.

“I didn’t mean…please…you are hurting me, please let go.” Tears began to roll down her porcelain cheeks but she tried her best to not lose her composure entirely.

“Do you think I would ever hurt you? You think I’m no better than that cunt Joffrey, is that it?”

She could not manage a response. Her blue eyes met his fierce grey eyes which were reflecting the green light coming into the room. As she stared at him silently, his rage continued to peak and her failure to respond clearly set him off.

“So that is how you feel, little bird? So fucking be it.” Sandor grabbed her other wrist and forcefully pushed her to the bed. She shut her eyes, terrified of what she would see if she opened them. Before she could speak, he leaned down on the bed, supporting himself with his hands on either side of her head.

This is it. She thought with defeat. He will have me tonight and there is nothing I can do about it.

His right hand moved from beside her head down to breasts. He squeezed them with more gentleness than she expected, and she could hear his breathing begin to quicken. The sensation was not uncomfortable but something Sansa could not quite put into words. As his hand trailed from her breasts down to her sex, she gasped.

“No, please. Sandor, please don’t do this!” she finally managed to get out but rather screaming as she intended it came out as a sigh. Sansa was feeling several emotions at once, most of which she could not describe.

His hand stopped suddenly, hovering over her sex but not quite touching. He shifted his hand back to beside her head and stared at her face. She slowly opened her eyes as once she noticed he stopped touching her. As she met his gaze, she noticed this time it was not just blood on his face, but a wetness. Tears.

“What did you say?” he whispered quietly. Sansa hardly heard him but she knew better than to ignore his questions and make him angry again.

“I said please stop.” she muttered, trying her best not to cry.

“Not that, little bird.”

It was then she realized immediately what she had said. Sandor. I said his name. Have I ever said his name?

“Sandor.” she responded.

Suddenly he dropped his face towards hers and she felt his lips meet hers. The half-missing lips of his mouth pressing softly into her soft rosebud lips. A tear fell onto her cheek, but this time it was not hers.

As soon as she realized he was kissing her, he rose from the bed. She heard a ripping noise and then the door open and shut.

A few moments passed as she laid on back, staring up at the canopy. Once she sat up, there was nothing. It was not until her eyes shifted to look at the floor that she saw his bloody white cloak on the floor.

It was only then that she awoke. Too many times had Sansa dreamed of that night of the Battle of Blackwater Bay. And every time, things were different. She no longer remembered what really happened that night. She was just a girl and she was so scared and so confused. But as the dreams continued to come from time to time, she began to react differently to the memory of it. His kiss, unwanted at the time, now sparked feelings inside her that she now knew were feelings of desire. He did kiss me, did he not? It was the one part of her memory that did not change no matter how many dreams she had, so it had to be the truth.

When she had this dream as a girl, she would toss and turn not being able to sleep with the anxiety it gave her. She constantly wondered what her life would be like had she left King’s Landing with him as he had. However, as a woman, she often felt aroused by her dreams of him and the only way she would be able to sleep comfortably is if she touched her sex and rubbed until pleasure overtook her. It was not a ladylike thing to do, but Sansa was through being a perfect lady. All being a perfect lady taught her is that you make it that much easier to be everyone else’s pawn. Littlefinger’s pawn especially.

She knew he was manipulating her and using her to better himself, but she still did not have the proof needed to bring him down. And if she was honest, they used each other. He lied to her, she to him, and they both gained and lost as the game went on. But she could not rid herself of him yet, not until she gained enough knowledge to bring him down with honor. Else, she would become known as the Cruel Lady of Winterfell, who kills those she cannot trust whilst providing no proof.

Thinking of Littlefinger began to frustrate her, and her dream already created frustrations in another manner, sexual frustrations.

He is here. Go to him.

The thought was ludicrous, but it was the truth. Sandor had come to Winterfell along with the Brotherhood without Banners and even her sister Arya. When her guards notified her of their arrival, she felt more emotions than she had in so long. More than since that night during the Battle of Blackwater Bay.

Arya, her little sister, home again at last. Sansa thought she was dead but felt like a complete idiot doubting her sister’s ability to defend herself. Arya was truly one of a kind, a warrior, and now a Faceless Man, she thought with a hint of fear.

Once the other riders came into the gates, Sansa’s heart stopped. She stared at the large man for so long, her mouth gaping slightly, her hands wringing one another in front of her. She felt like she was looking at a ghost.

It is him. Sandor.

Once he saw her, she turned away so quickly it was obvious she had been staring at him. She began to blush and cleared her throat, making the necessary orders to her Northmen to arrange rooms and take the horses from the newest Northern loyalists who came to fight the dead. She immediately walked up to her sister and hugged her, trying her best not to cry.

That was just yesterday morning, and now it was still night, but sleep would not come to her. And the thought of Sandor being so close to her after all this time took her sexual frustrations to a new level.

Sansa was still a maiden, with no thanks to Littlefinger’s schemes. If it had not had been for her decision to call the Knights of the Vale to the North and revealing her true identity to them upon learning of her half-brother Jon Snow attacking to retake Winterfell from the Boltons, she could have easily been wedded and bedded by Harry the Heir by now, if not Littlefinger himself.

Despite her being a maiden, her innocence was not as it once was. Myranda Royce taught her many things while in the Vale and Sansa could not believe her mother and Septa went about her proper education as if these things did not exist. Of course, she had been a child in their eyes, but she was betrothed to Joffrey at a time and it would have been good to know just what losing your maidenhead would be like.

Myranda told her all she knew about men with ease. What men liked, what they did not, how to give herself pleasure, and how to manipulate men most of all to get what you want. With Myranda’s teachings and Littlefinger’s scheming, Sansa was indeed no longer the young, innocent, naïve girl anymore.

Now, she had clear intentions on what she wanted. She would never have considered bedding a man prior to marriage despite her growing sexual desire, but it only took Sandor Clegane to walk back into her life to make her reconsider.

I should have talked to him. I should have said something.

Sansa began to regret not seeking him out or even welcoming him, but she spent the entire day with Arya, discussing all that had become of their time since their father’s murder. They both had been through traumatic events over the years and neither of them knew where to begin. But after all was said over hours of discussion, Arya made it clear that she did not trust Littlefinger despite him helping Sansa flee from King’s Landing. Neither do I, she thought, but she tried to reason with Arya he had his purposes.

The wetness between her legs brought her mind back to Sandor. She began to lay down and brought her hand to her sex to take care of the feelings herself but stopped as suddenly as he had in her dream.

He is here, in this very castle. If I want to see him, there is no better time than now when mostly everyone was asleep. The guardsmen would not dare to question my comings and goings as Lady of Winterfell. Ladylike behavior be damned.

Without mulling it over, considering how she would explain herself coming to him in the middle of the night, she got out of bed and began to dress herself. She took out her auburn hair from her braid and let it fall loose down her back in waves. As she finished getting herself presentable, she unlatched her door and opened it, only to find Littlefinger sitting on the chair that was meant for her guard. His lips turned up in a smile, but his eyes were filled with anger.

“My sweet Lady Sansa.” He greeted.