heartofthenight (heartofthenight) wrote,

Fanfic: For You Are My Fate, My Sweet

Title: For you are my fate, my sweet
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire/Game of Thrones
Genre: Romance/Angst
Pairing: Sansa/Sandor
Characters: Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane.  Other characters mentioned, but not featured.
Rating: T for language. It has Sandor after all.
Warnings: Swearing is about all I can think of.  And the angst.
Disclaimer: I do not own the awesomeness of the books nor the wreck of a show. :p
Prompt: 19.  Their first kiss is Sandor's first kiss.  I'm sorry I don't know who prompted this!!!
Summary: Written for the sansanfest on SansaxSandor. He turned his eyes from her and up into the branches of the tree with leaves as red as her hair. Bark the white of her skin with blue, blue of the sky beyond. “I think I like this god more than any others,” he rasped back in way of reply. A half truth. The other was it was the only place left untouched by the flames that had destroyed Winterfell.  Oneshot.

The godswood is quiet, still. No wolves, no birds, just snow and the soft rustling of the weirwood's leaves in the fading Winter breeze. Steam rises from the hot pools, mixes and dissolves with the flurries of snow eddying around him. It is peaceful. Such a welcome respite after all the wars, the fighting, the death. First the folly of the Five Kings and then the coming of the Others and then, when all hope was lost, the Dragon Queen to save them all. Most anyway. The ones that counted.

Sandor breathed deep of the godswood and felt her in every scent that touched him. Before it had been Summer and lemons and flowers, but she was a child of Winter and the tamed wildness of the place was more suited to the woman she had become. Queen of the North until the boy became of age. The Winter Queen, the falcon of the Eyrie that had avenged the North. Sansa Stark. The little bird.


Her voice floated to him, carried by the breeze and bolstered up by the steam. Soft and rich, no longer the high sweet tones of a girl just dancing on the edge womanhood.

He did not call out to her, could not. A few more steps and she'd see him anyway. There in front of the weirwood, by the pool. Waiting for her. Waiting....

Sure enough, her steps drew closer until they suddenly stopped but a few feet away. He raised his tired eyes from the water, the hypnotizing mist, and found her frozen. Stiller than a doe in the moment before the arrow was loosed to pierce its heart. Was he the dart that would take her down? The shaft that would lodge in her heart and still it? Stop the steady pulse of the life of the only person he had cared for since he laid his sister in the ground?

“Sandor....?” A question of denial as she stands as frozen as a wight.

He mustered a twitching smile. Grotesque and horrid as they were, they always seemed to ease her fear. “Little bird,” he rasped.

She was too old, too cold, too broken to sob anymore, but the tears trailed down her face as she took the last halting steps to him. Sank gracefully to her knees by his side and he remembered how he had come back to her. Leaving the Quiet Isle to join her march from the Vale, the Blackfish had found him amongst the masses and had dragged him before her, the Lannister dog. A prize to torture or kill however she deemed fit. He'd fallen to his knees as much from the sight of her as the vicious kick to his bad leg. The rumors a truth before him and he had thought he could die in peace then and there. Instead she had spared him, made him part of her Queensguard, to protect her from the whitewalkers and the Boltons alike. He had done both. May all the gods save him, at least he had kept that vow. At least the one.

“Why are you here?” A whisper as soft as the hand that reached out to take his, big and broad and rough and not made to feel such finery.

He turned his eyes from her and up into the branches of the tree with leaves as red as her hair. Bark the white of her skin with blue, blue of the sky beyond. “I think I like this god more than any others,” he rasped back in way of reply. A half truth. The other was it was the only place left untouched by the flames that had destroyed Winterfell.

Her breath caught, wounded and he turned back to her. “There's nothing left to fear, little bird. Nothing left to fight.”

She shook her head in denial. “No. There will always be something to fight.”

“No, it is done.” The Others gone, the Boltons destroyed, Petyr a tattered corpse hanging from the walls of the Eyrie.

Again the shake of her head, a coppery waterfall. “There is this,” she whispered lifting his hand, cold from lying in the snow and what was to come. She pressed her cheek to the back of it and her hot tears stung the hard callused skin like drops of wildfire.

He closed his eyes against the sight, lacked the strength to open them again. “No, little bird,” he affirmed. “The fighting is done. Now it is time to rest.”

He felt her shake her head against his hand. “Sandor, please....”

He remembered a time when all he had wished for was for her to say his name. Now he wished she wouldn't because it tore him apart. He opened his eyes, found hers closed as she held onto him. “Little bird.... Look at me.”

The old command brought her focus to him. Oceans of blue with islands of ice flowing over steel. “You can no longer command me, ser.”

He laughed, rough and grating and the coughing spasm that came with it made it sound no worse. “Aye, my queen.”

It was the girl and not the queen that cast her eyes down. “I had thought I was.... I had hoped that I.... That you....”

“Aye,” he agreed on a ragged breath. What broken creatures they were that they couldn't even say the words anymore. They had both been born young naïve dreamers and this world had left no place for that. “Aye,” he said again. “You are that. Damn me for a buggering fool, but always, little bird. Sansa.”

The sob she didn't know how to let go anymore rattled in her chest. “Sandor....”
“Hush, little bird. Do not. Not for me. Not for an old dog.” He squeezed her hand, the one that still held his to her cheek.

“I cried for Lady,” she whispered fiercely, defiantly. “For Grey Wind.”

He laughed darkly. “Aye, I'm sure you did.” He watched her and let himself wonder at how close she was, that this beautiful creature of the North deigned to touch him, to hold him dear. “The keep...? The people...?”

She nodded listlessly. “It is ours. The whitewalkers are all dead. The ones that matter.... They live.” Like him, there was only room in her heart for a few now.

Good. Osha and Bran and Rickon and the frog children. Arya and the bastard Jon Snow.  Winterfell reclaimed and ready to be rebuilt. Winter would fade away and the Long Summer would come and the Dragon Queen would rule and the Starks would remain guardians of the North. He could not ask for more. He could not.

“Will you burn me?” He asked on a sudden fear.

This time a soft anguished sound escaped from her chapped perfect lips. “Please, Sandor, do not speak of that.”

“I taught you to see the truth, little bird, not to turn from it. You'll die if you do.”

“What should I care for life when everything I love is taken from me?” She blazed at him, dropping his hand to her lap so she could sit straighter, face him squarely with the full power that was her.

The ache at her words surpassed everything else, left him adrift and feeling as if he'd weep. “Don't speak like that over me. Not fucking well over me. You got your brothers and your sister and all the North to put back together. They need you.”

All at once she wilted. “And I need you.”

He smiled sadly. “Not anymore. Your enemies are dead. You've got no use for an old dog like me anymore.”

She regarded him sadly, reaching out a hand to cup his cheek, the bad side. “I will always need you, Sandor,” she promised quietly.

“Sansa...” he sobbed.

“Shush,” she whispered and then suddenly she was there. Her lips cool, moistened with salt of her tears. Lush and soft they pressed to his.

He found the strength to raise a hand and bury it in her hair, cupping the back of her head and opening his mouth to the first kiss he'd ever tasted. Whores did whatever you wanted and he'd wanted none of this from them, but her.... The princess always kissed her knight at the end of the stories his mother had told him as a child. And this was the end of his.

He kissed her until the breathlessness was not just from her mouth on his. Not just from her very presence stealing the air from his lungs, but the icy grip of the Stranger come to collect his due.

He let her go, the first to last step he'd take on the road he was headed down on. “Little bird....”

She must have heard the death rattle in his voice and finally she sobbed. Falling against his chest she clung to him as if holding his mortal body would keep the life in him even though it lay in a red pool about them. “Please, no.”

He pressed his cheek, the good side, into her hair. “Sing to me, little bird,” he rasped. “You always promised me a song.”

She was quiet so long he thought maybe she'd refuse him. That he'd leave this world being punished still because he took the song and she never gave it. Then her voice hummed into his chest, over his slowing heart before soaring out into the crisp air and carrying him with it.

A/N: When I claimed this prompt, fluff abounded in my mind.  This was going to be ridiculously sappy.  So yeah, I don't know where this came from.  This has been done since a few days after I claimed the prompt.  I've been tinkering with it since then and trying to rewrite it, but Gah! this is all that will come out.

Sorry, OP!!!!  I'm sure you meant fluff for this!

PS: I kinda deliberately softened Sandor for a couple of reasons.  One for the flow of the story and two cuz I think (in my personal headcanon) that he would have to to a certain amount if he were ever to let Sansa love him.
Tags: asoiaf, fanfic, got, rating:t, sandor clegane, sansa stark
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