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He loved her hair, Sansa noticed.
She wore it long and wild, burnished red and gold falling to her waist, in almost savage disarray, free from the intricate braids and styles that had almost chained her in Kings Landing. Untamed, it was a symbol of her Tully and Stark heritage both, her true Northern self that had never faded, hidden though it had been for a while beneath clumsy brown dye.
And all the while the Hound watched her, protected her, followed her during the day and guarded her at night, Sansa could almost feel the tremor in his hands, could sense his raw desire to touch her. To run his large hands along her cheekbones, to brush his calloused fingers over her soft mouth, to finally sink his hands into that red, wild hair and draw her to him.
...
Once, aside a hilltop on horseback, she had spoken to him and laughed, her hair whipping wildly around her face and almost obscuring her sight completely. He had reached out a hand to her, seemingly unable to stop himself, and gently – so gently – pushed her hair from her face and behind her ear, the heel of his hand ghosting against her skin.
Sansa had felt her insides narrow to a sharp point, a rush of blood so intense she opened her mouth to draw breath and her vision seemed white at the edges. Their eyes met, locked, and the world around them fell away. They were on a precipice, the tension between them drawing so tight they were dancing on the edge, time slowing to a thick sap that held them both in place.
Then he was gone, first riding away from her and then fleeing, leaving her on the edge and unable either to fall or pull herself back up. She exhaled slowly and looked out from the hilltop, to the wild woods below, dark and dangerous.
He would never touch her again willingly, she was certain of that.
...
Sansa tossed and turned each night, trapped between the sweet yearning of her waking hours and the dark desires of her sleep. She bound her hair tightly before going to bed but always awoke with it spread wild across her pillows, as if loosened by some invisible lover’s hand.
Even in her dreams the Hound was unyielding. She ran her small hands over his shoulders and chest, felt the tiny shivers that ran through his hard body at her touch. She felt the rough cotton of his shirt, and beneath it warm skin and solid muscle, roughened with scars that she could not see. And beneath that she felt his heart beat, fast and panicked like an animal caught in a trap.
She begged him to kiss her, dream Sansa being far more forward than she would ever dare. She bunched his shirt in her hands and tried to pull him towards her, aching for his hands on her body and his mouth on hers. She even shouted and grew angry, sobbing her rage and impotence and beating him with her fists.
Throughout it all the Hound was like stone, immovable in a way she could not bear. But she saw his eyes, darker even than the depths of her nightmares, and liquid with desire for her. She saw the effort of his restraint, but knew she could not break him with words or anger.
...
Sansa would have to use another weapon to bring her lover to her.
...
The woods were soft and empty, dappled with light and quiet. Through some pretence Sansa had brought him here, the two of them alone and on foot. He wore his armour, ready always to die for the woman he would not allow himself to love. She wore a purple dress, chosen to bring out the red of her hair. Twice she caught him looking at the way the sun glinted off her thick curls. Twice she imagined his hands on her and shivered, despite the warmth of the day.
She felt once again the thick silence between herself and the Hound, the depth of her desire for him that never ebbed, only flowed. And the impossible, hard steel of his self-control.
Sansa pretended to stumble and fell onto the soft grass, letting out a small cry as she did so. As she knew he would be, he was at her side in an instant, crouching to one knee to help her back onto her feet.
She turned, and found his face close to hers. His face, which as a girl she had feared and pitied, but now only desired. She brought one hand up to touch him, running her fingertips over his ruined cheek while willing him to meet her gaze.
He did so for an instant, and as in her dreams she saw in his grey eyes the hot promise of a love and a desire that would rival even Florian and Jonquil, before he remembered himself and lowered his eyes to the floor.
Too late, the Hound attempted to back away from her, only to find she had wrapped her hair around his neck, the only shackle that could hope to hold him. His eyes registered shock, and then confusion, and then some emotion Sansa could not name, but felt at the very core of her as a wave crashing against a stony shore.
She drew him to her then, and placed her arms around his neck, feeling his lips on hers for the first time.
...
“Have mercy, little bird,” he whispered against her mouth, voice soft and intimate.
“I have none, Ser.”