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Sandor is gentle. It's a surprise. Sansa has imagined him near-ravishing her for so long that the reality is like being with a different man. But he's so careful when he makes love to her, almost hesitant, that she knows gentleness doesn't come naturally to him. His restraint conveys the words he hasn't spoken yet, a silent I love you. It makes her love him more, to know that only she elicits this tenderness from him.
But she's becoming impatient. It's not that he doesn't please her, because he does. But she wants it to be like in her dreams, she thinks it would be even better like that. She waits for him to tire of being careful, for his control to slip. It doesn't. A month goes by, a month of him coming to her bed chamber when the castle is asleep, and still he's gentle when he takes her.
Sansa's rules for being a lady have changed but not so greatly that she can simply tell Sandor what to do. Especially not when she thinks it's most unladylike to desire what she desires. A lady ought not to want her lover to pull her hair or to bite her so hard she bears his mark for days.
She realizes that it's the Hound she wants one night. "The Hound is dead," Sandor had told her when they'd met in the riverlands. She glimpses the Hound inside him when he fights, though, so maybe he can be the Hound again in bed too.
When he comes to her the following night she's waiting fully dressed. She's wearing her oldest shift and a gown that's beginning to lose its color - clothes she won't mind losing. "Let's play pretend."
Sandor looks amused. But he's curious too. "Pretend what?"
"Let's pretend you're the Hound and I'm a poor helpless peasant wench."
He's angry now. "I never raped any woman. I'm not Gregor."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply you had. It's only the Hound might have..."
He laughs harshly then. "You mean you want the Hound to fuck you."
Sansa looks down, blushing. "Yes," she answers in a small voice.
He starts the game sooner than she expects. He grabs her chin and forces her to look at him. The amusement is gone; she can't read the look in his eyes now. "Joff's little bird," he rasps. "All alone."
"Let me go."
"Little birds shouldn't wander at night."
She hadn't expected him to pretend they were back in King's Landing and she was still betrothed to Joffrey Baratheon. It's exciting. "Please, my lord. You're scaring me."
"I'll give you something to be scared of, girl." He pulls her against him and forces his mouth onto hers.
"Let me go," she says, when he stops. "I won't tell anyone you stole a kiss."
"Steal a kiss? Bugger that. I'll steal that virgin cunt from Joff."
"No." Sansa thinks she sounds too eager. She tries again. "No!"
He shoves her down on the bed and when she tries to get away, he covers her with his body. She expects him to tear her clothes off, but he draws his dagger. Sansa's breath quickens in fear. She knows he wouldn't truly hurt her, yet she can't help being afraid. The dagger slices cleanly through her clothes. She can feel the cold steel circle one of her nipples, then it's replaced by the warmth of the Hound's mouth and the sharpness of his teeth.
The bite makes her cry out. The dagger is still in the Hound's hand. He runs the flat of the blade along her leg all the way up to the top. Sansa whimpers. The Hound tosses the dagger away and touches her with his hand. Sansa knows she's the wettest she's ever been. She thinks he won't comment on it so they can keep pretending she's being ravished, but he surprises her. "Enjoying it, are you? What would Joff think?"
"Don't tell him, please."
He takes her then, and she can feel just how much he's held back before. Some of the cruder terms she's heard for the act make sense now. She definitely feels like she's being pounded. And she enjoys it immensely.
Afterward, though, Sansa feels shy. She can't look at Sandor. He makes her look at him again, gently this time. "Thank you," he says. She doesn't really understand why he's thanking her, but she hopes it means they'll play the game again.