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Her gown is new, white velvet and silvery gray lace, with a bodice that's nearly indecent. It serves its purpose well. Neither Lord Karstark's grandson, seated on her right, or Lord Umber's nephew, seated on her left, can look anywhere but at her breasts. Sansa smiles and waves away their hints about a strong man to help her rule. She laughs at their feeble jests and puts a hand on Karstark's arm and allows Umber to feed her bites of fruit. The handsome young singer comes up to the high table to beg to know what m'lady would like to hear next, and Sansa brushes a lock of dark hair away from his eyes and gives him a lemon cake from her own plate.
She takes only quick glances at the lower tables, never letting her gaze pause on Sandor Clegane. She is certain he's watching her though. He's always watching her and she knows now that he's always watched her. Umber whispers something in her ear - she doesn't know what because she's not listening - and Sansa turns so her cheek rubs his bushy beard.
She excuses herself once the meal is done. The men will want to drink and become better acquainted with the serving women, and Sansa has better things to do than watch her bannermen and their sworn swords debauch themselves. She takes the quickest route to the chambers that once belonged to her mother Lady Catelyn. When Sandor comes to her, should she pretend she wasn't expecting him? Or should she remove her clothes and wait for him in bed? Then someone pulls her into the shadows and the question is rendered moot.
Sansa wonders how he managed to get there so quickly but she doesn't get the chance to ask. He seizes a handful of her auburn curls and pulls her head back. His other hand grasps her throat and she gasps, a familiar fear building in the pit of her stomach and lower. It's too dark for her to read the look in his eyes but his mouth is twitching the way it does when he's displeased. Sansa moistens her lips with her tongue, hoping it'll draw his attention to her mouth and he'll kiss her. He doesn't. He puts his mouth to her ear.
"What were you doing?" His voice never sounds anything but harsh, like steel scraping over stone.
"I don't know what you mean, my lord," Sansa answers. "I was being a good hostess as a lady should."
His breathing is loud and hot in her ear but he doesn't reply. Her nipples are already tight against the fabric of her gown and she needs him between her legs. Sansa doesn't know what he's waiting for. Perhaps he's not angry enough to forget himself. "Are you jealous, ser?"
He pushes her against the wall and releases her throat and hair to begin pulling up her skirts. It's winter but the stones are warm against her back. There are streams of hot water flowing through the walls of Winterfell like blood, making the castle seem like a living thing. Sandor raises her to his height and Sansa puts her arms around his neck to steady herself. He enters her without preliminaries and it hurts but it's the kind of pain that almost feel good. Sansa closes her eyes to better savor the feeling of being between Winterfell and Sandor, the only two things she has left in the world.
There's the sound of laughter and talking and a group of people walk by just a few feet away. If they see or hear anything in the shadows, they ignore it, assuming it's some serving wench with her companion of the evening. No one would ever expect their liege lady in such a situation. She knows people gossip about her and Sandor. They speculate as to why Lady Stark would keep the Hound of all men so close to her and they reach the right conclusion. Still, discretion is necessary for the sake of propriety. Sandor has never before taken her in public like this. She should have told him to wait, but sometimes Sansa gets tired of being proper. Impropriety agrees with her. It's better, more intense somehow, being taken like this. Sansa bites her lip to silence herself as waves of pleasure course through her.
Sandor spills inside her soon after but he appears in no hurry to withdraw or put her back on her feet. He kisses her neck. "Sansa," he whispers.
"Don't be jealous, my love," she tells him, stroking the burnt side of his face. "There's only you." She will have to marry eventually, some lord to father her heirs. But that can wait a while longer.