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Sandor reached for the fresh bar of soap left for him beside the tub. He dipped it in the water and began to wash himself. Rosemary and lemon, he thought, chuckling that Sansa would insist on having him smell like lemons—another one of her recent preferences. He remembered when she interrupted his bath the other day and begged him to wash his hair, with some Dornish lemon oil she’d been sent by Arianne Martell. He’d been caught off-guard when she asked—primping and preening has never been of interest to him—but he found he likedher fingers running through his hair, and he liked it even more when her hands would wander down his chest and stomach to finish what she had started by teasing out the knots in his hair, from root to tip, and for his cock as well.

He hears the door-hinge that’s in desperate need of an oiling squeak as someone—most likely his wife—entered their chambers.

“My love,” he heard her purr from behind him, hands coming to rest on his shoulders. He thought he could feel her press a kiss to his left temple, or maybe he felt her hair brush against his left shoulder to make him think such a thing. He hardly had sensation on that side. “How was your day?”

“Same as usual. Eat, fight, shit, bathe.”

“I think you’re forgetting an activity,” she whispered into his ear-nub.

Sandor wondered if she was blushing, or maybe smirking at her, at her forwardness. The woman he spent his wedding night with would have reddened like a septa in a brothel, but thisSansa, the one who had shared his bed for seven moons, whose womb quickened four moons ago, seemed immune to such things so far.

“Did you have a particular activity in mind?” he teased, feeling his cock already responding to her taunts.

He heard her sigh. Her arm appeared and reached past him to grab a hair tonic from the table next to him only to retreat from his sight once more.

“The most important part of the day,” she began, “is when a wife to take care of her husband, and I intend to take care of you.”

Sandor wanted to take Sansa’s hands and show her where he wanted them at that moment but wondered what else she had in mind once she finished washing his hair. Yesterday, she used her hands to please him, but the day before she had stripped to her nameday suit and joined him in the tub, riding him to their completions while the water splashed all over the stone floor.

“Lean forward,” she whispered, and Sandor happily obeyed. Water poured over his head as Sansa wetted it for her task. “Now lean back.”

Sandor felt Sansa’s hands get to work in his mess of hair. The only other memories he had of soft touches of the pads of her fingers against his scalp were faint, most likely his mother, maybe a servant even. Of course, those most certainly did not invite the kinds of thoughts he was having at that moment.

“You have such beautiful hair,” she sighed as he vaguely felt like she was tugging at his hair as the worked the soap through the ends.

Sandor freezes as he considers how to respond. She has not attempted to compliment him since the capitol, years ago. He thought she realized he disliked them, that he didn’t know what to say when he heard a genuine one, as this most certainly was.

“Is my hair the only thing you’re interested in right now?”

“No. Maybe. Yes. At least for the moment.”

“I have a better idea—for the moment,” he said as he suddenly stood up, water splashing over the tub and onto the sheer shift she was wearing. He turned to face her and was pleased at how her eyes cascaded down his body. He stepped out of the tub and reached out his hand, and as Sansa reached for him, he scooped her into his arms and made haste for the bed across the room.

“Sandor, your hair!” Sansa cried. “It needs to be dried!”

He lay her on the bed before turning back to the tub to grab a towel.

He placed the cloth over his head, hastily rubbing it into his scalp, trying to finish everything so he could return to his wife and their bed.

“Oh, please, let me do it,” Sansa pleaded.

Sandor paused for a brief moment, fearful of where thiswould—there had been one night when all she wanted to do was braid and unbraid his hair.

“Alright, but make it quick little bird, you’ve put ideas into a man’s head and now he wants to see what else you’ve got to offer.”

Sandor hesitantly returns to the bed, handing the towel to his wife as her eyes seemed to glisten with some indecent thought.

“Alright, my love,” Sansa responded with a smile that made Sandor’s blood boil. She spreads her legs wide, her shift moving with her, the dampness from his splashing hinting at a thatch of red between.

“Sit,” she said, a gentle authority in her voice as she nods to the space between her thighs, a flick of her hand telling him to turn around.

He smirked, feeling heat in his groin at the idea of her commanding him. Seating himself with his back to her, he immediately felt her gentle touches through the towel pressing clumps of his hair dry. Her movements were languid, and gave him the greatest sense of security he’s ever felt. A doting wife was never something Sandor had anticipated for himself, and one who wanted to nurture him made him want for things he had no right to want for. Things he had never imagined for himself after he noticed the look of horror on a serving wench’s face when he had arrived at Casterly Rock.

He breathed, deeply, feeling muscles release as Sansa kept tugging and rubbing his hair between the two edges of the cloth.

But even this state of peace doesn’t stop Sandor’s cock from leaking as he imagined the other things his wife could do to him with her gentle touches.

“That’s good enough, wife,” he grumbled, rubbing a calloused hand along her calf.

“Hmmm,” she sighed, tossing the towel aside as she rubs his back and his shoulders. Yes, he thought, keep going, lower. He hoped she could sense his thoughts, hoped she would intuit what to do, anything to keep him from begging his wife to fuck him.

But her hands returned to his hair, her fingers combing through from the scalp to the ends.

Sandor rolled his eyes as her hands clearly have no other plans for him other than his gods-damned hair. He looked down at his cock, standing at attention but ignored by the hands he would prefer on it.

Maybe I should just take care of it.

Sansa shifted behind him, and her legs disappeared from around him—but her hands never leave his hair. Her knees were suddenly behind his arse, her breasts and belly pressed into his back, teasing him all the more, but her breath on his neck proved to be the most pleasant surprise.

“You smell so good,” she whispered, her breath warming him.

He grinned, reaching an arm behind him to tease her back. Her thigh, gripped tight in his palm, quivered at his touch.

But she did not let go of his fucking hair.

“Little bird, can we move on?”* he grumbled, his hand moving to his cock, pulling at the skin on the head to get him ready for her.

Only, he felt her fingers on his scalp once more, and Sansa buried her face in the semi-dry hair on his neck.

“Just one moment longer, Sandor.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.