DISCLAIMER: A Song of Ice and Fire series is written by George R. R. Martin and I do not have anything to do with its creation or publication. To reiterate, I do not own the characters in this story, the setting, or anything else worth mentioning. I simply recombined the elements for the sake of erotic fantasy. I make no money from doing so.
Also, if you are offended by graphic descriptions of sex, PLEASE DO NOT READ THIS FIC!
(I would really appreciate some feedback because I am kind of embarrassed that I wrote this shameless lemon _;;)
PART 2
THE BEDDING
At the feast, Sandor pulled the chair that he was supposed to sit in out for Sansa. The cloak and train of her dress had been removed after the wedding ceremony.
"But I'm supposed to sit-" Sansa began, in whispered protest. Tradition dictated that the bride sit to the left of the groom, as they had during the ceremony, in order to keep his sword arm free.
"It's fine," he assured her. "I think we've broken enough conventions with that dress." He didn't relish the thought of her having to look at the burned side of his face the entire evening.
Sansa blushed and plopped down.
They were in good company. Arya and Jon sat closest to them, with Leyton Hightower and Lady Rhea given places of importance on the dais as thanks for their help in having Sansa's first marriage annulled. Howland Reed and his wife Jyana, Crannogmen from the North, sat opposite the Hightowers. Farther down the table the Lady of Bear Island and her daughter sat next to Loras Tyrell, much to their pleasure. A few whispered about the danger of having him there since his sister was in bed with the Lannisters and he himself a knight of the Kingsguard, but Sansa was more than happy he'd shown up. Sandor felt himself touched by jealousy when she smiled and accepted his family's gift to them with a kiss.
The centerpiece of the feast was a bull cooked whole with a hundred roasted birds around it. The smell of the sweet thick glaze permeated the hall. At the high table they started with a bowl of venison stewed in blackberries, while the servants readied the main course by transferring the ducks, chickens, capons, quail, pheasants and, onto plates around the tables. For those seated on the dais, they included a dozen sparrows. A creamy mushroom and onion soup, hot buttered bread and potato and cheese tarts were served before they cut into the berry-and-bread-stuffed aurochs.
Sandor and Sansa got first choice, but when the servers had passed on to the other guests she leaned close to him and asked, "Do you really not like my dress?"
"No," he answered, "I like it." And to prove it he reached under the table and put a hand on her knee. Sansa turned a little pink.
"I made it." Arya, the little sister, piped up next to him. They sat together since he and Sansa had switched positions.
"You didn't make it," Sansa shot back. "You almost ruined it." She leaned over her plate to hiss at her sister and her bosom got dangerously close to the meat, causing Leyton Hightower to go bug-eyed at precarious display of flesh.
"I fixed it." Arya stuffed a piece of roast beef in her mouth and set to chewing it as if that finished the matter. Sandor poured them all more wine.
The fine Arbor gold tended to loosen the tongues of all who drank it. Sansa chatted politely with Lady Rhea and her husband unless the other guests engaged her. Otherwise, they made fair chatter among themselves. Sandor had chosen his seat doubting he would have to draw his sword tonight, but he almost wished someone would challenge his right to Sansa because he much preferred wielding his sword to wagging his tongue. He wouldn't mind walloping the Knight of Flowers, for one, but the younger man was busy enjoying the doting laughter of his surrounding company. Jon Snow, the only other formidable swordsman at the table, was engrossed in a conversation with Howland Reed.
"Has your brother sent word of my son and daughter?" the gnomish man asked over the sound of the band.
Jon Snow regretfully informed him of Winterfell's sacking.
Reed waved his hand dismissively. "I wouldn't speak of such things at a lady's feast. Winterfell will be returned to the Starks. We'd best not have doubts about that, or we'll be on the wrong side of the war!"
"The man does not take sides," his wife interjected. "You're Lord Commander on the Wall now, aren't you Jon?"
"Yes, but . . ." Jon Snow was frowning. "What news do you expect me to hear from my brother? He is dead."
"Dead? He is with Jonjen and Meera, to be sure." Reed helped himself to a sparrow and dropped another on his wife's plate.
"Hound." It was Arya, speaking low enough that her sister and the others around them wouldn't notice. "I want to tell you something."
"What," he asked flatly.
"When I left you on the river, I wanted you dead."
Sandor didn't know what to say to that. He drained his cup and set it back on the table.
"That was before all of this." Her eyes passed over the guests and came to rest on him. "That was before you married my sister." He met her stare evenly, and could tell from her wobbly gaze that she was drunk.
"I could still do it if I wanted to." He didn't know her as the type to drink and hoped that meant she was having a better time than she let on. "And I will. If you hurt my sister, I'll kill you."
"I don't have any intention of hurting your sister." Sandor grunted and refilled both their cups. "And I doubt you could kill me."
"I could, too!" Arya screwed up her face. "I'm an assassin. I could kill anyone."
"Sandor!" Sansa's hand tugged at his forearm and he turned to her. "Sandor, let's dance," she said, bright and insisting.
He let her pull him onto the floor and danced well enough, though he wasn't sorry when the song was over. Much to his surprise, two more women insisted he stay on and dance with them as well. Sansa had to have his last dance, but he walked off the floor right after, leaving her to the arms of her many admirers.
Jon Snow fell into step with him on his way back to the table. He hadn't noticed the boy on the floor with them, but he must have been, headed as he was back to his seat. "They say you're a formidable swordsman," Jon said.
"They say a lot of things."
"That they do," Snow agreed. "I don't believe you raped my sister on the Neck," he continued, cutting to the point as quickly as his Valyrian steel sword Longclaw would have done, "but if I ever find out that you hurt her, I'll kill you."
Great fucking family, Sandor thought, thinking on what he was marrying into. "If you have any doubts about it, we could settle them right now."
Snow's eyes flashed appraisingly over the taller man. "Sansa and I were never very close, but I'll take her word on it. Then again, you really are an ugly man for one so fair as Sansa to choose you."
Sandor ground his teeth together, but he and Jon Snow kept stride until the high table. When Arya saw them coming over she leapt to her feet and knocked her goblet over in the process.
"Jon! You didn't dance with me yet, Jon."
"I didn't know you wanted to dance," he said, ruffling her hair. "Come on." He took her hand and led her back to the floor. Sandor sat down to an empty cup and table, listened to the band play and watched Sansa dance. The servants cleared the dinner plates away and the guests returned to their seats in time for cake. Sansa came back to the table flushed from dancing and Sandor poured them both full cups of Arbor Gold from a fresh jug.
"Oh, that's enough for me," Sansa said when he tipped the jug to pour hers. "I couldn't drink another cup."
"Come on. It's your wedding." For once in his life, Sandor didn't feel like getting belligerently drunk, but he hoped Sansa would.
Sansa giggled. "Oh, all right. A little more."
The cake was brought out and they cut it together. Sansa was delighted when the knife opened it and she could smell that it was lemon cake.
"Everything is perfect," she said, a bit watery-eyed.
"We did all right." Sansa had been almost a princess, and he could never give her a royal wedding. They did what they could with modest means.
They ate a piece together; Sansa fed him little bites off the fork after each bite she took herself and laughed every time she did it. He put a hand on her knee again.
Sansa frowned, pushing the crumbs of lemon cake around on the plate. "Do you really think my dress is foul?"
He leaned in close to her and slid his hand up a little higher, underneath the lace. "No, but I'd like you better out of it."
Sansa blushed. "I like what you're wearing," she said. He was in a stuffy yellow shirt and a thickly starched doublet.
"I feel best in armor, but it wasn't the proper raiment for tonight." It was getting late and some guests were asleep in their cups, others were dancing and more than a few had crawled off in pairs. He cleared his throat and spoke up a little louder. "I'd feel more comfortable naked than in these lordling's clothes."
Sansa took the bait gazing at him with hooded eyes. "Then let's get you out of them."
The guests who were awake took up the bedding with raucous delight. Sansa was lifted away from him by the men as a group of women pulled him to his feet and pushed him towards the stairs. He lost sight of her as they women crowded around him, stripping him of his clothes one by one as they neared the bedchamber. By the time they got to the top of the stairs he was naked.
"My sister is a wolf and deserves better than the likes of you, dog." It was Arya; she reached out, grabbed his penis and twisted it.
"Get your hands off me, you crazy bitch," he said, and forcibly removed her hand. But the women around him just laughed and proceeded to stroke him, taking their lead from Arya.
Sandor felt flustered from the feeling of many gentle hands on him; he found himself uncomfortable with all the attention. He wanted Sansa.
She was waiting for him naked on a bed near the window. Her full breasts shined in the moonlight and her eyes were two deep amethyst pools. He wasted no time putting his hands on her. The curtains were drawn around them with a gale of laughter, footsteps and a shush that resolved itself to sniggering. The oak door never shut and between the steps of the guests who left through it one could hear the fidgeting of those who'd stayed behind.
"They're watching us," she whispered, her mouth against his good ear, her eyes wide on the curtain.
"No Little Bird, it's just you and me."
Of course he said that just to console Sansa, but there is no reason for you and I to stay. I suggest you leave them to it: there is nothing below but lemon.
Sandor held Sansa and put a mouth on her tit, rolling the other in his hand. He sucked her nipple to a peak and switched. Sansa kissed the top of his head and pulled her fingers through his hair. "Kiss me," she said.
He tilted his head up and stuck his tongue in her mouth. She moaned, and he felt the vibration through her lips.
The full moon cast their shadows on the curtain, to the benefit of their witnesses, he knew. He drew his hands along the silver outline of her silhouette. Her perfume smelled like flowers and a hint of citrus, and when he crushed her to him she broke out in a sweat, reminding him of late summer rain. Sansa kissed his face and neck while her hands felt his shoulders, arms and chest, fluttering against him like a downed bird's wings against the grass.
Her hands went lower and she put both of them around his shaft. "You're so hard," she said. He grunted and pushed towards her. Her delicate hands felt good and he wanted her to touch his full length. She gripped him tighter when he did that, as though to stop him, and slid her hands from base to tip, rolled her thumb over it, and slid back down again. A drop appeared at the end of it and Sansa gasped a little, "Oh!", so Sandor took her face in his hands and guided her to look at him. "Kiss me," he said.
Sansa hesitated, her mouth still open, then leaned forward and put just the head in her mouth. He loved to kiss her, but her mouth felt so much better on his cock. He hadn't really expected her to put her lips around him. He held her jaw as her tongue worked against him and pushed forward experimentally another inch.
She let go of him and put her hands on the protrusion of his pelvic bone. He stopped for a moment, but then pushed her head down more. There was too much in her mouth for her tongue to move around and she started to suck. He groaned and thrust back and forth minutely. Her fingers dug into his hips and she looked up at him, pleading not to go any farther.
He pulled those few sweet inches out of her mouth. Sansa looked dazed. He had to know if she was ready. He put his calloused hand between her legs, where no man should have touched before, though he had had her many times. She was wet.
He restrained the need to take her then and found himself petting her instead, mesmerized by her softness. He'd never had her bare before. He touched all the places where there was usually a red-brown pelt and smeared her juices around, so that the outside of her was as slick as the inside. Sansa shuddered when he worked a finger inside of her and soon the palm of his hand was soaking wet.
"Oh, please. Oh please oh please oh please," she whined. He didn't stop until she bucked against the heel of his hand, gasping and slurring something or another. Then she was a limp doll in his arms and he gathered the pillows on the bed into a pile and lay her over them.
He'd been gentle with Sansa before, but not tonight. He'd made up his mind to take her the way he wanted to and show her how good it could be. He got ready to mount her from behind, the way a dog takes a bitch.
Sansa gave the pillows a squeeze and looked over her shoulder at him, curious. She had never done it like this.
"Is it . . . okay?" she asked in her sing-song voice. It wasn't okay; for highborn lords and ladies, it was actually quite improper.
"Don't worry about it. You'll like it."
Sansa turned back to the window, her chin resting on a pillow.
The sight of her heart-shaped ass got him stiff as a rock. That and that she was wet and open made for an easy entry. He put his hands around her waist-it was so tiny he could almost reach all the way around-and slid in halfway. He threw his head back and roared with pleasure from the feeling of her hot, young pussy taking him into her. Sansa hurriedly widened her legs as he pulled her onto him to take the rest of it, all the way until her stretched lips kissed its base.
He rode her hard as he never would have done if she were a virgin. The tops of his thighs slapped the backs of hers and his hands, roaming over her, were tempted to cuff her to that rhythm. He was so large where she was so small that it looked like an arm fisting her. He gave her a few slow thrusts and was amazed that he had no trouble filling her to the brim each time; she stretched so well. He gave it to her faster. Sansa threw her arms out and grasped the sheet. Her moans were lost in the pillows she cried facedown into, but he couldn't control his own throaty panting, huffing and growling as he fucked her. He had to stop.
And so should you, stop reading!
"No," Sansa got up on her arms. It gave her some distance from the pillows he'd been plowing her into. "No," she whispered again, "Don't stop."
His eyes were on the tight, quivering pinkness pouting around the head of his shaft. He wasn't going to last like this so he pulled out into the cold night air.
"No," she said again, more insistent. "Why?"
He laid his hands on her lightly and leaned over her, nuzzling the side of his face against hers, playing the gentle lover. "You may not be a maiden, Sansa, but if we keep on like this . . ." he kissed her on the cheek, all the fight and fury from a moment ago suppressed, and said, "I'll fuck you bloody."
"Aah!" Sansa gasped. Her bobbing hips had finally found him with her entrance. It was plain that she was tired of his teasing. She impaled herself on him fully and paused for a moment's shudder. "I'll fuck you bloody back!"
And she did, like he knew she would. She pressed back against him at the same frenzied pace they'd set before. He reached around to hold her swinging breasts and her nipples grazed over his palms to that rhythm.
"Oh! Oh! Oh! Don't. Stop. Don't." Sansa curled her feet around his calves and slammed herself down on him again and again. It was almost more than he could take. he ran his fingers up underneath her hair, bunched them in a fist near her scalp.
"Sandor!" Sansa threw her head back, her shoulders came with it and then she rolled up on her knees. "Sandor, oh, Sandor, Gods, please, bloody fu-!"
He slammed her face down onto the bed. The rest of her curses turned to moans, muffled by the pillows. It would not do for a lady as refined as Sansa Stark to be heard shouting obscenities on her wedding night.
Sansa shoved face down with her back arched and her ass raised in the air was an angle that hid nothing; he watched her muscles tense and puck and saw her come on him . . . that was more than he could take, and he came. His release came inside of her, claiming her fully for the first time. She milked him, her cunt squeezing it out of him as she screamed into the pillows. He whimpered her name between panting breaths. A sense of euphoria overtook him as he felt her warmth around him even now that he was spent, and as he started to pull out he found that he was still hard. He dove back in again a final time, to give her the spasm that softened him.
That was their first night together as husband and wife. From now on they didn't have to hide their feelings for each other or uncouple during a sexual tryst. Sandor loved her so much, and coated her insides with so much come, it was impossible that she would not become pregnant. And their baby was this fan-fiction.