Sansa had spent the day as the Lady of Winterfell, presiding over the audience with commons and petitioners in the Great Hall in her lord brother Rickon's absence. When the last had gone away satisfied and the audience was ended, she noticed many of the commons and servants crowding out the doors and hurrying towards the keep. From over the inner wall, she could hear a great commotion in the yard. Perplexed and concerned, she followed to discover the cause.

At the center of a rowdy circle of boys and men-at-arms, she saw her husband, dressed in his mail and his helm and sparring. After he concluded his midday instruction with the young boys of Winterfell, he would frequently take on one of the braver challengers from the garrison. It had been his custom since he had first trained Rickon Stark as a boy, along with some of the many orphans they had sheltered. The Northmen had been suspicious of the former Hound and some had sought in vain to best him at single combat in the practice yard, though they fought alongside him in their true battles outside the walls. Many thought his position as a commander untenable, even his very presence at Winterfell chaffed them; a situation exacerbated by the unshakeable loyalty and, some had whispered, the affection between the former Lannister dog and their lady. Such feelings had long been forgotten after Sandor had earned the trust and loyalty of the Northmen in their sorties against the last of the Bolton and Frey forces, and later against the Others during the longest winter. But after so many years the tradition remained: once Sandor finished with his pupils, his eyes would sweep the crowd of men assembled and he would don his helm if any chanced to step forward.

However he was not taking on one challenger this midday; he was battling three.

Sansa was startled at first to see him wielding his sword on all sides as the men came at him but then her heart pounded more in excitement than fear to see him fend off all their blows and return them with ferocity, yelling savagely as he swung his sword and grunting as steel struck steel with lightning speed and brute force. Despite his untamed show of strength, he displayed surprising agility for his great size, even a powerful grace in his turns and passes. Sansa felt herself captivated and unable to look away, and admired his magnificent prowess and form.

She had seen him fight before of course, but it had been many years since she had witnessed such a show of fierce mastery. She remembered his long-ago vow to protect her, to keep her safe, even at cost to his own life: it had not been given lightly and she knew how many times he had been called to defend her and her family's claim, to fight for the North. She had been humbled and grateful, and she had loved him for it, and for so much more. She felt her heart fill now and then her face flush.

My lord, my non-ser.

The cheering and shouts grew louder as Sandor disarmed one of his opponents and then the other before the last yielded with some alarm as he saw Sandor turn on him headlong with a roaring bellow. The shouts from the young boys and men were deafening and there were many hearty slaps on the back and handshakes. Sansa saw his squire step forward to take his sword as others helped the two defeated men up from the dirt. She approached him as he removed his helm.

"My lady," he addressed her, exhaling heavily.

"My lord…" she began with a gentle smile.

"I didn't kill anyone," he remarked gruffly, "as you requested."

"No, my lord," she put her hand gently on his gauntleted hand and held his gaze as she spoke warmly, "and you were splendid."

He looked her over now and bowed his head to her compliment. He took a step closer and bent down to speak softly to her.

"A cup of wine together before we dress for the hall, my lady?"

Sansa blushed, and bit her lip as she nodded.

….

They came together as soon as he closed their chamber door behind them, their hands searching and their mouths meeting hungrily. Sansa nearly tore at her husband's mail as he panted with laughter and desire.

"I see my exertions were only just beginning," he rasped mockingly. "It seems you will be the one to defeat me, little bird."

"It's not your sword I am desirous to have you wield, my lord," she challenged slyly, "nor do I wish for you to fight me off."

Sandor threw back his head and roared. "You're as randy as a wench with a stable boy. Very well, I yield: come ride me, girl. I may even beg mercy."

With that he slung his arm under her bottom and lifted her easily. We walked to the bed where he turned and fell on his back, bringing her down on top of him. Sansa reached under her skirts to slip off her smallclothes before straddling him and pulling at the laces of his breeches as Sandor struggled to pull his clinging, sweat-drenched tunic over his head.

"Fuck, girl, I'm stuck," his muffled voice came from under his tunic. "Stop that and help me…gods!"

With one sweet, slow movement she had lowered herself onto his hard member, gasping as she threw her head back in ecstasy. She breathed deeply and opened her eyes again as she leaned forward, running her hands over his heavily muscled abdomen and chest before helping him off with his tunic. As soon as he was free, Sandor sat up to take her in his arms. She could feel both their hearts pounding.

"You're shameless, little bird," he rasped hoarsely, his lips brushing hers.

"Hm," she breathed as she began to rock her hips slowly. "Lie back now, my love: you've yielded," she bit his lower lip and dragged her teeth away, "but know that I will show you no mercy."

He lay back, gazing up at her with heavy-lidded eyes as she raised and lowered herself on him languidly. Sandor loved to watch her when they lay together, not just because he loved having her but because he knew that only he would ever see this side of her, the sensual, near-wanton fire beneath her measured words and gentle courtesies. Only he would ever hear such sly teasing in her soft voice.

A deep rumbling grunt of pleasure came from his throat as he saw her blue eyes darken with desire and her full pink lips tremble with heavy breaths. He thought back to how delicate she had been when they were newly lovers, even though she had wanted to lay with him. Her smiles were shy, her eyes downcast and her kisses and her touch were light and tentative. He had held himself back, he had not wanted to frighten or harm her and he tried to understand her uncertainly with the intimacies they were sharing. But he wanted her to feel what he felt, to feel the depth of the passion he was trying to keep under control, though it had threatened to consume him.

Finally he had resorted to making her laugh. He had whined like a puppy in the soft shell of her ears, panted like a hound over her warm neck and growled between her teats, making her squirm and sputter with giggles. Enraptured by even this small abandon on her part he had trailed hot kisses on her belly and thighs until he felt her writhe and heard her breath come in shivery pants. When he looked up he saw her eyes were closed and so he settled himself on her and gently pushed her hair back from her flushed face.

When she opened her eyes, he saw their black centers widen suddenly and their deep blue darken like a night sky.

"Do you know what dogs do to wolves?" he had murmured.

She had wrapped her supple arms and legs around him surely and caressingly, naked hunger in her face and her shyness forgotten, and whispered her reply close to his lips: "Yes."

Now she could have him on his back, teasing him and making him laugh and showing him what wolves could do to dogs. He watched her eyelids flutter now and her breath come ragged as she moved faster, reveling in her pleasure and his. He grit his teeth and felt his peak nearing and so he reached to touch her face and she leaned over close to him, her eyes never leaving his: those beautiful Tully blue eyes, an she smiled dreamily as he raised his head nearer.

"Sing for me," he rasped low, "little bird."