Sansa reached down and slid her hand around Sandor's shaft, squeezing it experimentally. Ramsay had never let her do it, always preferring to push and shove her into position until he could enter her. To finally touch a man like this was a revelation. It felt like hot silk over a core of Valyrian steel, and shocked her with its heaviness. The thin sleeve of soft, wrinkled skin around the tip had retracted partially now, exposing the plummy head, and a pearl of clear liquid had welled up in its tiny eye.

Sandor sucked in a breath. "Stroke it."

She did. Her fingers couldn't close all the way around, but she added a twist to her stroke in order to touch all the skin, running her palm over the head at the top of the stroke. Apparently that was a wise choice because his head rocked back into the pillow as his hips thrust up into her grip. "Sansa. Fuck, your hand is so soft."

The beaded liquid added a bit of lubrication, but too soon her palm started dragging over that hot, smooth skin. Quickly she licked her hand, intending to wet it. The taste of salt, musk, and something more primal hit her tongue, unlike anything she'd ever tasted before.

She decided she liked it. She licked once more, depositing more saliva on her palm, then started stroking him again. He reached up and curled his fingers around the bottom of the headboard, sinew standing out in his chest and arms. "You're killing me with pleasure, little bird."

She liked this. "You know what they say about sauce for the goose. I'm simply returning the favor."

And that gave her a delightfully naughty idea—there was a way they could both enjoy this. She hitched forward, far enough so that his shaft now rested against her mound, and rose up to rub against it. Her intimate flesh parted and the tiny bit that had brought her so much pleasure burst to life again as it rubbed against his shaft.

His cock. His thick, hot cock. The coarse words added an illicit spice to the act. She rubbed harder, rocking back and forth. Heat began to build between her thighs again, and she could feel herself growing wetter, slicker against that lovely hard cock in her hand.

Suddenly his hands snaked down and clamped on her thighs, stopping her in mid-rock. "I'm close," he said harshly, face flushed under his beard. The pale scar stood out against it like candlelight on wine. "You can bring me off like this if you want."

She considered. She was fairly sure that she could reach her peak as well this way, although he seemed much closer than she was. Or—

Biting her lip, she rose up higher, lifting herself over him. Guided by her hand, his cockhead slid against her now-slippery flesh, bumping into the entrance to her body. My quim. Marriage was turning out to be far more educational than she'd imagined.

Sandor's eyes had widened at her movement, in surprise or hope she couldn't tell. "It's your choice, my lady," he panted.

It was. And she was. That was what made this so wonderful.

She began to ease down onto him. Now she truly appreciated his offer to put her on top—it was effort, relaxing around the large shaft pushing into her. She had to stop every few seconds or so, let her inner walls get used to the stretch. There was pain as well, she couldn't deny that, but she knew instinctively that it was a good pain, the kind that would go away once the pleasure began. Her own wetness from what he'd done with his mouth helped, slicking the way.

She was halfway down when he let out a loud groan. "Fuck, you're so tight."

"Is that good?" she said, concentrating.

"Yes. Yes yes yes yessssssss—"

She couldn't help laughing at the look that rolled over his face, that expression of silly, stunned male delight. The laugh did something to her innards and she slid the rest of the way down, feeling him bump against something deep inside her. It felt incredibly strange, to be stuffed so full like this.

But something about it was incredibly good, as well. "What do I do now?" she asked.

He lifted his head, grinning at her. "Ride me, my lady. Use me as your noble fucking steed."

She laughed again, which caused him to groan happily, and rose up again. This time the slide down was easier, and she could feel prickles of pleasure at the friction.

After some experimentation she fell into a rhythm, gliding up and down. It felt good, now, and she loved the way Sandor's face contracted in lustful glee every time she sank onto him. But she didn't feel the same thrill she had when his mouth had been on her. That had been glorious.

She slowed. "Huh."

Some of the haze cleared from his eyes. "What's wrong? Am I hurting you?"

"No. It feels good. But it was better with your mouth."

He scowled. For a moment she thought she'd made him angry, but then his expression cleared. "He said—oh, right."

Before she could ask who he was, Sandor licked his thumb and brought it to the junction of their body, stroking it over her wet flesh. "Fuck, where is it?" he mumbled.

She discovered what he was hunting for when he brushed over that lovely spot. "There!"

"Oh, good." His thumb started rolling in a slow circle over the spot, sending shockwaves of pleasure through her. Moaning, she started riding him again, and now the friction built in addition to what he was doing to her, pushing her into that realm of sensual joy. It felt as if a cord between her hips was tightening, growing more and more taut until she could play a song of happiness on it, the thrumming note rising and rising—

She screamed when it broke, ecstasy radiating through her as her inner muscles rippled and clenched around him. He howled her name in response, one hand like an iron bar on her hip and the other playing her like a lute as he thrust up hard, pouring into her.

It took what seemed like forever for her flesh to stop spasming. When it finally did she slumped over, bracing her hands on the thick muscles of his upper arms and trying to catch her breath. "Oh. Oh, my."

His grip eased, caressing her thigh now. "Are you all right?"

All right. That seemed so weak a description. She was elated, exhausted, and would ache like blazes in the morning. "Yes. Are you?"

He laughed, the low, contented sound of a satisfied man. "Oh, yes. I'm the happiest, luckiest bastard in the Seven Kingdoms right now."

Disengaging was a bit clumsy but he helped her through it, pulling her down into his arms afterwards. A trickle of fluid slid over her inner thighs and for a moment she wondered if she was bleeding. No, it's just his seed.

Bran's voice came to her: Your children, playing in the courtyard here at Winterfell. Very tall, with dark eyes. They looked to be fine warriors.

Did that mean she carried his child in her womb now? Or would he return once Daenerys sat on the Iron Throne and give her a child then? Did she dare ask Bran to look for her? Because if Sandor didn't come back from King's Landing…

No. Don't think about that now. Be happy with what you have now, the man in your arms. Tomorrow will come soon enough.

"Is it supposed to be like that?" she murmured.

"Like what?"

"So wonderful."

He tilted her head up to look at him, and she saw a soft, astounded joy in his eyes. Leaning down for a kiss, he whispered against her lips, "Yes. It's supposed to be like that, little bird."

_\*|*/_

The fire had grown low in the hearth once they finished cleaning up and crawled back under the warm covers. Sansa fit in his arms as if she'd been made for them.

"I like your fur." She toyed with a thick curl on his chest. "You should have been a northerner. You're equipped for the weather up here."

"Well, I married a good northern lass eventually. Our boys will be set for the winter." He captured her hand as a thought occured to him. "Do you think I gave you a child tonight?"

She hesitated. "It's too early to tell."

Something about her response sounded off. He shifted to look at her directly. "What did Bran tell you?"

Lashes swept down over those blue Tully eyes, as effective as any weapon against his heart. "He saw my children playing in the courtyard at Winterfell. They were tall and dark-eyed, and they were good with weapons."

He settled back, strangely pleased. "Children. Then I make it back from King's Landing."

"Unless I'm carrying twins."

"Twins." Fuck me running. And he'd never planning on siring children at all, not even bastards. A sudden, intensely sweet image came to him, of Sansa in a rocking chair, nursing their child at her breast. Other children, some with brown hair and others with red, surrounded her until one broke away and dashed to him, demanding to be picked up with a bossy, "Dada!"

He could almost feel that small, happy weight in his arms. His children wouldn't be afraid of him. They wouldn't think twice about Dada's funny face, something they had seen since the day they were born. He would hold them close and protect them, just as he would do with their mother. They would all be loved, and they would be Starks, a whole pack of them, forming a united front against all enemies.

Assuming you make it back from King's Landing. "If I did give you a child," he broke off, clearing his throat, "or children, and I don't come back—"

Her arms tightened around him. "Don't say that."

That surprised him. You do care for me a little, don't you, little bird? He kissed her hair, breathing in her scent. "If you're with child and it's a boy, name him whatever you like, after your father or one of your brothers. But if it's a girl, I want you to name her Eleanor."

Sansa was silent for a moment. Probably wanted to name a girl after her mother. But this is important. "Was that your mother's name?"

He sighed. "My sister's."

"You—" She rose up a bit, staring at him. "You have a sister?"

"Had." A bleakness rose in his soul, pushing back the contentment of the night. "Eleanor was the youngest of us. She was a bonny little thing, sweet and kind, and she loved stories about knights and ladies—much like you did. You would have liked her." And Eleanor would have loved Sansa, he was certain of that. He could easily imagine his wife and his sister as the best of friends. "After Gregor burned me, she would sit by my bedside and sing to me, trying to comfort me."

She reached up and touched his cheek, fingertips on his scar. "She must have loved you very much."

"She did. And the singing even helped a bit. I think I was just happy that someone in my family gave a shit about me. But Gregor didn't like it. He'd come in and tell her to shut up, that he was tired of her screeching. She'd stop until he left, then pick up where she left off. I should have known what he'd do, but I was in so much pain…" His arms tightened around Sansa as the memories marched through his mind, each one black and cold. "I was still healing when she died. Father said it was an accident, that Eleanor had tripped and fallen down a flight of stairs. The maester said that her neck broke instantly." But he'd seen the small, self-satisfied smile on Gregor's face as a grieving Bryor Clegane told him that his little sister was gone forever. "I didn't believe them. They put her in the sept that night, and after everyone was in bed I crept in to see her. They had a cloth stretched over her and I lifted it up. Her gown was loose around the neck, and I saw the marks there—a blue oval blotch over the front of her throat, and four longer ones in the back." The bruises had been stark against her grey-white skin. Even a maester would have known what had happened, but his father had chosen to protect Gregor once again. "My murdering cunt of a brother strangled her with one hand, then threw her down the stairs, all because she tried to ease my pain."

"Oh, Sandor." The grief in Sansa's voice echoed his own. "I'm so sorry."

He could still remember being that scarred little boy staring down at the body of his baby sister, the coldness of the sept surrounding them and the even colder rage growing inside him. "That was when I made my pledge to the Stranger that I would kill Gregor, no matter how long it took. Father died a few years after that, on a hunting trip with Gregor. Another 'accident,' they said. Gregor became Lord Clegane, and took a wife. She died. Then he took another, and she died as well." His smile was bitter. "When he joined the Kingsguard, the title came to me, which didn't make him happy. I was the only member of my family who survived him. Now that I have you, and perhaps this pup here," he rested a hand on her belly, "I won't be able to rest until he's dead at my feet. I won't let him come after you or our children."

Her expression sharpened, blue eyes like sapphires behind the sheen of tears. "I won't try to stop you, much as I want to. Just promise me you'll kill him and come back to Winterfell. Don't leave me to raise your children alone."

His heart ached at the thought. "I can't—"

"Promise me, Sandor. As your wife and your lady, promise me you'll come back."

She'd used her Lady of Winterfell voice, impossible to disobey. He wanted to tell her the truth, that even this strange, grey-skinned version of Gregor was still fearsomely strong and deadly. That even if he managed to kill Gregor, he'd probably die as well. Before tonight, he would have been satisfied with that, tumbling headlong into one of the seven hells as punishment for all the sins he'd committed in his miserable life, as long as Gregor fell with him.

Now, though, he had something to live for. Which almost guarantees that you'll die in King's Landing, you twat. The Stranger knows what you owe him, and a new wife won't make him change his mind.

Still, perhaps the Mother would take pity on him for Sansa's sake. He took her hand and kissed it, holding his against his heart. "I promise, my lady. I'll return."

Her narrowed eyes said she didn't believe him, but she settled back into his arms. "I'll wait for you, then, and work on repairing Winterfell. The gods know there's more than enough to do here."

She was right; the amount of damage the keep had taken from the wight army and their thrashing dragon mascot had been massive. "Aye, you've got a lot on your plate at the moment. Rebuilding the keep, tending to your people, maintaining the food stores, keeping that bastard blacksmith out of Arya's bed—"

Sansa gasped. "What?"

"They're fucking, little bird. You can practically smell it on them. I'm guessing she sought him out just before the battle. And judging from the way he stares at her whenever they're in the same room, he's hot for her as well." He'd witnessed the reunion of his former burden and her smith lord that morning in the Great Hall, how they'd staggered into each other's arms before she'd dragged him off to the baths. "Now that he's a lord, he can always marry her and make her a lady, I suppose." He smirked. "I'd pay to watch that proposal. She'll knock him on his arse so fast he won't know what hit him."

Sansa groaned softly. "Now I have to worry about that, as well. If they're sharing a bed, they should be married—"

"I think that's out of your hands, my lady." He kissed her again. "Let your sister enjoy her time with Baratheon's bas—sorry, Lord Baratheon." He had a sudden mental image of Gendry Baratheon dressed up in his father's colors, staring in horror at a formal table setting at Storm's End. "There's still another battle ahead, and no guarantee that we'll win. Let them be happy while they can. Besides, what do you think your little wolf would do if you insisted she marry Baratheon?"

"Laugh in my face, and then move him into her rooms to spite me," Sansa grumbled. "You're right. I was thinking of her reputation, but it's not as if she ever wanted to be a lady in the first place. She's … Arya. If they want to, well—"

"Fuck," he said helpfully.

She poked him. "Then I won't say anything about it. Besides, she's the Hero of Winterfell. Heroes can make their own rules."

"Mm." It was a quality the Stark sisters shared, whether or not Sansa knew it. She had been meek and obedient once upon a time, but after surviving Joffrey, Littlefinger, and Bolton she had learned how to make her own rules, as well.

Nevertheless, a small part of him still grieved for the gentle maiden she had been. "I should have taken you with me the night of the Blackwater," he said quietly. "I'll always be sorry about that, Sansa. It would have saved you pain."

She pressed a kiss against his chest. "It's not your fault, Sandor. I made the choice to stay, remember? Besides, if you had returned me to my family, I would have died at the Red Wedding."

That never even occurred to him. His arms tightened around her. "I would have killed each and every fucking Frey myself," he growled.

"Arya saved you the trouble. I'm just grateful that you took care of her. If you hadn't put her on the path she needed to be on, the Night King would have won. We're all still alive, thanks to her." Her mouth quirked. "Although I still don't know why you saved her. You couldn't have been that desperate for the money."

At the time, he told himself that Arya Stark was a valuable hostage, a moneybag on two legs who would outfit him well for his escape to Essos. Now he could be honest. "I did it for you. You'd already lost so much of your family. I didn't want you to lose your only sister, as well." He snorted. "Mind you, I regretted it the first time she opened her mouth."

He could still picture Arya sitting rigidly against him as he hauled her back and forth across Westeros, trying to find any remnant of the Stark family willing to pay for her. Her cold glares and snotty comments, the flash of short-lived triumph as she tried to drive that pin of hers through his gut, his name on that damned list of hers. "I thought if I got her to the North, she'd find her way back to you eventually."

Sansa shifted, laying a hand on his chest so that she could prop her chin on it. "But Brienne found you. She told me so. You could have handed Arya over then and there."

He had no reason to believe Ser Brienne's story that she'd given Catelyn Stark a vow to protect her daughters, especially since the blonde bitch had the Imp's squire with her and was carrying that sword covered with Lannister gold. But that wasn't the only reason he'd battled the lady knight for Arya. Something had changed between the two of them on their travels, not a gentling so much as a solidifying. The way they fought Polliver and his men in that dirty little tavern, and a triumphant Arya riding out on her own horse while he gorged on chicken. Her watching as he dispatched the dying old man with a merciful heart strike, and her unhesitating imitation that killed the crazed biter who had attacked him. The little wolf bitch had somehow moved from hostage to companion to fellow killer when he wasn't looking, and if it hadn't been for that damned infected bite he would have kept her with him. And why not? By all the gods, I'm as much her father as Ned Stark ever was.

But that was too complicated to explain, especially when all he wanted to do was lie quietly with Sansa in his arms. "I suppose your sister had started growing on me. Like a fungus." He paused. "You don't have to tell her I said that. I don't want her putting me on her bloody list again."

She chuckled. "You're funny."

"Am I?" He couldn't remember the last time he'd thought anything was humorous. Apparently marriage was changing him already. "I like hearing you laugh."

"Good." She relaxed, a long, soft weight against him. "I like you, Sandor." It was a soft mumble, almost lost against his chest. But he still heard it.

And I love you, little bird. I always have. Perhaps I'll be brave enough to tell you that some day.

_\*|*/_

The soft glimmer through the curtains woke Sansa just after dawn. The huge, warm body in bed next to her startled her at first until she saw Sandor's head poking out of the furs, his breath a gentle rumble in the still air. Oh, yes. I'm a married woman again. Only this time I'm happy about it.

Her cheer lasted until she remembered Sandor telling her about his brother and sister, and his journey down to King's End to make sure Gregor Clegane could never threaten them again. She made a decision. After checking to make sure he was still asleep, she slid out of bed and donned her nightgown and a heavy robe.

Arya's room was down the hallway from hers, across from her childhood bedroom. She rapped softly on the heavy oak door, wondering what she was going to say if Gendry Baratheon was in Arya's bed. Forgive me, my lord, but I need to speak with my sister. Please, don't get up.

She didn't need to worry. Arya opened the door, already dressed, and Sansa could see over her shoulder that the bed was empty. "Morning," her sister said, leaning against the doorframe and folding her arms. "I take it last night went well?"

Much better than well. Did you know we have a spot between our legs that causes the most amazing pleasure? And Sandor looks like a Dornish statue when naked. Oh, and as for what's between his legs— She stomped down on the mad words dancing in her head. "Quite well, thank you."

Arya relaxed. "Good. I won't have to kill him, then."

"No, you won't. In fact, that's why I'm here. Can we talk?"

Arya stepped back, waving her in. She was about to ask her favor when she saw the bag on the bed. It was the same one that contained those gruesome faces Arya had brought back with her from Essos. "What are you doing?"

Arya stepped in front of the bag, blocking her view. "Packing. I'm leaving for King's Landing today."

That astonished her. "Why? Jon and Daenerys aren't leaving for days, and Gendry's here—"

She could have bit her tongue at the subtly stricken look on Arya's face. Her sister turned away, stuffing a tunic into the bag. "He asked me to marry him last night," she muttered over her shoulder. "I said no. He's a lord, now. He needs a proper lady to run Storm's End for him, someone like you. I can't do that. It's not who I am."

Declarations that she could, she could learn, Gendry loved her, crowded into Sansa's throat. But she wouldn't speak them. She could see her sister now for who she truly was. "No, you're not."

The smaller woman's shoulders relaxed. "You agree with me?"

"I do. You're not meant to be the great lady of a castle. Father was wrong. You're meant to be whatever you are now. A warrior. An assassin. A hero."

Arya turned, glowering. "I'm not a hero."

"I'm sorry, but that's one title you will have to learn to live with. You not only saved all of us, you saved all of mankind."

Arya didn't seem convinced by her words. She decided not to push, especially considering the huge favor she was about to ask. "But never mind that. If you're going to King's Landing, would you do something for me?"

A small smirk played over her sister's mouth. "Want me to pick up something you left behind?"

Joffrey's head might be nice. She could put it in a place of honor in the Great Hall. "Not exactly. Sandor's going there as well, but not to fight with the army. He's going to kill the Mountain." The words felt like knives in her heart. "I want you to travel with him."

Arya's thick, expressive eyebrows rose in shock. "You must be joking. Sansa, I left him to die—after I stole his silver."

"I know. I think that impressed him, to be honest." She could still hear the gruff fondness in his voice as he'd talked about Arya. Her new husband cared for his new sister-in-law far more than he cared to let on. "Will you do it?"

"What about Jon? I thought you wanted me to watch over him."

I'm sorry, Jon. But you've made your choice. Now I have to make mine. "Jon will have an army and two dragons to protect him. Sandor is alone. But if you travel together, you can guard each other's back." She tried to push down a pang of worry. "And I suspect he may need some help when he faces Gregor."

"That wouldn't surprise me. Sandor's good, damned good. But the Mountain is something else entirely, especially now." Arya went very still. "Still, we may be able to help each other. He's going there to kill the Mountain, and I'm going there to kill Cersei. Since those two are usually in the same room from what I've heard, we can kill two birds with one stone."

Sansa struggled to hide her own shock. "You're going to kill Cersei?"

That cold, composed expression came down over her sister's face, turning her into a stranger. "I'm the only one who can. Weak as they are, the dragon queen's army may not be able to break through her defenses. But Cersei won't be expecting me."

She wanted to object, but the horrible thing of it was, she could see the logic in it. Cersei Lannister would be expecting an invading army with dragons, or perhaps some clever assault planned by her brother. She'd never think to look twice at one small woman cowering in the background … until it was too late. "No, she won't." And there was absolutely nothing Sansa could do about it, either, except pray for Arya's success. "Will you travel with Sandor, then?"

Arya shoved a last shirt into the bag, buckling it shut. "I'm leaving this afternoon. I'm taking the Kingsroad as far as the Crossroads Inn, then I'll be using backroads. Tell him I'll meet him near Cerwyn, but I won't wait long."

"Thank you." She hesitated, then hugged her sister, hoping that whatever training Arya had received in Essos would be good enough to outwit what awaited her in King's Landing. "And good hunting."

A rare spark of appreciation lit Arya's grey eyes when they separated. "You're more of a wolf than I thought, Sansa."

She smiled. The lone wolf dies but the pack survives. "I've learned from the best."