Author's Note: Heeeeeeeeeeeeeyyyy...

I know it's been a while since the last time I updated this fic, but I promise you, I have not nor will I ever give up on it.

I'm absolutely feral over season 8 of the show, as I'm sure most of you are. The writing was absolutely terrible, and every single character was completely ruined in the span of only four episodes. I am not including the first two episodes, as those were written by not D(umb) & D(umber) and those episodes were still semi-decent. Really. I'm especially disappointed with what they did with Sansa. I can't even enjoy her ending of being Queen in the North, an ending that I've always wanted for her, because they butchered her character so bad that I don't even believe show!Sansa deserved that ending.

Anyways, I could go on and on and on about how much I hate season 8 and point out every single flaw, but y'all aren't here for that. Y'all are here for some juicy SanSan, and I'm here to deliver.

Please, enjoy the chapter, and feel free to comment if you like or dislike something.

Chapter 7: The Phoenix

Sansa prowls within the bushes. Watching. Waiting.

The sun is just beginning to rise, helping in combating the thick fog and painting it a golden copper. A doe is just beyond in the fog filled meadow, grazing, with her young fawn prancing around her. Slaver drips from Sansa's mouth, imagining how sweet the hind's meat would be if she were to tear into it with her teeth.

She holds back her predator's instincts, though her paws itch to pounce on the unsuspecting prey. The human part of her soul feels a certain tenderness for the baby deer, and she would surely hate to leave a babe without its mother. She knows what that's like, to feel as though there is a void in your heart which can never be filled. The love of a mother is unlike any other kind of love in the world and irreplaceable.

She moves on, growling low at the back of her throat. She will find some other food source. Allayi had assured her that these woods were teeming with fresh game, surely there must be a buck or two somewhere. And perhaps I'll be able to find Allayi and Gared. The pair left the grove a few days ago to hunt for food, but they haven't come back yet, and Sansa is worried about them.

Every night, she dreams of becoming one with her wolf, Nyx, and she uses this time to search. Though, she isn't sure that any of this is real. It feels real. The earth beneath her is as solid as when she's awake. When the wolf kills, she can taste the blood on her tongue. Sometimes the coppery taste will come to her mouth even when she's not in Nyx. The first time it happened, Sansa'd been horrified. She put her fingers to her lips, but when she pulled back there was nothing there.

Sansa stops in a small clearing, her sight catching the animal prints embedded in the soil. She sniffs. They're fresh. Her senses are heightened in this state. She thinks that it might be bleeding into her conscious life too. She can smell her brethren around her, even if they're miles away. She can hear things that are nowhere near her. She knows they are far away with the wolf.

This being…this wonderful creature…She has to be bonded to me. Their hearts beat in time with each other. At first, Sansa hadn't noticed it. After the sixth night of having the wolf dreams, she started seeing a change within herself. Everything is different now. She senses the world around her with an almost perfect clarity, and she knows her soul has been made whole. A part of her is terrified, though.

What does this all mean? She wonders, but she may never get an answer to this question.

She hears the buck before she sees it. A low purr alerts her, and she moves quickly through the shadows, taking care to keep herself camouflaged by the foliage around her. She watches the buck through a gap in the leaves, eyes glowing blue through the dark. The unwary buck is walking down a rocky path, his antlers a huge thorny crown atop his head. Sansa readies her body, crouching low to the ground. She will need to be fast and quiet, lest she risk getting gored.

She springs on the buck, a startled shriek just barely escaping his throat before she snaps her jaws around his neck. She lands and brings the buck down with her, mouth tightening around his neck until she feels a sickening crunch against her teeth and the deer is moving no more. The blood touches her tongue, warm and thick, and she realizes just how ravenously famished she is. She tears into the buck's flesh, red coating her muzzle.

By the time her belly is full there's only bones left. She sniffs the ground and air, looking for any signs of a scent. There is something… It smells of a spicy musk, exactly like Allayi she realizes. She follows it, the scent getting stronger and stronger the longer she does. As she gets closer to its source, she hears people talking, a loot being played, the clash of steel on steel. Sansa creeps closer, making sure she's well hidden.

She quickly realizes that it's an outlaw group upon seeing the camp. There aren't many of them, only about seven or eight, at least that she can see. She has a gut feeling that there are more inside the small tent set up at the center. Her eyes scan her surroundings, her gaze finding Allayi and Gared near the outer part of the camp. Allayi is tied up against a tree, her mouth and neck caked in dried blood, eyes filled with venom. Gared is with her, also bound, but he is cleaner. Sansa sees two men in chainmail guarding them, their backs turned.

Sansa wonders if she'd be able to chew through the ropes while the guards aren't looking, but then Allayi speaks, drawing the guards' attention, "You, beardless man."

Both men turn to her. "The name's Dick," the beardless man, Dick, says.

"Dick," Allayi clarifies, smirking and enunciating the word. "You lonely? I can do the pleasuring for you."

"Don't you even try it, whore," the other guard says, "If it weren't for Lady Stoneheart and the Northman here, we'd kill you for what you did to Lem."

"I am changed woman," Allayi replies, feigning innocence. "Your light lord has made me see the wrongs of my ways." As best she can while being bound, she spreads her legs, touching herself between them. "Don't you want to touch?" She lets out a throaty moan.

Dick looks at her a moment, his eyes darkening, before taking a step towards them. The other guard grabs Dick by the arm. "You can't be serious," he says, "You remember what she did to Lem. She tore his cock off with her teeth. You won't be Beardless Dick anymore when she's done with you, you'll be Cockless Dick."

Dick seems to be pulled back to sense, nodding to his partner before turning back to Allayi. "Sorry, m'lady. We can't release you 'til we find Queen Sansa."

They're looking for me. Allayi frowns, cursing in Dothraki. Gared raises a brow, whispering, "Did you honestly think that would work again?"

"At least, I try," she answers.

Sansa's ears perk at the sound of swords clashing, and she makes her way around the camp, trying to find its source. Two boys are practice fighting on the other side of the camp she sees. One is heavily muscled with blue eyes and thick black hair while the other is much shorter and skinny with short patchy brown hair and has a very familiar scent to Sansa. A one-eyed man wearing a rusted pothelm is watching them, shouting out instructions with every swing of their practice blades. Another man, a bard, is sitting against a tree stump, plucking away at his harp.

The bigger boy barrels into the smaller one with his shoulder, sending the small boy down in the dirt. The small boy's blade flies out of his hand, and the taller boy poises his blade's point at the smaller boy's neck, smirking. He offers his hand for the small boy to take.

The small boy glares up at him, smacking his hand away and grabbing back the sword. "That's not fair. You're so much bigger than me, how am I supposed to defeat you?" Sansa's ears twitch at the boy's- No…the girl's voice. It can't be… She sounds almost exactly like Arya.

"Life's not fair, Princess," the bard says, playing a few notes on his harp.

"You need to take advantage of your smallness, Your Grace," the one-eyed man says. "I heard it said the Imp killed many men during the Battle of the Blackwater, and he's even smaller than you. If he can fight and kill, then so can you."

They call her Princess… Sansa watches the fight unfold ahead of her.

The both of them exchange a few blows, their swords singing with every connection. The girl sees an opening and thrusts her sword into the boy's stomach, making him grunt and wince from the impact. "Good. Again," the one-eyed man says. The boy rubs at the sore place on his stomach, glaring at the girl. The boy goes back to his fighting stance, arcing his sword and slicing. The cut is just barely avoided by the girl, and she thrusts her sword into his stomach again.

They exchange blows again, but this time the boy thrusts for her shoulder. The girl tries to block the attack with her blade, but it is to no avail. The boy's sword scrapes over her own and meets its mark. She gasps, hand going up to hold the ache. The girl responds by immediately thrusting to his face, landing a glancing strike, but the boy slices his blade against the side of her head. "Hey!" the girl shouts.

"You struck me first, m'lady," the boy says.

"I'm not a Lady!" she exclaims.

"Sorry. You struck me first, Your Grace."

"I'm not a Princess, either!"

The girl lunges and her hit connects with the boy's collarbone. The boy responds by hitting her across the head with his blade again. She falls to the ground, her hand burying itself in her hair to massage the knot that is no doubt forming. She is about to say something, but then her grey eyes catch Sansa's within the bushes, and Sansa's heart swells.

Arya… It really is her. Alive.

Without thinking, Sansa leaps out from the bushes, tackling her little sister to the ground and starts licking her face. Sansa whines, for if she could cry, she would.

"Seven hells!" she hears the bard curse.

"Hey! Get off her, you monster!" the boy next to her yells, smacking her large body with his practice sword. The blows do nothing to hurt, the edges blunted for practicing.

After a few more hits from the boy, the blows stop. "Wait. Do you hear her? Princess?"

Arya is laughing beneath her as Sansa continues to assault her, trying to swat away her big sister's kisses. "Stop it! Stop- "Arya gasps and lets out more giggles, "- Stop! I can't breathe!" But Sansa does not relent. She'd thought Arya was dead or worse all this time. She should've known better. How could she forget how strong and stubborn her sister is? Of course, she would survive through everything this terrible world has put them through.

Finally, Sansa stops, staring down at her sister and sniffing. She looks so different. The last time Sansa saw her, Arya had long hair and definitely looked more a lady than she does now. If it weren't for her face, Sansa would've never known that this small skinny thing was Arya.

Arya's giggles die down as she stares up at Sansa, her hands reaching up to comb through Sansa's fur. Sansa leans into the touch, sighing when her sister starts scratching behind her ears. Arya laughs again, her other hand scratching beneath Sansa's chin. "Who's a good girl," Arya coos, pulling herself out from under Sansa and standing.

"Careful, Your Grace," the one-eyed man says, "The bitch could take your arm off."

"It's just a direwolf," Arya replies.

The bard chuckles. "Just a direwolf, the little Princess says."

Arya, it's me, Sansa thinks, meeting her sister's gaze. Arya's expression falters, and Sansa thinks that Arya can hear her. Sansa whines, trying to will her little sister to see, to feel her the same way that Sansa had felt her through Nymeria. Arya's eyes widen, her hands cupping Sansa's head. She thinks that she might see tears in Arya's eyes, but the girl quickly wipes them away.

"Sansa?" she asks, her voice watery. "Is it really you?"

Sansa leans into Arya's touch, nuzzling her snout against Arya's cheek. Arya laughs, wrapping her arms tightly around Sansa's neck. Sansa rests her head against Arya's shoulder, a happy sigh escaping her as she hugs her sister.

"Sansa…?" Sansa doesn't know how she's able to make out her name from the voice calling her, for it sounds like a croak. The sound is nerve rattling and completely broken, making Sansa's fur bristle. Everyone turns their attention towards this new person that's spoken up, and Arya moves aside to allow Sansa to see. Sansa's heart gets stuck in her throat.

At first, she doesn't think that the woman in front of her is really her mother, but when she sniffs, she catches a whiff of her mother's natural fragrance beneath the rancid smell of death. She hardly resembles the beautiful kind-eyed mother Sansa knew. Her skin is colored a sickly white, and there are scratch marks all on her cheeks, the scars making her appear as though she's crying black tears. Her once fiery auburn hair has turned white and brittle and parts of her scalp are showing. The most frightening part about the woman is the deep gash along her throat, still cut open and allowing all to see the muscle and bone hidden beneath the skin.

Sansa's heart breaks as the woman takes a stumbling step towards her, a chill running down her spine, but she will not turn and run. She is a Stark, Winterfell's daughter, and Queen in the North. She must remain strong. She mustn't be afraid. The woman stands in front of her, fingers entangling in Sansa's fur as she cups Sansa's large head. The woman's pale eyes connect with her blues. Sansa holds her breath, her soul laid bare before this woman, but she is not Sansa's mother, she realizes as she stares in the woman's eyes. There is barely anything left of the kind woman who would braid Sansa's hair and offer her comfort in times of sadness. Whoever this new woman is, she is not Catelyn Stark anymore. The woman lets out a gurgling cry before falling forward and wrapping her arms around Sansa's neck.

His little bird wakes with a start, bolting upright from where she sleeps. Nymeria startles, snapping her gaze to Sansa at the little bird's gasping. Sandor is at her side in an instant, taking her hand within his own, and cupping her cheek with his other.

"You're all right, little bird," he rasps, pressing his forehead against hers, "You're safe." Her eyes meet his, a fear clouding her ocean eyes. If he didn't know any better, he would think that she fears the ruin of his face, but her hand reaches up to run across the scarring of his cheekbone and his worries are immediately cast aside. Her lips press to his urgently, and her tongue forces its way in to collide with his. He traps her face in between his hands, obliging her, before he feels the wetness of tears underneath the pads of his thumb and pulls away. "It was only a nightmare," he says, trying to calm her.

"No, not a nightmare," she says quickly. And yet still fat tears roll down her cheeks, dripping over the rough skin atop his hands. He holds her until her sobbing stops and her shuddering subsides. Nymeria sighs, laying her head back down and going back to sleep. Sansa leans back against Nymeria's soft belly, taking his hands into her own. She takes in a deep breath, closes her eyes, and lets it out slowly. She opens her eyes, staring up at Sandor, but the storm is still there. "I think I'm losing my mind," she says, her voice coming out like a croak.

"You're not," he says. She's been through so much in these past months. She'd taken her first kills and almost died. They're lucky to even have a brief month of respite within this grove. Sandor glances around the area. The sunlight of morning peaks through the leaves of the tall trees shielding them from Westeros, making the grove have a sort of ethereal glow. He watches as wolves prowl around the outer edge of the clearing, through bushes, lazing by the water. The pool in the center is completely clean and pure, its depths untouched by contaminations. And in the middle of the pool sits an island, with a weirwood tree growing large and strong atop, its roots overtaking the bottom of the pool.

Sandor has never been the type to believe in any kind of magic or god, but even he can't deny that there is something unexplainable protecting this grove from the outside world. Maybe it's the wolves. Maybe it's the heart tree. Perhaps both of those things are connected. The weirwood's tranquil face stares at him, its gaze unjudging and unwavering. There's still so much of the world that he doesn't understand, that perhaps he may never understand.

His little bird startles again, glancing frantically around herself. "Did you hear that?" she asks, "It sounded like…" She trails off, and he feels her grip on him tighten.

"There's nothing there, Sansa," he reassures.

She shakes her head, looking back at him. Her eyes are wild, filled to the brim with anxiety. "No, I swear, I heard it." Her eyes become glassy with tears, and she lifts a hand to pinch the bridge of her nose, squeezing her eyes shut. "Why is this happening?" she whispers the last bit to herself, but Sandor still catches it.

"What's gotten into you?" he asks, pulling her attention back to him.

She pulls her hands out of his grasp, pulling herself up on shaky legs. He stands with her, holding her waist to keep her from falling, but she ignores him, her attention instead on Nymeria. She walks to the direwolf's head, the wolf waking and staring at Sansa. Sansa stares at the wolf, looking deeply into her golden eyes, searching. "I don't understand."

"What don't you understand?" he asks, firmer. He wants to calm her but coddling and comforting obviously isn't helping, and he's tired of his questions going unanswered.

Her gaze snaps to him, and she swallows. She looks back to Nymeria briefly, lifting a hand to stroke the direwolf's fur before looking back at him. "I've been having dreams lately."

"We've all been having dreams," he replies, trying to make her see reason.

"They're not just dreams," she snaps, incredulously. "I don't think so, at least…"

"They are," he implores. "I had a dream after you'd been poisoned. The Stranger came to me, said he would have you and it was a lie, all of it." The Stranger also said that she would only find happiness in death. Looking at her now, her hair dreaded and untamed about her face, her eyes a dark reflection from what they used to be, she doesn't look very happy. She's alive, though. The world's chewed her up and spit her out and still she persists, rising to any challenge that comes. She will always be his little bird, but she is a direwolf in blood and spirit, he realizes. Joffrey, Walder Frey, Cersei… Her father's execution, the slaughter at the Twins, and all the months, present and past, that they've been on the run… She's survived all of it because of her strength, and she will grow fiercer still from it all.

However, strength does not always make one happy. It could, Sandor knows. He's glad of his strength in every battle he's ever faced. He's thankful every time his strength allows him to protect Sansa. But Sansa does not take joy from her strength, physical or otherwise. He wishes she could. Her family is what she wants, and perhaps that's why the Stranger told him that only through death could she find happiness. All of her family is dead or gone, save for two: Jon Snow, a bastard half-brother whom Sansa is not close with, and Lysa Arryn, an aunt whom she's never met.

"The Stranger will have us all in the end," Sansa says, pulling him out of his thoughts. She looks behind him towards the heart tree, walking past him and stopping at the water's edge. "I dreamed I was Nyx again. I've been looking for Allayi and Gared."

He sighs. Allayi and Gared left them to hunt for food a while ago. Their stores have run almost completely dry, and no prey ever comes to the grove. They could not risk leaving the grove as Sansa still needs rest and recovery, so Allayi and Gared volunteered to go look. They have yet to return, but Sandor is almost positive that they're dead or gone.

"We should leave while we can, little bird," he says, "We're surrounded by enemies. The sooner we get you somewhere safe, the better."

She bristles at the suggestion. "I will not leave Allayi and Gared behind."

"It's been too long since they've been gone."

She turns back to him, her gaze full of fire. "They're not gone, I saw them, and I saw Arya and mother too."

"How did you see them? In your dreams?"

"They're not dreams, I know that they're real." She takes a breath, sighing. She looks to the ground. "Listen, all of Robb's men and his enemies used to believe that he'd become a direwolf in the night and attack Lannister soldiers. What if that was half true?" He shakes his head in disbelief. She quickly adds, "What if he went into Grey Wind at night? Old Nan used to tell us stories about the wargs who could enter the minds of animals. What if they weren't just stories?"

"They were, little bird."

"You think I'm mad," she says. She looks at him, eyes filling with hurt, and his stomach lurches. Her brows furrow, and she turns back to look over the water, crossing her arms over her midriff. "Maybe I am…" she whispers, trailing off. "I was certainly mad when I murdered those men in the inn."

"Are you caught up on that?" He supposes he should've expected something like this happening. Killing and war leaves a dangerous mark on one's psyche. Even he still sometimes has nightmares of being on the battlefield, overrun by enemies. Sometimes the people he cuts down have the faces of familiar souls from a life Sandor wants to forget. "You were delivering a queen's justice, Sansa. You need to learn to close your heart to it. The most important thing is survival, and you need to remind yourself that these same men were rejoicing what happened at the Twins, and they would've reveled in your demise had they killed you too." He hears a sob from her, and his heart sinks. My sweet little bird… He approaches her, laying his hands on her shoulders and kissing the crown of her head. "Don't waste your tears on them. They don't deserve it, and they would have never shed a single tear for you."

She wipes her arm across her cheeks, quickly drying her eyes. She gazes longingly across the water, stare meeting the weirwood's. She lifts a hand to her sapphire brooch, unfastening it in one swift motion and shrugging her cloak off her shoulders. "What are you doing?" he asks, brows furrowing as the cloak pools at her feet.

"Taking a swim. I need to clear my head," she says, reaching behind herself and pulling at the laces on the back of her dress. She faces him, cheeks flushing as she stares up at him beneath her lashes. "Care to join me?"

A spark of arousal shoots through him at her request, settling at his groin. He wants to join her, so badly. His fingers and tongue ache to touch and kiss her skin, and he craves so terribly to bury himself into her and be consumed by her warmth. "I can't," he says reluctantly.

"You can," she replies, taking a step closer to him. "I miss you, Sandor. You've barely touched me since I confessed my love for you."

He steps back. Her aura is all consuming, and as much as he wants to drown in it, he can't allow himself the pleasure. "I can't give you the love you want, Sansa." He feels like crying, but he holds this feeling back. "I'm not worthy of your love."

Her brows furrow. "You are." She is just a breath away from him, her hands gently kissing his chest, her fingers bunching in the fabric of his tunic. "You are more worthy of my love than anyone in this world."

He shakes his head. "You're a queen, and I'm the second son of a lowborn House." He blinks back the tears in his eyes. "We should've never started this tryst between us. The lords of the North will talk, you know. They won't follow a queen who gives her maidenhead and heart to a Lannister dog."

"You're not a Lannister dog, you are Sandor Clegane, sworn shield to the Queen in the North," she growls. "I don't care what the lords in the North will say or anyone else for that matter. I am their queen and they will do as I command."

"Robb was their king and look what the Freys did to him. He was betrayed by the very same people that swore allegiance to him. Love was his undoing."

He watches the fury build in her eyes at the mention of her brother, and she swallows thickly. "Robb was betrayed because he broke the oath he made to the Freys. The Karstarks left him because he executed their lord. Robb's stupid decisions were his undoing, not love. Though that is no matter to me. They will still suffer for what they've done." Her gaze softens, as a hand reaches up to caress the burns on his face. "I have made no oaths to anyone. The Smalljon is dead, and so is Joffrey. I refuse to reduce myself to a pawn in this ridiculous game, I will not do it. You are my most loyal companion, and you are the reason the North even still has its true queen, and as long as you live, I will take no other lover but you, this I swear."

She tries to pull him down for a kiss, but he takes her shoulders in his grasp, holding her away from him. "The northern lords won't accept that."

"They'll have to, or else they'll defy their queen." Her brows furrow sadly as she stares up at him, the love radiating from her gaze scorching his heart. "Please, Sandor. What can I say to convince you? I love you, and you love me, I know that you do. Can't that be enough?" She lifts her other hand to his smooth cheek. "I am yours, and you are mine. We were made for each other. Please, Sandor, you fought for our love when I was betrothed to the Smalljon, and now we are free to love; fight for it now." She lifts herself up on her tiptoes, pressing her lips to his in the gentlest kiss he's ever received. She is so tender with him, her touch feather light against him, as though he might break, and he is breaking. As he deepens the kiss and wraps his arms around her waist, he feels the Valyrian steel walls around his heart collapse with a single snap of her fingers.

She separates from him far too soon, and she stares up at him, her eyes hooded and sparkling like dark sapphires. "I have made my decision, Sandor. My heart is yours, as it always has been. It's up to you whether or not you want to accept it."

She turns away from him, her fingers moving to her back to loosen the ties on her dress even more before slipping the fabric from her shoulders. Her shift and smallclothes join the dress, swiftly, and she approaches the waters edge. She delicately submerges her right foot first, testing the water, before her left foot follows suit. He watches her heatedly as she wades into the water, the water covering more of her as she goes deeper. She really is too good for him, far more than what he deserves.

Fuck it. He really shouldn't feed their feelings for each other anymore. He knows that love can only end in heartache. That's the way it always has been. However, he finds his hands moving of their own accord, pulling his tunic off and untying his breeches. This will end terribly for the both of them. Fate has never favored the good, and happiness never lasts. Nothing ever lasts. But for now, they will live and love until their dying breath. To the seven hells with the northern lords and anyone else who will come between them. Sansa is his queen, and he will always love her, and if it is what she wants he will drown her in his love.

Before he knows it, Sandor's stripped himself of all his clothing, and he's wading in the water after her. He watches her as she makes her way to the island, her gaze never leaving the eyes of the heart tree. Her fiery hair floats around her, making her look like a phoenix about to take flight. He stops behind her, the water not even reaching waist height on him, and she turns to face him. He drowns in her eyes, reaching a hand up to cup her cheek. She leans into his touch turning her face so that she can kiss his wrist.

His other hand grips her waist, and he bends down to kiss her deeply, pouring all of his love and passion for her into the act. Her hands rest on his chest, fingernails scraping against his skin and tangling in his chest hair. Go on ahead, rip my heart out, it's yours. One of her hands moves down to grip his waist, and he groans when she goes lower and strokes his growing hardness. His hands go lower as well, gripping her ass within his palms and massaging the soft plump flesh.

He lifts her in one smooth motion, and she gasps as he sets her on a large flat rock hanging off the edge of the island. He pulls himself up next, crawling towards her and reuniting their lips and tongues. He pushes her back until she is laying flat. He traps her bottom lip between his teeth, nibbling and sucking before separating from her. She whines at the loss of him, and his lips move down to her neck to lave a bruising kiss on her throat. She moans when he takes her nipple into his mouth, her fingers tangling in his hair, and his free hand cups her other breast.

He does not stop at her breasts, though. Instead, he moves lower and lower, leaving open mouthed kisses on her burning skin as he goes. "Sandor," she whines, and it fuels him to hear his name mewled from her lips, fills him with determination. He lowers until his face is level with her cunt, and he shrugs her legs over his shoulders. Gods, he can smell the tanginess of her, and his mouth waters as he wraps an arm around her waist and opens her lips to him, her womanhood glistening with her slick.

He places a wet, open-mouthed kiss to her clit, and he groans when her taste touches his tongue. She cries out and bucks her hips against him at the sudden intense pleasure. His hands grip her hips, holding her down as he relentlessly fucks her with his tongue. She spews out complete absolute nonsense, moans crossed with swears crossed with words of affection and praises, and it only spurs him on. She weakly thrusts her hips to meet each stroke of his tongue, and he explores her, watching her face as he sucks and nibbles and flicks his tongue. Her fingers tighten in his hair, and he focuses his attention on her clit, watching her as her arousal grows. He feels her flutter against her tongue and then she orgasms suddenly. He keeps working his tongue against her, helping her ride out her orgasm.

Her sighs slowly subside as she comes down and her eyes flutter open. She looks down at him, reaching down to cup his face with both her hands, and gently pulling him towards her. He releases her clit, crawling up her body and kissing her deeply, giving her a taste of herself and the pleasure he brought her. Her legs wrap tightly around his waist, pulling him flush against her.

She pulls her lips from him, gazing up at him. "Fuck me," she says, her voice barely above a whisper, and he does not refuse her.

He grips himself in his hand, giving her one final look, a question in his eyes. She nods her consent, and that is all the permission he needs. He carefully massages her lower lips with the head of his cock, her juices coating him. He enters her slowly, watching her, and she is unlike anything he's ever felt. She winces, and he almost pulls out of her, not wanting to hurt her, but her legs and arms are locked tightly around him. She will not allow him to escape so easily.

He groans when he's fully sheathed within her, burying his face in the junction between her neck and shoulder blade to muffle his moan. She feels so good, so warm and wet and wanting. He pulls out of her slowly, not even making it halfway before he thrusts back into her. She moans in his ear, and he lifts his face so that he can watch her as he fucks her, increasing his pace. His cock is slick with her release, and she feels so insanely good. In this moment, nothing matters except for the woman underneath him. There is no war, no Cersei and Joffrey, no enemies chasing them through the country, just Sandor and Sansa, joined in the most intimate of ways.

His heart feels so intensely full. This must be what true happiness feels like. We were made for each other, Sansa had said, and she was right. They fit together perfectly, two halves of one whole. Damn him, for ever questioning her. He will never do it again.

Her nails dig into his back, leaving red marks in their wake, as he pounds her. He feels her walls tightening around him and her pupils have grown so large that there is almost no blue left; she's about to come. He slides a hand down her stomach and rolls her clit beneath the pad of his finger. "Come for me, little bird," Sandor rasps, his voice hoarse with pleasure, and she does. Her body goes rigid and taut as her second orgasm overtakes her. He follows soon after, not even having enough time to pull out of her, but he does not regret, only presses himself deeper within her. "I love you," he growls with every thrust, and she holds her to him, pressing tender kisses to his burnt flesh as he rides out his orgasm.

He takes her many times after that, desperate to make her feel all of his love. Not that there is much to do in this grove besides. For two days more, they wait for Allayi, Gared, and Nyx to return. Sandor sighs as he adds another log to the fire. We're just wasting time, he thinks, though he does not voice his disquiet. His little bird is smart. Eventually, she will realize that the pair is never coming back to them, but he does not mind waiting on her wolf. Wolves are not much different than dogs, he thinks, and direwolves are very capable. She will find her way back to them.

Nymeria's ears perk and then her head lifts, looking out towards the entrance to the grove. Sansa startles as well, and Sandor reacts quickly, standing and unsheathing his sword. Sansa stands as well, touching her fingertips to the flat of Sandor's blade. "Wait," she whispers, not turning her gaze in the slightest.

He holds his breath, not lowering his blade as he watches the darkness. Soft golden eyes glow as Nyx enters the light of the fire, and Sansa lets out a breath. She approaches her wolf, wrapping her arms around Nyx's neck.

"Sansa?"

His eyes widen at the unfamiliar voice, raising his blade, but he does not expect the girl that emerges from the darkness. "You've got to be shitting me," he mutters beneath his breath. He looks to the little bird next to him, watches as her mouth falls open and her chest rises and falls rapidly as she breathes.

"Arya?"