Chapter 12

Sansa shifted slightly on the hard bench, her hands folded demurely in her lap. To her left, Rickon's head was bobbing as he fought to keep his eyes open. Beyond him sat Bran, solemn and still, his eyes fixed before him but with a glazed-over, far away quality. On her right was Sandor, who looked as bored and indifferent as one could possibly be. Her father sat at the end, hands clasped loosely and his head bent, gazing at the back of the pew in front of them. He seemed to be doing better, health-wise, but his first time back at church without her mother was clearly painful.

Septa Mordane sat primly next to Bran, reaching over every once in a while to poke Rickon awake. With a soft sigh, Sansa let her eyes wander over the church. The minister's voice droned on, and though normally Sansa would have sat in rapt attention, today her mind traveled elsewhere. She let her gaze drift from the pulpit to the high arches that joined the roof. Behind the pulpit was the choir box, and behind that a large cross set between two glass-stained windows. It was a simple but beautiful church, providing a calm and peaceful atmosphere. A refuge to those who were hurting because of the war. When they sang, the voices of the congregation filled the air and echoed, and Sansa was sure this was a little bit of what the angels must sound like.

She glanced out of the corner of her eye at Sandor again, biting back a grin at the expression on his face. He was not a church-goer, hadn't been since he was a boy, but Sansa had begged him to start attending. She wanted him to be on the best of terms with her father and the neighborhood; for them to see that he was accepted. As much as Sansa had been learning to not put too much stock into what people said about her, she couldn't stand to hear Sandor's name drug through the mud. She hoped that by association, their neighbors would end the gossiping once they saw all of them at church together.

Sandor's eye flicked to her, then slowly swept up and down her body. Sansa felt her cheeks redden, and she pretended to ignore him, adopting an innocent and unruffled air. She could feel him gazing at her though, the heat of his eyes boring into her skin. Giving away her composure, Sansa swallowed and peeked at him again. The corner of his mouth had curled up smugly, though he was no longer looking at her. Her gaze drifted down to his hands, which were sitting restlessly on his knees. Sandor wasn't a man to be still, and having to do so for so long made his fingers every so often twitch or tap against his leg. They were large and tanned and calloused, full of scars. They had killed and hurt people, held weapons of death and pain, but they could also be warm and gentle. It never failed to amaze her how such a rough, uncouth man could be so tender and even reverent with her.

His eye was on her again, watching her observe him, and she smoothed her skirts, feigning attention to the minister. But the smug curl of his mouth made her smile, and she felt Sandor shift in his seat so that his shoulder was brushing hers. The touch, however small, sent a million butterflies through her stomach. Soon, she thought, we won't have to be so…so proper and distant.

Their wedding was quickly approaching. In just few short weeks Sansa would Mrs. Clegane, and she and Sandor would leave Winterfell. It was incredible how much there was to be done for a wedding. Sansa had been busy from dawn until dusk arranging the details and her trousseau, something that should have been done with her mother. Sadness crept into her soul. Planning her wedding day without Catelyn seemed unhinged and Sansa felt so uncertain about some things. Mordane was helping her, grudgingly, but Sansa did not feel very inclined to confide in her Septa as she once had. Oh, if only Mother were here! She thought for the hundredth time.

There was so much she wanted to know about becoming a wife. Sansa had been trained, of course, how to run a household, manage servants, how to entertain, sew, even cook a little. All the aspects of a woman's expected role in marital life. But that couldn't be just it, could it? Sansa had seen for herself, growing up, how her mother took care of Ned. When she had ventured to ask Mordane about these matters, her Septa had recited, "The wifely duties are to look after the house, raise the children, manage the servants, and look after her husband, to see that all his needs are met and he is happy." Easier said than done. Sansa knew that was what she was supposed to do, but her concern was how to do it.

She was sure Sandor would help her. He seemed to know quite a lot about these things, though she wasn't sure how. Perhaps she should simply ask him what he expected of her as a wife. Sandor wasn't a very high maintenance man; surely he would not request too great a deal of her, at least early on. The thought was encouraging.

Sandor had been busy preparing the home they were to live at. He had found a nice spot of property, only about thirty minutes from Winterfell by carriage. The former owners were moving farther North and had sold it to him. He had acquired a nice group of servants, most of which were former slaves who had escaped to the North, looking for a new life. Sansa had met each one personally. Last week she had them meet her in the hall of the new house. "I want us all to be good friends," she said kindly, smiling. "If there is even the slightest thing that you need, please don't hesitate to ask me. I do so want this to be your home as much as it is mine." The place wasn't as large as Winterfell, but it was still lovely, simple, and Sansa fell in love with it immediately. The house was brick and pillared, with a grand dining and party room, and plenty of space for guests. Sandor planned to use the pastureland it was on to raise horses, wanting to breed Stranger before the horse got too old. There was not much to be done for the house itself except furnishings, which were being gradually moved in and expected to reach completion by the time they were back from their honeymoon. Any other needs could be acquired when they had returned.

The honeymoon was another subject of mystery to Sansa. When she asked Sandor about it, he had only winked at her and said, "That is for me to know, and for you to wonder about, little bird." A bundle of nerves was tightly coiled in her stomach thinking about the honeymoon, and especially about the wedding night. Yet another particular she wished she could ask her mother about. Mordane would likely faint if Sansa asked her. The knowledge that Sandor was…experienced did nothing to alleviate her worries.

The service ended, and the choir entered the box once more. The congregation stood, opening their Psalms-books, and Sansa smiled. She loved to sing, and at last she could stand. The pew had been extraordinarily uncomfortable this Sunday. Sandor, standing tall and stiff beside her, did not sing, but she knew he was listening to her.

There was a final prayer, and they were dismissed. Rickon and Bran, who still limped, squeezed out of the pew and disappeared into the crowd to search for their friends. A couple men approached Ned and shook his hand, speaking in low voices. Sandor's hand came to rest on the small of her back. "Let's escape before all those worried mamas come pecking where they aren't wanted," he rasped into her ear. Giggling, Sansa saw the group of women, most of whom were friends of her mother's, gathered together to launch an assault on Sansa, who, in their opinion, was utterly lost without a motherly figure to save her from the clutches of the Hound.

She let Sandor guide her out of the pew and down the aisle, where they were stopped frequently by members of the congregation, inquiring after their health, etc. For the most part, they were polite to Sandor, and he answered their questions with a civility that was mustered from every recess of patience and self-control the man contained. She could predict that soon the corner of his mouth would start twitching in annoyance. Eager to prevent the Hound from emerging and biting someone, Sansa quickly led them outside into the bright sunshine.

The little boys were running about the green, while the grownups gathered in clumps to talk or picked their way to the carriages. "Sansa!" she turned and saw Jeyne hurrying towards her. "Jeyne!" The two girls hugged, laughing. Jeyne had been living with some relatives up North since Sansa had left for Gettysburg, and she had only just returned the day before. "Oh, I'm so glad to see you! How are you?" Sansa stepped back, holding her friend's hands and admiring her dress. "I'm well, thank you. Sansa…I'm so sorry about your family." Jeyne came close and hugged her again. The knot tightened in her throat but Sansa forced a smile. "I'm just so glad to have my father back," she said as they pulled away. "And the boys are in good health. We had a letter from Arya, but nothing else has been heard. But how are you? Your family?" Jeyne rattled off about her visit and all that had happened, including the latest gossip. It felt good to be with her friend again. The other girls that Sansa had been companions with had either married, moved away, or refused to talk to her any more, now that she wasn't marrying a true gentleman.

"But enough about me!" Jeyne laughed. A twinkle came into her eye. "Is it really true that you are to be married? To Sandor Clegane, no less?" Sansa couldn't stop a smile from pulling at her mouth. "Yes! Just a few weeks from now. How did you hear?" "Oh, Sansa, the entire town has been talking of nothing else! My mother told me almost as soon as I arrived home yesterday. I hadn't even taken my bonnet off." Sansa studied her friend carefully. "And…what do you think of it?" Jeyne took her hands and squeazzed them. "I think, that if you are marrying him, Sansa, he must be quite something. He looks fierce, and I hear he has a most vicious reputation, but if you're happy…then I am happy for you, my dear." Sansa could have sat down and cried right there. Dear, blessed Jeyne! She was a breath of fresh air. "Let me see the ring!" Jeyne exclaimed. Sansa blushed and held her finger up.

It was a beautiful ring. Sandor had given it to her shortly after the conversation with her father. He had led her down to where the apple trees were, in a nice, sunny circle with flowers, and proposed, properly. Even though Sansa had known it was coming, she still felt breathless and giddy as he took her hands and asked her to marry him, repeating what he had said in Gettysburg before they fled. "Bugger the promise you made to me in Gettysburg," he had growled in that deep rasp. "Marry me because you want to." It wasn't a flowery, tender speech, but that was him, and Sansa found that she was not disappointed, really, that her childhood dreams of her proposal had become this, instead. She was too happy to care. His short sentences and straight-forward words might not have made a young girl swoon, but Sansa loved him more for them.

She accepted, and he gave her the ring. "It was my mother's," he said quietly as she admired it. "I had it sent up from my old home in the South. Had to keep it hidden else Gregor would have pawned it off by now." "It's lovely, Sandor, truly." The ring was a thin band of gold, with clustered diamonds rising from the sides to form an oval shape, and large, flat pearl nestled in the middle. It was dainty and fit perfectly. Then he wrapped her in his arms and kissed her, long and hard, and soon she was breathless again. "I love you, Sandor," she had told him as he held her against him, her feet off the ground and her arms wrapped around his neck. Something in his eyes had changed then, and she caught a glimpse of his own vulnerability, his desperation, his most secret desires, for her; things that had probably never surfaced throughout his life, kept buried deep down under and behind stone walls. But those emotions were there, and for the brief moment he allowed them to show he had buried his face in her hair and whispered that he loved her too, as much as a "buggering scoundrel like him could love".

Jeyne praised the ring, claiming it to be perfect in every way, and that Sandor had done very well. "Would you like to meet him?" Sansa asked eagerly. "Of course! I must give the final approval, you know. As your best friend, it is my right." Their hands remaining intertwined, Sansa led her friend over to Sandor, who was standing a ways off watching their reunion. "Sandor, this is Jeyne Poole. She was at the barbecue earlier this year, at the Baratheon's." She had no idea if Sandor would remember her friend or not, but she thought it prudent to try to jog his memory. Jeyne smiled and gave a little curtsey and offered her hand. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Clegane. I want to thank you for helping Sansa in Gettysburg, when I could not be there with her." Sansa sucked in a breath, hoping he wouldn't bark at Jeyne for saying "mister", but to her relief Sandor only quirked the side of his mouth and took her hand. "Jeyne. I remember."

Her friend glanced between them a couple of times, smiling, and clasped her hands. "You make a lovely pair. Don't get me wrong, it's all terribly scandalous, but I think it's kind of wonderful, too. Sansa, dearest, do you need any help with the wedding preparations? I helped my cousin, Elizabeth, just the past summer so I learned a great deal." Sansa, blushing from Jeyne's previous statement, thanked her gratefully. "That would be so nice. There is so much to do, with only Septa Mordane to help me. I feel a bit overwhelmed." "Well, don't you worry. I'll come over first thing tomorrow and lend a hand." Sansa could have kissed her feet. Sandor was regarding them both with amused scrutiny. "You say it's scandalous," he directed to Jeyne, "but you don't seem to mind all that much." Sansa bit her lip, but Jeyne raised her chin and linked arms with her. "Sansa Stark is the finest girl in the county, and my friend. And if she wants to marry you, then…then I guess it's alright!" People were staring at them now, and Sansa jerked Jeyne closer. "Hush now!" But Sandor was laughing. "Maybe the Union army could use a couple of girls like you two!"

Just as she said, Jeyne arrived the next day and she and Sansa sat upstairs, drinking tea and making lists of things that needed to be done. "What are you bringing on the honeymoon, Sansa? Do you know where you're going?" "No, Sandor hasn't told me. He said not to bring too much, though, because he wants me to be able to buy new things while we are gone." "My, my," Jeyne said mischievously while she took a dainty little bite out of a cookie. "That man sounds like he's going to spoil you."

The wedding was going to be a small affair. Sansa had once dreamed of a large, frivolous occasion, but that wouldn't be proper during war time. Materials were scarce anyhow, and it would be a waste to use things that could be put towards the army. Winterfell was still stable, but everyone had taken a blow when the Confederates had marched through on their way to Gettysburg, and the war meant that trades and goods were priced higher and in greater demand. Sacrifices had to be made. Sansa didn't mind though. Her wedding would still be beautiful. It was taking place at Winterfell. Septa Mordane had declared that it should be in church, but Sansa had shot that down quickly. "It will be at Winterfell. I will feel closer to Mother that way. And besides, if it is at church then everyone will be buzzing about, poking their noses in." Mordane had exclaimed, "Well!" and insisted that Sansa was beginning to sound like "that man".

Ned Stark watched quietly as his eldest daughter made her preparations, and Sansa made sure she spent time with him, asking for his advice. He still seemed so tired, so sad, the lines in his face were deeper and his eyes only held warmth when he saw her or her brothers. Sansa knew he missed Catelyn, and she felt badly for leaving him too, soon. One night she went to his study and held him for a long time, smoothing back the greying hairs. "Father, I won't be far away, you know. I can always come over to Winterfell in a jiffy." Ned took her hand and patted it, sighing deeply. "I know, my dear girl. It is just always hard for a father to see his daughter become a woman. It seems only yesterday I was wiping your tears because you had fallen and skinned your knee racing with the boys." "Poor Father," Sansa murmured and kissed his head. "You mustn't be sad. You still have Bran and Rickon, and I know Arya will return some day. You all must come and see me whenever you like." Sandor and Ned did not become close in the weeks leading up to the wedding, but there was a mutual understanding between them. Sansa could only hope that one day Sandor could become a son to him.

At last the preparations were complete. Sansa's wedding dress had been fitted one last time, and now hung from her changing screen. The dress was long and white, with lace at the bottom of the skirt and at the ends of the sleeves. She was wearing her mother's veil, a delicate, light thing that Sansa barely trusted herself to handle. Some flowers from Winterfell's gardens were going to be pinned to the waist. Her bags were packed, except for a few last minute articles that would go in when she changed for their departure. Her travel clothes had been laid out as well. There was nothing more to do but to wait for the next day to arrive, and Sansa felt as though it was still a long way off.

Jeyne arrived with her bridesmaid's gown. She was to spend the night at Winterfell so she could help Sansa in the morning. The minister was going to arrive at promptly at nine o'clock, and the ceremony would begin at nine-fifteen. Just thinking about it made Sansa's hands shake, and she was grateful once more for Jeyne's steady presence. The girl had helped her down to the very last detail, for both the dress and the ceremony, and Sansa was left feeling much more confident about the day than when she had only had Mordane to help her. The woman was continually sniffing and wiping at her eyes, not out of happiness, but because she was sure Sansa was going to ruin herself by joining with Sandor. Jeyne nicknamed her "the black cloud".

The girls were sitting out on the porch, enjoying the cooler weather and sipping cider. "Just think," Jeyne said dreamily, "by this time tomorrow you will be Mrs. Sandor Clegane. I can't believe you are getting married!" "Yes," Sansa agreed quietly, rocking in the chair. She had not seen much of Sandor in the last few days, as he had moved into their new home and was busy arranging things there. That will change after tomorrow, she thought. We will never be parted again. The idea both thrilled and frightened her. She hoped she wouldn't panic during the ceremony, and voiced her concerns out loud. "But you'll be going on a fabulous honeymoon, Sansa! I bet he's taking you somewhere splendid. Think of all the things you're going to see. Think of all the shopping!" Sansa couldn't help but giggle with her, and the girls began to discuss what kinds of dresses she should buy and what the latest fashions were. "Oh, I shan't sleep a wink tonight!" Sansa declared, stretching her arms out. How could she sleep, knowing that tomorrow her new life was to begin, and she would be thrust into the undiscovered world of marital life? Sandor will help me, she reminded herself as they ate a light dinner. It was all she had to hold on to as she bid her brothers and father good night, and climbed the stairs to her room for the last time as a Stark.

Sansa's head fell on the pillow, and before she knew it Jeyne was shaking her awake. The sun was peeking through the curtains as Sansa sat up, blinking groggily. Her eyes landed on her wedding gown and she gasped. "I'm getting married today!" She squealed as Jeyne attacked her with a cold wet washcloth and soon the girls were jumping all over the bed, laughing, until Mordane burst in and scolded them. "Both of you behave yourselves! Miss Sansa, this is no way to for a bride to act on her wedding day!" "Oh, I don't care!" Sansa sang as she twirled about the room. "I'm so happy!" "Humph," Mordane replied, shaking out Sansa's underthings for her to wear under the dress. "You sound as if you're going to marry a respectable young man, instead of that devil, Clegane." "Septa, please. Sandor is very good to me," Sansa admonished while she combed her hair out.

In the end Mordane bit back her grumblings and together with Jeyne they helped Sansa into her wedding dress. Sansa decided to leave her hair down, only pinning back a section for the veil. Jeyne climbed into her own gown while Mordane helped Sansa pin the flowers on. "Oh…Miss Sansa…you do look beautiful," the septa finally admitted, wiping tears from her eyes. "You look just like your mother." Sansa swept Mordane into a hug until the septa pulled back and exclaimed that she was going to wrinkle her dress and that simply wouldn't do.

The moment had arrived. Sansa could hear the carriages pulling up and voices drifted up the stairs. Sandor was down there by now. Only some very close friends and some of the workers would be attending, all people Sansa had known since birth, but for a wild instant she did not want to face any of them. Stop being silly, she chided herself as they left her bedroom and entered the hallway. Thank goodness she had a bouquet to hold on to, though the poor flowers would likely be crushed by her vice-like grip on the stems.

A few deep breaths later Sansa found herself sweeping down the stairs and into the larger, formal parlor. She saw her father and brothers, and a variety of other faces until she latched onto Sandor, waiting for her by the minister. The ceremony itself was a blur, and only later would Sansa wish she had paid better attention. All she could think about at the time was Sandor's tall, strong frame beside her, her hand in his arm, and how very hot it felt in the room. When vows were to be said, Sansa half-expected her voice to be shaky and faint, but she surprised herself by answering in a clear, calm tone. Sandor spoke his vows in a deep rumble, his voice like stones scraping together, and Sansa shivered in delight at hearing it.

They turned to face one another as the minister went on more about the vows and read some passages, and Sansa let her eyes travel over Sandor chest, clothed in a very functional, fine suit, and eventually met his gaze. He was looking at her like he had at the barbecue: a hungry, burning expression that made her feel a little weak. The corner of his mouth pulled into a small, half-smile, and he squeezed her hands. Sansa allowed herself be lost in his eyes, barely hearing what else the minister said until he announced them man and wife, and Sandor kissed her. A short, chaste kiss compared to their others, but it sent a streak a fire right to her stomach.

Then it was over, and Jeyne was helping her to the dining room for the bridal breakfast. Sansa and Sandor were seated together in the middle of the table. Through the doorway she could see into the drawing-room, where a small mountain of presents was displayed. Opposite her was the wedding cake, a lovely creation built in Winterfell's kitchen. The table was strewn with yellow flowers and the décor was accented with greys and whites. They were served coffee and tea, and the guests talked freely and laughed as they feasted on poultry, lobster salads, jellies, and little dishes filled with fruit and cream.

Sansa was, naturally, consistently addressed and required to engage in conversation, while Sandor sat mostly silent next to her. It didn't bother her much as she was familiar with his temperament, but she did wish they could be let alone for a few minutes so she could share a word with him. At one point while everyone seemed to have their mouths full or the attention was directed elsewhere, Sansa turned slightly to Sandor, offering him a shy smile. He met her eye and smirked, his hand coming to touch hers, resting her lap. "Enjoying yourself, little bird?" he rasped low near her ear. His proximity was invigorating after not seeing him for a while, and Sansa basked in his harsh, scraping voice. "Yes…though I do wish we might cut the cake soon," she whispered back. Cutting the cake announced their departure, but it couldn't take place until the guests had eaten their fill. Sandor chuckled and scraped his teeth slowly across his bottom lip as he appraised her. "Eager to leave, are we?" She blushed and looked down on their joined hands. "It's just that…I have missed you." As much as she enjoyed his attentions and even the lusty grin that now adorned his mouth, Sansa hoped no one was watching them. It wouldn't do for one of the female guests to faint from witnessing Sandor's heated expression sweeping over the bride.

His thumb caressed her knuckles and he gave her a wink. Out of the corner of her eye sansa thought she saw Mordane glaring daggers at Sandor, probably wishing the man would burst into flames and disappear. She decided to ignore her and a little of propriety by scooting a little closer to Sandor, who observed her movements in amusement.

At last the cake was served, and next came the opportunity for any toasts the guests wished to bestow upon the new couple. Jory gave a short one, then Ned stood to his feet, resting one hand on the table so he didn't have to use his cane. "Sansa," he said softly, his grey eyes gentling as they rested on her. "I'm very proud of the woman you have become. I know that Catelyn would be proud of you, too." Sansa's bottom lip quivered slightly as she smiled at her father. "You have the kindest, most compassionate, loving heart a father could ask for his daughter to have. I love you, my dear." He sat down as everyone clapped and took a sip of their drinks. A few others offered well-wishes to them and paid compliments to Ned and her brothers.

After this was finished Sansa stood and walked into the hallway with Jeyne, where she gave her bouquet. As the bridesmaid's duty, Jeyne visited each guest, granting them one flower from the bunch until the bouquet had been distributed. Sansa watched, smiling, while she twirled a flower she had selected for herself. She would have to remind Mordane to dry and press it for her. Then she was led upstairs to peel off the wedding dress and slip into her more comfortable and practical travel clothes: a lovely dark purple gown and boots. The maids had removed Sansa's luggage during the breakfast and it was now waiting in Sandor's carriage. When everything was settled and Sansa was sure had not forgotten anything, she swept away again down stairs.

Sandor took her hand and led her past the guests wishing them farewell and out the front door, clearly eager to be on their way. "Goodbye!" she called back, waving. Her father stood by the carriage, smiling softly. "I'll help my daughter in one last time," he told Sandor. The scarred man nodded and handed Sansa off to him. She kissed his cheek and he hugged her, and lifted her into the carriage. As she arranged herself, Sansa overheard Ned say, "Take good care of her, Clegane." Sandor said something she could not hear, but the two men shook hands, and then Sandor had climbed in next to her. A servant was driving for them so that the carriage would not be left at wherever they were heading.

Winterfell was soon left behind in a cloud of dust, and Sansa sighed and settled back against the seat. Sandor's arm snaked around her shoulders and he pulled her in for a kiss. "Hello, little wife," he growled between the soft nips he was placing upon her mouth. She giggled and snuggled closer to him. Sandor had not changed except to loosen his coat, and his tie had been discarded somewhere, leaving the top of his shirt unbuttoned. "Hello, husband," she answered shyly, running her hands down the front of his chest. He gripped her waist possessively and pulled her even closer, lavishing kisses over her neck before claiming her lips again. His attention on her was halted only when they reached the train station, and Sansa felt breathless and red all over from his mouth's assault on her fair skin. She had to fix her skirts and hair while Sandor snickered. "Don't laugh," she pretended to scold. "You're the one who has made me look blown about, like tumbleweed." "On the contrary, little bird, I think you look ravishing with your hair and dress in disarray," he rasped, smirking and seemingly pleased with himself.

They boarded the train, and Sandor grumbled under his breath about having to keep his distance from her now. Even though they were now married, displays of affection like what they had been exchanging in the covered carriage were not acceptable in public. Sansa patted his arm and risked a few stares place a kiss on his cheek. "Are you going to tell me now where we are going?" she asked as the train pulled out of the station. Sandor stroked his chin, contemplating the question with exaggerated hesitance. "No, I think I'll wait." He pulled off his coat and draped it over the arm of the seat, and stretched, cracking his neck before settling back. The train departed, and she watched as the land swept by in a green blur.

Sansa didn't realize she had drifted off, resting her head on his shoulder, until Sandor was gently patting her and murmuring, "Wake up, little bird." With a start, she realized the train had reached another station, though she couldn't quite see where. Sandor took her arm and led her from the train, pausing to give some instructions for their luggage. Sansa gazed about, trying to get her bearings. The sun's position indicated mid-afternoon. She must have slept for quite a while, and felt somewhat embarrassed for that, when she should have been keeping her husband company. Sandor didn't seem to care, however, when she attempted to explain. "There is nothing to be sorry for, little wife," he assured her, taking her hand again. "You needed your rest."

He guided her through the busy station until they reached the other side, and Sansa gasped. They had reached a dock, where a large steamer was waiting. "Oh, Sandor, please tell me where we are going!" she begged, clutching his arm excitedly. He laughed and wrapped a finger around a curl of her hair. "Alright, little bird, I guess you've waited long enough. We'll be taking this steamer to Boston, and from there we will be taking another for Paris." Sansa's mouth dropped open in astonishment. She had never been to Europe! "Sandor! Paris! Truly?" And tossing lady-like behavior aside she threw her arms around him. "Oh, you're wonderful!" A deep, throaty chuckle answered her as Sandor caressed her hair. "Now, now, little bird, there will be plenty of time for you to tell me how amazing I am later." Sansa released him with a blush, but her excitement returned when they were finally climbing the ramp to board the steamer.

It wasn't until they were being led to their room that Sansa recalled that this was her wedding night, and a weight of nervousness and anxiety replaced her initial joy.

The stateroom was large and elegant, separated in two: the front room contained a couch and chairs and a table, and a door off to the right indicated the bedroom and washroom. It was decked in bright but comfortable colors, and some flowers were on the table with a little note from Jeyne. Sansa stood, wringing her hands as the orderlies brought in their bags and Sandor directed them. When they were finished and at the door, Sandor said something in a low voice to them before placing some money in their hands and shutting them out.

They were alone.

The shades had been drawn to keep out the bright sun, so the room was dim with soft splashes of light here and there. Not knowing what to do, Sansa slowly tugged off her gloves, glancing about her. Sandor stood watching her for a moment before he went over to a little ice bucket on the table by the flowers. "Champagne?" he asked. She nodded, a little excitement returning. She had only tasted champagne once, at one of the Baratheon balls. Sandor poured them each a generous amount into glass flutes and handed one to her.

She took a dainty sip, wishing her heart would stop trying to beat its way out of her breast. Sandor was drinking from his glass, looking perfectly at ease, and Sansa wished he would at least pretend to be nervous too. His eyes danced around the room briefly before settling back on her, leisurely taking her in while the champagne level lowered in the flute.

Sansa's hands were trembling so badly she set the glass down, fearing that she might drop it. Sandor set his down then, too, and he stepped forward until his frame toward over hers and his arms once again wound themselves about her, trapping her against him securely. "Little bird," he rumbled, kissing her first on the nose, then her forehead, and at last her lips. Sansa accepted his touches, hoping they would dissolve her tumult of uncertainty.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Sandor rasped, taking her face in his hands and piercing her with his eyes. They had turned from a stormy grey to almost black, and Sansa found herself transfixed by them. "I know," she whispered. Satisfied, Sandor moved one hand to run up and down her back soothingly while he began to press kisses and licks to her neck. "The pretty little bird is now my pretty little wife," he growled against her skin. Sansa closed her eyes, losing herself to the sensations as a slow-burn rose steadily within her. His mouth came to hers, and he kissed her fiercely, with a passion she had not previously witnessed. Her hands had been placed on his shoulders, but now she tentatively let them explore, running up and down his arms and chest, reveling in the hard muscle she felt flexing underneath his shirt.

Sandor seemed to like her ministrations, for he growled and lavished attention to the other side of her neck. One of her hands came up to dig into his dark hair, pulling gently, and she moaned when he sucked a spot just under her ear. The sound caused him to groan, and suddenly he ducked and lifted her into his arms. "And now I'm going to teach you to sing," he growled against her mouth, and he carried her into the bedroom.

A/N: Yeaaaaaaa no sex scene. I don't write those. I hoped you enjoyed this chapter just the same!

I feel like Jeyne doesn't get enough love in the fandom, so I decided to have fun with her character and have her be supportive of the match.

I'm posting pictures of what I imagined for Sansa's wedding dress and her ring on my Tumblr page.

Here's a link to the website where I got some ideas for the wedding ceremony. Interestingly, they had breakfasts instead of dinners, at least when the bride and groom were there. After they left, sometimes the family members and relatives would have a dinner or go somewhere to relax for the day.

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