A/N: It's been a while, I know. I have been ridiculously busy with the holidays, stuff with my kids, and a very sick relative. I hope this chapter makes up for the wait.
Thank you for the reviews :-) I love them all.
SANDOR
He stormed angrily into the Great Hall, slamming the massive wooden doors open as he entered. The wood crashed off the stone walls, echoing loudly through the cavernous space. The din of voices receded immediately as the towering warrior stomped purposefully up to the dais. Despite the threatening nature of the man before him, Ned Stark looked quite calm.
"Where the fuck is he?" Sandor snarled.
"Clegane," Ser Rodrik said with a note of warning in his voice. Lord Stark raised his hand to the master at arms, but held Sandor's gaze.
"He is dead," Ned said simply.
Brought up short by this news, Sandor's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Dead how?"
"Does it matter, Lord Clegane? The beast no longer haunts the North, thanks be to the Gods," maester Luwin extolled.
Sandor spat, "Fuck your Gods."
Luwin shook his head at such blasphemy, but Ned was unfazed by the large mans' vitriol. He knew what drove his fury. He could empathize in a way. He too was denied the ability to see justice served.
"He escaped the tower," Eddard began explaining when Sandor seemed to have lost what little of his composure still remained.
"How in the Seven Hells did he manage that?!" he roared before turning and flipping a chair away from him. Ned kept his temper; cool as the snow the fell outside the frosted windows.
"We are under the impression that someone aided him, though we have no proof of such treachery. His remains were found out in the Wolf's Wood this morning by a hunting party."
Sandor stewed on this information while glaring balefully at everyone at everything in his midst. He still didn't have the one detail he needed. Stark seemed to realize this and stepped closer, lowering his voice somewhat.
"He seems to have been savaged by a pack of wolves or perhaps a bear. There was enough of his face left to identify him, but little else. His remains are being sent back to his father at the Dreadfort."
Pausing to consider this, Sandor looked for any signs that his good father was being deceitful. When he was satisfied that there were none he nodded once and his posture relaxed slightly.
"I'm not sure how she's going to feel about this," he rasped.
"I'm not sure how I feel about it," replied Ned evenly.
"Lord Bolton is sure this was a conspiracy and his son was murdered," Rodrik muttered heatedly.
"Lord Bolton can go fuck himself with a red hot poker." Sandor sneered. No one disagreed.
"I was just on my way to go visit Sansa and deliver the news," Ned said gravely. Sandor did not envy the man his position. He knew Eddard to be a just, honorable man when it came to the law. As a father though, he was nearly as protective as his Tully wife, and Sandor knew what it cost him to not be able to bring the man who harmed his daughters to his version of justice.
"I'll save you the trip," Sandor grumbled, wiping his hand over his face. "Was on my way back to our rooms anyway."
"I can come with you," Ned began to offer when the larger man raised his hand and waved him off.
"Not necessary. I can handle it fine. It might be better coming from me anyhow." In truth he had no idea how his wife would react to the news. He did not see her taking it well, but he had been wrong about her responses before. She oft surprised him with her tempers.
"Good luck, Clegane," the maester wished him with a knowing smirk.
"The man's a seasoned warrior! I think he can handle the little lass," Rodrik countered, incredulous.
"You've obviously never seen my daughter in a fit of anger," Eddard stated with a wry grin. "There are some things all the warring in the Seven Kingdoms won't prepare you for."
The three other men enjoy a good chuckle as Sandor turns on his heel and stomps out of the Great Hall. He's trudging through fresh snow, heavy and wet from the raging storms still battering the North when he's stopped by a delicate hand on his shoulder. A glimpse of red hair makes him assume it's Sansa, but he notices almost immediately that she isn't the correct height. A hood falls back and reveals a pretty, familiar face, eyebrow cocked sardonically.
"We meet again, my lord," she purrs, her hand now stroking his upper arm. Before he can respond or step away from her touch another voice floats on the stinging wind to his exposed ears.
"Not exactly the place for a clandestine business meeting."
This is not fucking happening! He thought angrily as panic at his current situation being misinterpreted. He moved away from one woman and closer to the other.
"My lady," the first greets with a wide grin.
"Hello, Ros," Sansa returns, the corners of her lips twitching slightly. "What brings you to Winterfell?"
"The pleasure of seeing old friends," she replies with an easy air. Sansa's face takes on a knowing expression as the smile she's been suppressing threatens to break free.
"I see," she murmurs before linking her hand through Sandor's arm. "Give Theon my best."
"Of course, my lady." And with a slight curtsy she floats away, melting into the crowd of men meandering around the grounds.
"I was coming to find you," Sandor blurts out stupidly in an attempt to make it clear he had not sought out the whore's company. The little bird's lips finally pulled up into a full grin.
"I am sure you were," she said with a teasing note to her voice. He tried to glower at her, but did not think he succeeded by the small tinkling laugh that sent puffs of mist into the air from her parted lips.
He led her silently back to their rooms, and it wasn't until the doors were closed and she was settled on a chaise next to a roaring fire that he began speaking.
"There won't be a trial," he practically spits out. She looks taken aback by the venom in his voice, so he puts more effort into speaking calmly.
"Lord Bolton . . –" she begins questioningly before he cuts her off with a wave.
"Had nothing to do with it. It's . . . he's dead." He tries to say the words evenly, but they come out flat.
"Lord Bolton is dead?" She is clearly confused, but he sees so much more than that bubbling beneath the surface of her large Tully eyes.
"No, lass. The Bastard. He's the one dead." He manages to deliver this news with a tone that is neither aggressive nor passive. It's a balance he rarely achieves, yet finds it coming out more often when speaking to her.
All color drains from his wife's already pale face. A breathy little, "oh" is all that comes from her. He gives her time to digest this information and they sit with only the pops and hisses from the fire filling the silence between them. It is some time later when she finally speaks again.
"Do you know what happened?" The words are no more than a whisper. She does not look at him, choosing instead to stare at the dancing flames.
"He escaped his cell somehow and ended up in the Wolf's wood. They found just enough of him to identify." He wants to spare her some of the grisly details, but can see almost immediately that she craves more information when she turns her eyes beseechingly on him.
"It looks as if animals got to him," he says cryptically. He has no wish to add to her nightmares.
She raises an eyebrow at him. "Animals?"
He huffs in annoyance and growls out, "Wolves, most like."
Surprise flickers on her face before it becomes an impassive mask. "Wolves," she repeats. "I see."
When she turns back to the fire he's baffled by her seeming lack of response. He moves a little closer and sits beside her, taking her icy hand in his, rubbing warmth into her flesh. Before he can say another word she turns to him and eyes him shrewdly.
"Tell me truly; did you have any hand in this?"
He'd expected this question, but it still rankles when he has to shake his head in denial. "Not I, Little Bird. Not for lack of wanting, mind you. But no, his blood is not on my hands."
She nods before sighing heavily and leaning her head on his shoulder, he whole body slumping against his. "It is really over, then."
He leans down, lips against her shiny hair as he breathes in the scent of her. "Aye," he rasps, "over."
He surprises both of them when he suddenly asks, "How are you feeling?"
Sansa's head comes off his shoulder and the shock at his question is clear in her eyes until it's replaced with something he has only just started to recognize. Something he still denied the existence of no matter how often she said the words. Having it stare him right in the face made it much harder to disbelieve.
"I regret not seeing it done with my own eyes," she says somewhat haltingly, as if thought is difficult to admit aloud. "And that you have not been given your chance at vengeance."
In truth that was his biggest regret as well. He wanted to be the one to take the little cunt's life while he shit himself with fear. But as he imagined all the torturous ways he could have made the sniveling prick suffer, he pictured how horrified his little wife would be upon seeing that side of him. How disgusted she would be with him if she knew the depraved things he had in store for the man who tried to take her from him. He shuddered at the thought of ever seeing fear and revulsion replace the looks of affection and trust in the little bird's eyes.
"Maybe it's better this way," he admits begrudgingly.
"Perhaps," she allows slowly, her expressive eyes still boring into his. "At least I know it is finally finished. There is no chance of him getting away again. No chance of him coming after me anymore."
He heard the fear she did not share. "He never should have gotten close enough to hurt you," he spat, still furious with himself for failing to keep her safe.
"You did everything you could. If I am not allowed to blame myself for my stupidity, then you are not allowed to keep being angry for not being everywhere all at once," she states matter-of-factly. It makes him smirk.
"As you say, wife," he agrees somewhat amusedly. They have had this discussion before.
Sighing again, she resumes resting her body against his side. As if of its own volition, his arm winds its way around her small waist, pulling her more securely against him. She makes a contented noise and nuzzles into his neck. The action was innocent, yet he feels his blood begin to rise. He shifts slightly in an attempt to hide the evidence from her. She had not been able to go through with it the last few times he'd thought to take her. It left him dissatisfied, but never frustrated. He could not fault her reluctance. She had suffered too much.
His shifting did not seem to have fooled her one bit though as he felt her body shake with breathy laughter before her soft lips kiss up his neck and move against his ear.
"You are not fooling me, ser," she whispers teasingly before nipping on the lobe.
He is up and across the room with a squealing woman swept up in his arms before she can draw another breath. He all but drops her on the bed before swiftly lifting her skirts and yanking away her small clothes. A small yelp draws his attention away from the inviting pink flesh between her thighs. He is concerned he may have been too rough, but the flush of Sansa's cheeks and smile she is trying to hide by biting her lower lip assure him he is doing nothing she does not want.
There are times when he is slow and gentle, almost sweet with her, but this is not one of them. He licks and sucks at her cunt while fingers push carefully into her. Some of the tension in his body relaxes when he feels her responding, the slickness making his movements more fluid. It isn't long before one of her hands is clutching desperately at his hair, the other over her mouth as she calls out during her peak. He wipes his lips before claiming hers, hands fumbling with the laces of her bodice before her firm tits spill into his hands. He can feel her hastening to pull his breeches away and is relieved that she is as desperate for this as he is.
Her hands are no longer cold when he felts her fingers slide over his cock, stroking him expertly. Groaning loudly he practically bats her hand away, ignoring her burst of giggles as he sinks into her. Her laugh turns into a moan, bringing him so much satisfaction that he nearly humiliates himself. Sandor stills over her, lifting up to pull in a few deep breaths and steady himself. His forehead rests on hers a moment before he feels her hands slide up his chest under his tunic, her long legs winding around his waist while she rocks encouragingly against him. His breath stutters as he begins to move, slowly at first, but it builds into something more powerful. Despite the hurriedness of the moment, there is much meaning in it. So lost in the sensations flooding through him, he has no time at all to prepare for his own peak. It slams through him as he shouts, clutching to her to keep himself grounded. He is shaking, heart rattling in his chest when the words slip through his ruined lips, unbidden.
"I love you."
It is more breath than voice, but he knows she has heard him by the way her body freezes beneath his. Not a moment passes before she squeezes him with more strength than he believed she possessed. Chancing a look at her he is rewarded with a radiant smile. She laughs, kissing every part of his face she can get to. He huffs, making only a half-hearted attempt to extricate himself from her grip, but she will not relent, and he does not really want her to. He settles with a most unimpressive frown which only serves to make her laugh more.
"I love you, too," she says finally, breathless from fucking and laughing.
"I thought you would never admit it out loud," she jests with a mischievous grin.
"Keep laughing and I'm not like to do it again," he grumbles unconvincingly. Her face softens as her eyes sweep over him.
"You do not have to say the words for me to know. Truthfully, I have known for some time now," she admits somewhat bashfully. "Still, it is nice to hear now and again."
Calmed by the knowledge that she will not expect him to be spewing forth sonnets and declarations every other day, he kisses her soundly. He can feel his cock stirring to life again as a loud knock interrupts them. Growling irritably, he shuts the door to their chamber, tucking himself back into his breeches and stomps away from his chuckling wife.
When he yanks open the solar door he is greeted with a pair of sharp grey eyes set in a defiant yet surly face. The she wolf does not even ask to be let in, merely slips through the frame and beside his massive body without a word. He all but slams the door before rounding on her in annoyance.
"Am I interrupting something?" she asks with a knowing smirk, eyebrow raised in challenge.
"Do you care if you are?" he shoots back.
She shrugs, "Not as much as you'd like, I'll wager."
Before he can snarl at her the door to their bedchamber opens and Sansa emerges. You would never know what they had just been up to by the look of her. She is flawlessly put back together with not even a hair out of place. Yet he can tell her sister is not fooled as she snorts indelicately before flopping gracelessly back into a chair.
"Has father been to see you?" she asks evenly, and Sandor immediately knows why she has come.
"I told her," he rasps. Arya regards him for a moment before nodding once.
"Farewell to the Bastard of Bolton, may he roast on a briny spit," she mutters bitterly. He knows what she is feeling because he too feels it. Both have been denied the chance to send him the Seven Hells themselves and it rankles.
"I still do not know how he could have escaped the tower," Sansa murmurs.
"Does it fucking matter?" Arya spits out, her face contorted in anger.
"It does to me," Sansa defends, looking wounded. "I do not want to fear for some unknown accomplice coming after me."
Arya glares at her for a minute before scowling unhappily at the dying fire. "I don't think that's going to happen. Whoever let him out will be long gone by now. If anyone did let him out," she hurries to add. For just a moment Sandor can detect a flash of deception in those usually cool grey eyes, but it is gone before he can be entirely certain of what he sees.
"I am still to be married," she mutters unhappily.
Sansa crosses the room and kneels daintily beside her on the floor. She pulls the younger girls' hand into her own and gives her a sympathetic smile.
"Marriage is not so horrible, you know," Sansa says kindly.
"Says the woman who chose her own husband," her sister grumbles. Sandor cannot help the snort that escapes him. When both women look at him expectantly he shrugs.
"It's not like I'm the fucking prince of Westeros."
Sansa wrinkles her nose in obvious distaste. "No, you are a far better man than he will ever dream of being."
"Young Tommen is not so bad," Sandor informs them evenly.
"Too bad he won't be King," Sansa mutters before turning back to her sister. "Have you met him?"
"Tommen?" Arya asked, clearly confused. Sansa laughs, shaking her head.
"Your betrothed."
"Oh," Arya makes a face somewhere between a grimace and a smirk. "Once, at your wedding feast. He was alright I guess."
"You never did tell me who it was. Just that he is an Umber."
Arya sighs and shakes her head. "His name is Crystof. He's the Smalljon's younger brother, second in line as Lord of the Last Hearth. He's going to be twenty before the end of the year."
"What he . . ." she pauses to consider her words. "Personable?"
Arya snorts. "He was funny like the Imp, but better looking, if that's what you mean."
"Not too great a feat," mutters Sandor, ignoring the glare Sansa shoots him. Arya chuckles though and he finds that he is glad to have lifted her spirits somewhat. Before he can wonder when he became so damned soft Arya's face reddens slightly as her arms wrap absently around her waist.
"He'll think I'm ugly," she whispers, staring off into the lowly flickering flames in the hearth. Again Sandor found himself understanding her even if she was trying to be cryptic.
"There's nothing wrong with a few scars," he rasps firmly. When her wide Stark eyes meet his he nods once. "They show you're a fucking survivor. Umbers appreciate a strong woman."
A smirk pulls up half her mouth, so he goes on. "And if he's a dumb shit just jab him with that sharp little blade of yours." She's grinning now.
"Or threaten to feed him to Nymeria," Sansa offers with a laugh that her sister joins in on.
"He's too big," she says around a snicker before she stops suddenly and her face flushes scarlet. Sandor throws his head back, laughing loudly.
"You'll get used to it," she says bluntly. It appears that Arya has reached her limit for sisterly bonding. She springs to her feet and darts to the door.
"Right, that's my cue to leave," she splutters before flinging herself out of the room. The echo of the slamming door drowns out Sandor's laughter as Sansa shrugs.
"Well, it's true," she insists.
A/N: Thoughts? Comments? Is anyone still out there?
