Sandor stood on his left leg as he supported himself against the bed post, easing his weight onto his right leg. As his weight shifted, a stinging sensation took hold, forcing him to return the weight back onto his left leg.

Seven fucking hells, I will never be able to fight again. A boy-whore with a sword could do a better job of protecting my wife. And if I am to travel with her to King's Landing like this...

Sandor had thrown the furs off his legs once the Imp left, naked as his name day, stretching his limbs out slowly and assessing the changes in his body from resting as long as he did. He was thinner than he could believe and he winced at the atrophy of his muscles in his legs and arms. However, it had not been for nothing. In a mere fortnight, his leg and ribs had healed enough for him to move around gently without becoming overwhelmed with pain. Thank the bloody gods a fortnight of those buggering dreams had not been for naught, he thought.

Sandor knew the dwarf would notify Sansa that he had awoken before departing Winterfell. His emotions were scattered at the thought of seeing her, really seeing her, outside of the dreams of him taking her against her will.

Last I truly saw her, I nearly raped her. And in the meantime, she has had to bury our boy, take care of a savage like me, and prepare these weary men for another war. I should not expect her to be happy to speak with me...I wouldn't if I were her.

Outside the bedchamber, Sandor could hear faint footsteps approaching with haste. Sansa, he thought. He tried to ease himself back onto the bed but his legs buckled underneath him, causing him to fall onto the stone floor. He grunted at the impact and struggled to pull his weight up onto the bed just in time for the door to fly open.

My beautiful little bird, red face and flustered from a run through the winter snows, all to see a man who nearly raped you.

The two stared at one another in silence for a moment before Sansa turned around to close the door. When she returned her glance, the anger in her eyes pierced him.

There it is, the hate.

"Did you try to stand up?" she asked him in such a manner as if she were accusing him of being unfaithful.

"Aye, little bird. It has been awhile. I needed to see if they could still work." He meant to humor her, but Sansa only sighed and frowned. He caught her eyes travelling down to the sight of his manhood for a brief moment before she turned away and made her way towards the oak desk.

"I spent hours in the godswood praying for you to heal, hours caring for you in every possible way I could. And what do you do? You try to walk the first chance you get to undo all of it," she shook her head, taking off her gloves and throwing them down onto the desk.

I am a bloody fucking fool.

"Sansa, I am sorry," he began, but the sight of her crying into her hands cut off his apology. His first instinct was to stand up and pull her into his arms but when he tried, his legs only gave out underneath him again.

"No, I am," she sobbed. Sansa turned towards him, the anger, irritation and hate replaced by guilt, regret, and grief. The sight made him wince harder than he had when he impacted the floor.

The Imp was right. My wife has been hiding her emotions for far too long. But she will never have to do that around me.

"Gods, girl, come here," he reached out a hand to her. Sansa wiped the tears from her face and walked to place her hands into his. Sandor pulled her into an embrace, ignoring the sensitivity still lingering within his chest. When his arms wrapped around her, she broke down again, crying into his shoulder.

"I am so sorry," she weeped. "I have been waiting every hour of the day for you to wake. And when you woke, all I could do was lash out at you."

"You have every right to be angry with me," he whispered in her ear, inebriated by her smell, her touch, and her voice. I tried to rape you, he wanted to remind her. You wanted to see our son and all I could do was force myself on you.

"I am exhausted, Sandor. All I can think about is the crypt and how I left. All I can do all day is pretend like I am strong enough to accept what has happened. And you, I thought you'd never wake. The last time we talked-"

"When I nearly raped you," he corrected her. Sansa shifted in his arms and looked up at him.

"You were grieving, Sandor. I knew that, and you know it too. That's not what you are."

"Then why is it all I dreamt about? Raping you when you were no older than a child back in that bloody Red Keep? While you were out here cleaning me and praying for me, I couldn't stop dreaming of taking you as you whimpered and cried. I couldn't stop dreaming of our son," his voice broke. "Our boy the size of my hand, and the rage I felt to kill every fucker I could get my hands on. When I killed my brother, I couldn't look away from the sight of him. How he exploded, burned, all right in front of me. I felt a joy that I haven't felt since I was Joffrey's Hound. And I felt it again when you were back in my arms. When you woke up after you had died right underneath me. It was all I could think about...fucking you bloody." Disgust washed over him and his arms fell away from their embrace. "All I have managed to do as your husband is prove every one of these bastards right. A man like me could never deserve a woman like you."

Sansa placed her hand on his scarred cheek and rubbed the ruin on his face tenderly with her thumb. "If you were really what you fear you are, you would not have regretted it. The Hound is dead. Your brother was a monster, Sandor. Even my own father would have found joy in him dying. And I am not upset about the last time. You could have taken me against my will if you wanted to, but you didn't. You need to understand that there is no one better for me than you," she pulled his arms back around her. Tears blurred his vision as the two held one another in silence as he processed her touching words.

"The burial," he whispered.

"It was the hardest day of my life. I stayed in the crypt for hours. I never wanted to leave. All I kept thinking was if I had felt that way during the battle, I could have avoid-"

"Sansa," he gripped her shoulders to hold her out in front of him. "It is not your fault, do you hear me? You can't keep saying that shite."

"I killed our son," she began sobbing again. "I am the one who left-"

"Gregor did that! Cersei did that! Harry did that! Not you! Had I not fallen onto the ground during that bloody battle, I could have found my brother before he found you. The war against the Others was over, girl. You had no way of knowing if I, or anyone, was ever going to come back to get you no matter if I swore it to you or not. The ones responsible for our son's death will have their day to face justice. Gregor has met his, as have his men, and the others will answer for it as well. Don't you ever blame yourself again, do you hear me?" His tone was harsh, his booming voice hoarse from its under usage, but it needed to be said. The tears falling from her eyes stopped and all she could do was look at him with her Tully blue eyes as if she had woken from a fortnight of sleep as well.

"I named him," she whispered. "You might not like it."

"Go on, try me," he said with intrigue.

"Beric Stark."

"Beric," he repeated.

Beric Dondarrion, the lightning lord who nearly set me aflame in a buggering cave before I killed him, only to rise again. The same man who found me on the Quiet Isle and brought me back to Winterfell, to Sansa. A pain in the arse...but loyal, just, and fair. He spoke reason to me when I didn't want to hear it. He traveled with me to the bloody Wall and back so I could earn respect amongst these Northmen. If it were not for him, Sansa would have been raped and mutilated by my brother. He delivered my own son and finally, chose to leave this world for the last time by saving my wife. Beric Stark.

"It's perfect, little bird," he admitted.

A gentle smile fell on her lips, but as he leaned in to push his lips against hers for the first time in so long, she placed his hand over his mouth.

"Wait," she stood up, glancing briefly at his manhood again before speaking. "I need to tell you what has happened. What will happen..." she trailed off, wringing her hands together.

King's Landing. Northern independence. There goes our one happy moment.

"The Imp told me," he sighed. "The bastard is to become the king, the dragon bitch his queen, and the two will rule over the six kingdoms. Six, not seven, since my wife and I will demand rule in the North. But not before you risk your life traveling to King's Landing alongside a bloody army, walking right into a war between two mad queens over a fucking iron chair."

Sansa stared at him indignantly, crossing her arms over her chest. "Don't let me stop you, you seem passionate enough. Continue."

"Sansa, I don't want to argue but gods, girl. What are you thinking? Traveling to King's Landing, for what? It is my duty as Lord, a cripple or not, to take the men south. A war is no place for a lady." Her eyes pierced him again, but the sight of her led him to inconspicuously place the furs onto his lap to hide his arousal.

"I am not a lady anymore. My men have declared me the Queen in the North. And yes, that makes you the King. The North will become independent once again once Jon sits on the throne with Daenerys."

That bitch would have burnt me to ashes had I not bent the bloody knee mere moments after battling the Others. How can one brooding boy persuade her otherwise?

"Sorry little bird, my memory is not the same after sleeping for a bloody fortnight," he rasped, feeling his composure deteriorating. "But have we not had this discussion? Did we not agree that we would not begin another war demanding that the North become independent again? Going south, risking your own life, for what?"

"For us. You are not from the North but you do know what it means to have limits. It's why you left serving the Lannisters, is it not? You were tired of risking your life for something you did not believe in. Well, the Northern families, including ours, have reached those limits as well. Many of the men do not believe they should fight in Daenerys' war for the throne, but we also cannot allow Cersei to win. Jon must be King," she furrowed her brow at him.

Gods, a true Northern woman my wife is. I'd have better luck battling an aurochs as a cripple than talk her out of this madness.

"All right," he surrendered. "Let's say your brother, cousin, whatever the fuck he is persuades his queen. That still doesn't explain why my wife has to travel to King's Landing where there will be fire and blood," he remarked bitterly.

"I may be your wife, but I am their queen. And as their queen, I will not send my men off to die while I wait behind these walls to claim victory for the North. We will go together, and we will come back together," she fought back.

"And who will be here in Winterfell if you leave? We know your bloody sister is not likely to stay behind," Sandor pointed out.

"Bran will stay," she defended.

"Bran?" he scoffed. "I thought he was more interested in being a bird than a lord. Is he even a Stark anymore?"

Sansa abruptly pulled her hands apart from her chest, but she stopped herself before slapping him. Sandor grinned at her response, his arousal becoming obvious even through the thickness of the furs.

"You'd hit a poor cripple?" he chuckled. "Go on, hit me hard."

"I will not fall for it," she said. "I know what will happen if I slap you and...we can't," she muttered with disappointment. "I don't want to hurt you."

I wish you would, he thought.

"Now that you are awake, you need to try to eat something of substance. You've lost too much weight and have gotten much smaller," she frowned.

"Not where it matters." The words fell out of his mouth. Sansa stared at him blankly for a moment before grabbing his face with her hands and placing her tongue inside his mouth. Gods, is this what she has been holding back this entire time? Acting on instinct, Sandor's hands cupped the curves of her ass, squeezing her roundness inside each palm. When she let out a whimper, his hands froze and he pulled his lips away from hers.

"Do you want me to stop?" Sandor blurted out, realizing he had truly become traumatized by the dreams of raping her.

"No," she breathed heavily. "But I don't want to hurt you either."

Sandor scoffed. "I would break every fucking bone in my body if it means I can have you again," he mustered up the strength in his arms to pull her on top of him, straddling her legs around his hips.

"Take me then," she purred in his ear. The words were strung together like the sweetest of songs, escalating his desire to feel himself inside of her. Sandor rushed to loosen the laces of her dress, pulling the fabric down just beneath her bare breasts.

"Seven hells," he breathed before placing her nipple in his mouth. His tongue flicked over it eagerly, resulting in an erotic moan escaping her lips. She ran her fingers through his hair and pulled him closer to her breasts.

"Lay on your back," she breathed. Sansa stood up from the bed and slid her dress, hose, and silken small clothes onto the floor.

"Gods, if I could stand right now," he rasped, surveying her undress as he eased onto his back. "I'd bend you right over this bed till dawn."

Sansa giggled and climbed onto the bed, planting eager kisses all along his torso before making her way down to the coarse, dark hair surrounding his manhood. He grunted when his length was taken into her hand, stroking his stiffness tenderly. Sandor had felt more pain and experienced more loss in the past two weeks than he had in his entire life, both conscious and unconscious. So much so that the vast contrast of the pleasure he was receiving from her felt foreign to him. When her mouth met the head of his cock, sucking while she stroked him with her hand, his body jerked and let out a deep groan.

"San-, oh fucking hells, I am not going to last," he slammed his fist into the bed.

As weak as a green boy and as bloody quick as one, too.

She removed him from her mouth and crawled carefully over his right leg to straddle his hips. Sansa reached back with her hand and grabbed his cock firmly, stroking it once, then twice, before lifting herself up. When she sat back down, he felt his length penetrate slowly into her warm, yearning cunt.

Sansa glided on his length and he placed his hands onto her hips, following her smooth circular motions. The steadiness of her riding was agonizing torture for what his instinct called for. It took tremendous effort for him to not take her waist and drive himself inside of her with the ferocity of a rabid dog. But as he watched her, he realized that the leisurely pace allowed him to savor the moment. He paid attention to every moan, watched as she towered above him, the way her delicate hands gripped her round, supple breasts, and the way her auburn hair was tousled about her face from bobbing her head up and down his cock; he couldn't imagine a moment more perfect than the timeless one he was living in.

Her hands left her breasts to move onto his chest before she ripped them away, worried that her weight would be too much on his ribs. Sandor pulled her hands into his own, resting his elbows onto the bed so she could push onto his palms and support herself. Sansa fell forward slightly, using the added support of his arms to transition from gliding on his cock to bouncing on it. The first time she pushed against his arms he grunted, not from pain, but from the sensation of his length leaving her warmth. When she slowly sat back down, he clenched his jaw tightly as her cunt clenched back around him. Her eyes were fixated on him and he knew if he met her glance he would lose himself. Sandor shifted his eyes down to watch the auburn curls bounce on top of his length. That sight made him nearly lose himself, too. In order to prevent himself from peaking before she did, he shut his eyes. However, that only made him more mindful of the sounds filling the bedchamber: the gushing sounds as she lifted and dropped on his cock, the sound of her ass slapping against his thighs, and the cries of pleasure as she approached her peak. Once her walls tightened against him, Sandor opened his eyes and observed her as she tossed her head back from satisfaction. The sight alone was enough to bring him to his climax, allowing his seed to finally shoot inside of her after moments of holding it back.

Afterwards, Sansa did not move from her place on top of him. She sat with her eyes closed, panting, concentrating on steadying her breath. The sight of her breasts heaving up and down, the sweat glistening in the candlelight, stirred his cock inside of her and he caught Sansa smile at the sensation.

"Did it hurt?" she asked, brushing her fingertips along his ribs.

"No," he breathed. It was a lie. The pain presented itself all over, but Sandor knew if he admitted to the pain then Sansa would refrain herself from having him again. I'll burn in all seven hells before that happens, he thought. Sansa leaned down to kiss his lips before pulling herself off of him, his seed spilling out onto the furs.

"I am going to bring you food. This time, do not stand up or I might have to slip more milk of the poppy in your water," she teased with a smile as she dressed herself.

"Aye little bird," he threw his arms over his face, intoxicated by the moment they had shared. "You won't find me moving after that."