"Get in the wheelhouse," Sandor ordered as she mounted her white palfrey. Sansa rolled her eyes.
His attitude from yesterday has not improved.
"I want to ride," she said unyielding.
"If you ride, I do not want to hear you complain at the end of the day of how you wished you had sat your pretty little arse comfortably in the wheelhouse instead." Her husband shook his head and took a deep breath. "Go on then, girl. I'll catch up with you."
"Not with that attitude. Arya," Sansa called out ahead of her, riding past her husband and falling into the column beside her sister riding on a grey palfrey.
"I thought you'd prefer the wheelhouse," Arya taunted, smirking as they exited the gates of Winterfell towards the Kingsroad. Sansa rolled her eyes again.
They all think I am the same spoiled little girl I was the last time I traveled to King's Landing. I may be a queen, but I will not be like Cersei. I will ride alongside my men on horseback the best that I can.
"I only intend to sleep in there," Sansa informed her.
"Well then I intend on making camp far from it. I do not care to hear that wheelhouse creaking all night," she japed. Gendry, the bastard blacksmith who was infatuated with Arya, rode beside her and chuckled.
"You really are crude. That's not like to happen anyway," Sansa muttered under her breath. She noticed that her sister's smile faded after hearing her words, as if they were alarming.
"Why not?" Arya asked.
"He is upset with me, I presume. Sandor would rather have me stay in Winterfell than go to King's Landing. He opened up to the idea for a while, but yesterday something changed. He became moody and quiet and he is even worse today," she sighed.
Arya was silent for a moment before turning to glance at Gendry. Something about the look she gave him urged him to pick up the pace of his courser and leave the sisters to their conversation.
"I love him," Arya said quietly. Sansa turned her head sharply towards her sister, her mouth gaping open in surprise.
"Truly? I never thought I would see the day," she giggled. Despite the sudden glee Sansa felt from her sister's confession, Arya's expression remained vacant. "What's the matter? You don't want to?"
"It's not that. I just never want to be a wife or a mother. That's not me," Arya explained. "Plus," she whispered, surveying the distance of the men who rode alongside them before continuing. "I have my eye on a few others."
"Arya!" Sansa gasped.
"What? I don't think it's fair that men can sleep with as many women as they want but women are expected to only sleep with their husband," she scoffed.
It's more than fair when you have a husband like mine, she wanted to say.
"Fair enough."
Arya gave her an odd look, looking around again before posing her question. "Have you ever wanted to fuck someone other than the Hound?"
Sansa was taken aback, and it immediately killed her playful mood. "First, stop calling him the Hound. And second, he is my husband," Sansa said defensively.
"That doesn't answer my question," Arya continued to pry.
"I've changed my mind. I think I will ride alone, sister." Sansa took off again, riding towards the front of the column beside her bannermen.
First Sandor's attitude, then Arya's ridiculous question. Perhaps I should have sat in the stupid wheelhouse.
"Your Grace," a man's voice called out behind her, his horse galloping to ride beside her own. When Sansa looked upon the man's face, she thought him to be one of the most handsome men she had ever seen: dark brown hair that flowed to his shoulders, dark blue eyes, and a strong, masculine jawline.
Years ago, I would have fallen in love with you at this moment. However, the years have done well to teach me how conniving and cruel beautiful people can be.
"Forgive me, I do not recognize you," Sansa said.
"Of course not, Your Grace. We have never met. My name is Philip," he smiled, his teeth a row of pearls.
"And your family name?" she asked, turning away from his sudden charm.
"I'm a Snow, Your Grace. My father was one of your father's household guards, Alyn."
Alyn. Yes, I remember him. I thought he was handsome, too. But that was when I was just a stupid little girl.
"I remember your father. I had no idea he had a-" she paused.
"A bastard?" he laughed. "My father was not much older than a boy when he got my mother pregnant. She was a tavern girl," he said in a relaxed manner.
Too handsome, too poise.
"I see. Many men talk fondly of your father." Sansa did not remember much, but it was said that Alyn saved men from the Brotherhood without Banners during the Battle at the Mummer's Ford against the Mountain.
"My father died a brave man," he began, easing his horse closer to hers. "I left the north once I learned of his death. I was a foolish boy seeking revenge. It wasn't until years later when I heard the Starks returned to Winterfell, defeating the Boltons, did I come back to serve the family that my father did. I became acquainted with Thoros of Myr and Beric Dondarrion upon my return. You see, if not for my father, Thoros might have died at the Mummer's Ford and would have never been able to revive Beric when he was killed by the Mountain's lance. They were kind to me because of his bravery. And they, too, died brave men. Beric most of all, giving his life up willingly to return our beautiful queen to us," he grinned at Sansa. "I may be only a bastard, but I will fight for the North against the Lannisters who are ultimately responsible for my father's death, and I will do my duty to protect you, Your Grace." He reached for her hand and acting on instinct, she offered it to him, allowing him to place a gentle kiss on her fingers. The bastard's deep blue eyes were locked onto hers for a moment before she pulled her hand away.
In that same moment, an approaching gallop boomed behind them as Sandor pulled up onto Sansa's left side with his face twisted with fury.
"And who the fuck might you be?" Sandor asked the bastard while pulling on Stranger's reins to match their pace.
As if his attitude was not foul enough already...
"Sandor, this is Philip Snow. He is the son of one of my father's late guards. His father fought alongside Beric during the Battle at the Mummer's Ford," she informed him, watching as his hands clenched tightly onto the reins.
"Your Grace," Philip greeted warmly.
"I've seen you." Sandor inspected the boy up and down with his eyes, a grimace on his face. "The bastard swinging his sword around with the Brotherhood in the practice yard."
"Yes, I grew close with the men my father fought with. Beric Dondarrion, especially. How does the saying go? 'We shall never see his like again'. Who can compare to the lightning lord? Easy to love, wouldn't you agree, my queen? A great man," he smiled towards Sandor.
"Yes, he was," Sansa agreed quietly, perceiving the sudden tension in the air. She noticed that Sandor's jaw was clenched as he sneered at the boy.
"I only wanted to introduce my-"
"You've introduced yourself. Now fuck off," her husband rasped.
While most men would be intimidated by Sandor's temper, the young bastard only smiled at him. "Your Grace," he bid her farewell before riding back towards the other end of the column. Something about that brief moment made Sansa feel confused and uncomfortable, as if words unspoken were being said but only Sandor and Philip could hear them.
"A bloody bastard has no right approaching a queen," he muttered to himself. "Kissing my wife's hand. I ought to slice the lips off that pretty bastard's face."
He's jealous, and for no reason. What is a handsome bastard compared to him? What is anyone compared to him?
"Sandor, that's enough," she reproached him.
"If you wish to ride, you will do so beside me from now on," he said unkindly.
Sansa knew better than to argue at that point. It would be a terribly long ride, and she noticed a couple of the bannermen already begin to whisper to one another. She decided to keep her mouth shut, refusing to provide more gossip for the men to talk about and focused solely on the southern horizon in front of her.
The column rode until dusk and made camp once the sun disappeared into the west.
Sansa was grateful that the weather favored the first day of their travels with gentle snows and light breezes. As the army made camp, she watched the men begin to dismount, feed, and brush their horses before setting up the expanse of tents and campfires.
Sandor gestured for Sansa to follow him from the front of the column towards the back where the wheelhouse would be located. Once they had approached it, he dismounted from Stranger and walked up beside her, grabbing her waist to help her off of her palfrey.
He may be acting like a brute as of late, but he hasn't lost all of his manners.
Once Sansa stood on the ground, the radiating soreness in her thighs made itself known due to riding all day. However, she would not dare complain about it to Sandor unless she wanted to hear him boast about how he was right.
Once Sandor took their horses, Sansa entered the wheelhouse and embraced the warmer environment. It was a modest size, unlike the double-decker she had ridden in with Cersei and Myrcella when she was a child. Though smaller and simpler, there was more than enough room for two people to stand, sit and lay comfortably. In between the two benches stood a table with legs that folded to lay flush onto the floor. Sansa lowered it as she entered and spread out a multitude of furs onto the wooden floor to sleep on.
There was no light inside the wheelhouse aside from a faint orange hue that poured in through the window slits from the multitude of campfires being built outside. The day was long, and the silence between her and Sandor put her in as foul a mood as him. Deciding she would go straight to sleep, she began to disrobe until she was left only in her smallclothes. Before she could climb into the furs underneath her, the door swung open.
Sandor climbed in with haste and closed the door behind him, leaving the two in the dark.
"You need to eat before you rest." His voice sounded strange to her after going hours without hearing him speak one word.
"I'm not hungry," she replied obstinately.
She startled when she felt his hand grab her wrist, pulling her towards him and lifting her chin to place a desperate kiss on her mouth. Sansa wanted to refuse his embrace after his repulsive attitude, but her body wanted him more than she could bear. She reached her hand down to his cock and moaned once she discovered that he was fully aroused. She fell onto her knees to pleasure him but he pushed her down instead, easing her onto her back atop the furs. His hand fell to her sex and pulled the small clothes down her legs with an urgency. A second later he was inside of her, thrusting vigorously as if he had not had her in years.
"Tell me you're mine," he panted. There was something in the tone of his voice that troubled her.
He is pleading, she thought. He doesn't just want me to say it, he needs me to say it.
"I'm yours," she whimpered. The words produced a guttural moan that escaped his lips, and she felt the warmth of his seed shoot inside of her. At the same time, Sansa felt a second warm sensation, but this one was on her cheek. When she placed her hand onto it, she realized that it was a tear.
He is crying.
Before she could touch his face, he rolled off of her and stood up. Although she could not see, she could hear that he was dressing himself before making his way to exit.
"Sandor," she called out.
Without either a look or a response, Sandor opened the door, filling the wheelhouse with several shades of orange before slamming it shut, and leaving her alone in the dark.