In half a day's time, once the sun set in the west, Sandor would enter the godswood and wed the woman he loved — the Lady of Winterfell, Sansa Stark. But at that present time, as the sun was rising in the east, Sandor laid on his back and watched as his future bride straddled him facing the opposite way.
Sansa leaned forward, placed her hands on his legs, and began to swivel her hips.
"Oh Sandor," she moaned brazenly, "I like this."
He propped his head up on a pillow and drank in the view of her round, pretty arse moving in circles. Sandor placed his hands on her cheeks and spread them apart, ogling at her cunt as it squeezed around his girth. Circling and bucking and grinding away, Sansa Stark riding him in reverse was the most stimulating of sights he had ever seen.
As Sansa placed her calves underneath his thighs, he grasped either side of her hips and assisted her in bouncing up and down on his cock. Sansa reached back with one hand, placing it just where his fatal wound had somehow healed, though the dark, deep scar that remained would forever be a reminder of the time the proud fool, Gareth Umber, all but hacked him in half.
Sansa's other hand disappeared in front of her, and then she was fondling his bollocks.
"Bloody fucking hell." Sandor squeezed her hips until she shrieked, provoking her to bounce faster.
His death had changed Sansa somehow, awoke a part of her more frivolous than he could believe. They had been going at it since yesterday evening, fucking in every position Sansa's clever mind could conjure up. A friend of hers from the Vale had apparently taught Sansa the ropes of pleasing men, but what Sansa was doing to him was far beyond pleasing. She was instilling within him a lust for life itself, inspiring him to be the best man he could be for her.
How do I deserve this? How do I deserve her?
It did not matter if he had her a thousand more times before he died — again. It would never make any sense to him. He had a purpose, he knew: her. But there had to be something required of him besides just reaping the benefits of her love and desire. Something to fulfill his purpose by serving her. Something…
"Oh gods!" Sansa shouted at the top of her lungs.
Sandor nearly spilled inside her right then. The hand in front of her was no longer on his bollocks, and though he could not see, he knew exactly what she was doing. Sansa bounced on top of him some more, touching his newest unsightly scar with the one hand while the other was busy playing with her cunt. Sandor shut his eyes, forcing himself not to spill, then felt her contract around him upon her unbridled release.
The morning sun rays that seeped through the shutters caught in her hair, making it shine like copper. She tossed her head back and let those long copper strands spill onto his chest. No longer needing to resist the urge, Sandor seized her waist and plowed into her as he filled her with his seed. He wasn't quiet in his release, cursing every word he knew in the Common Tongue, but neither was he half as loud as her.
Gods, how do I deserve this? he thought, as he emptied himself inside her cunt. How do I bloody deserve this?
A little minx she was, crawling beside him afterwards and kissing him on his neck. His cock ached something fierce; if he didn't rest, he would never be able to bed her later that night.
As Sansa threaded her fingers through the hair on his chest, triggering him to doze off, she said, "After we break our fast, can we do it that way again, but with you sitting instead of laying down?"
Sandor's eyes shot open. "Now I see what you're doing, little bird."
Sansa sat up and looked down at him, furrowing her brow. "What?"
"You want me dead again, is that it? You plan on fucking me to death to save yourself from the wedding?" He meant it as a jape, but that didn't stop her from dissolving into tears. Sandor sat up swiftly and pulled her into his lap. "Fuck," he thought out loud, "don't cry, little bird. I didn't mean—"
"It was awful," she sobbed into his chest. "It was so awful."
She didn't need to explain any further. Death for him had been quick, like falling asleep after being drastically fatigued. He died unknowingly, then heard her voice in a state of darkness. ' I'll never wed. I'll never have children', he remembered her words. Sandor could hear her as she had it, but when he had tried to call out to her, nothing could be said, not until he had awoken from that strange, empty stage of death and opened his eyes.
He would never say it aloud, he hated himself for even thinking it, but grief looked beautiful on her, though he would sooner see her smile. If there was ever a true testament of her love for him, it had been that, watching her mourn him in the middle of the castle yard with every man and woman in sight. It had been a testament to him, and it had been a testament to the others.
Dondarrion said something would happen to earn the support of the northmen, he thought, growing somber. Beric and Thoros were good men, irritating shits from time to time, but good men nevertheless. And now they finally rest.
Had it not been for Sansa's public display of affection, nor Gareth opening his proud mouth and confirming his wicked nature, the northmen might never have come to a consensus regarding their support for him and Sansa. Honor demanded the bastard of Winterfell to allow it, but it was Sansa, not Jon nor Gareth, who had convinced those who remained skeptical. Well, skeptical they might still be, but at the very least they did not voice their dissent.
Not an hour after his resurrection yesterday morning had passed before he, Sansa, and the bastard met with the heads of each house. Each had stated their concerns, each had asked their own questions regarding the matter, but by the end it, a unanimous agreement had been reached: the northmen would remain loyal and support their lady, and soon, their new lord.
Me, a lord? Once that raven flies, Westeros will shit themselves with laughter.
In an effort to comfort Sansa, he kissed the top of her head, unspeaking but fully present. Diction was not his greatest asset, so he'd rely on his physical affection to quell her sadness — and it worked. Her sobs were replaced by occasional sniffles, then gone entirely.
As the two sat there in that comforting silence, naked and sleep deprived after fucking for the sixth time since yesterday evening, a soft knock came at her door.
"My lady," her chambermaid called through the door. Sandor could hear the girl's uneasiness, even through the thick slab of oak. She heard that whole thing, he thought, amused. And with how loud the little bird was chirping, half the castle probably heard it. "The Lord Commander has requested Sandor Clegane to speak with him inside the solar."
Sansa sighed. Sandor cursed.
"I'll send him," said Sansa.
"Would you like for me to draw you a bath, my lady?"
"Yes, thank you...in a moment." Sansa shifted in his lap until she was straddling him. He could feel the wetness of her cunt against his skin, and the warmth of his seed as it began to trickle out. "We may not be able to see each other until the wedding." She traced the scar on his stomach with one finger before reaching back and grabbing his cock.
Sandor groaned, but stiffened in her hand all the same. "Aye, lets hope I still have a cock when it comes time to consummate our marriage."
Sansa giggled and turned around, guiding him inside as she faced the other way. "You will."
As Sandor sat in the solar, his cock all but falling off, the bastard brooded out the window and lectured him on every bloody thing under the sun.
Being thirteen years the bastard's senior, Sandor wondered if it was his Stark blood that made him so bold, or the blood of whichever tavern wench made the honorable Lord Eddard Stark forget his honor long enough to squirt his seed inside her cunt. Taller, heavier, and stronger, too, Sandor began to consider tossing the solemn, lecturing bastard right out the window.
He's Sansa's blood, even if only half. And he'll be my good brother soon… Sandor chuckled under his breath, irked.
"I must have missed what I said that is so amusing," said Jon Snow, turning away from the window.
"Who's laughing?"
Jon frowned. "You're to be the liege lord of every northern man and woman here. You must needs learn northern traditions. They may have accepted you, but do not assume they cannot turn on you just as quick. Northerners demand you to earn their respect. Northerners demand—"
"Spare me, Snow. I heard everything you've been blathering on about over there." Sandor noticed the pale direwolf in the corner rise from the floor, prompting him to speak with a kinder tone. "I'll not make them regret it, nor your sister. I'll do what I must to earn their respect."
Jon sat down at his desk and perused a lengthy parchment. "You will," he finally said. The tone of his voice troubled him. The bastard set the parchment aside, turning it face down. "What did you see when you died?"
The question caught Sandor off guard. "Shouldn't you know? I heard some red witch brought you back after a mutiny at the Wall."
"What did you see?" Jon asked again, firmly.
"Nothing."
"What did you hear?"
Earnestly, Sandor said, "Sansa."
Jon lowered his gaze, returning to where the parchment rested. "I heard someone, too."
"Who?"
"A woman that I've yet to meet."
Seven hells, here he goes again with the sulky poetic shite.
Just before Sandor could think of an excuse to storm out of the solar, Jon said, "A wedding will be good for morale, I think. Bran speaks of the Others as if they are right outside our gates, though it will be a couple months before…" He trailed off, opening and closing his sword hand atop the desk. "The northmen, valemen, and wildings could use one night to celebrate life rather than anticipate its ending. After the ceremony in the godswood, we'll have a modest feast inside the Great Hall. It will be the last feast for many of them, their last night of joy. We'd do well to make the best of it."
Half lulled to sleep by the bastard's morose nature, half amused by his feeble attempt to convince himself the wedding had a bright side, Sandor said, "Aye, no fear of that. It'll be a night to remember."
Sullenly, Jon said, "It will."
Dusk had fallen, all without a single flake of snow.
That was promising, he thought. Many of the northmen believed that snow during a wedding would lead to a cold marriage. But just then, the black sky was clear, decorated only by the moon and the stars that seemed to shine a little bit brighter that night.
Standing inside the ancient godswood, awaiting his bride, Sandor Clegane found himself reflecting on the night green fire filled the sky, those horrifying hours when the Blackwater burned.
He had been terrified to a degree far greater than he thought was possible. Remembering it struck the same chord, no matter how many days had passed. And yet, as Sandor stood there, clad in all black from his doublet and jerkin to his cloak and breeches, he found himself more terrified still. Not because of the crowd of noble lords and ladies who made up the audience inside the godswood, nor because of the wedding ceremony itself, but because of his growing apprehension that Sansa might change her mind.
How do I deserve this? How do I deserve her? he thought time and time again.
She was clever and beautiful and highborn, a lady, soon to be crowned a queen, and she wanted to wed him. She would only wed him.
Sandor stared at the torches lit inside the godswood, savoring the warm, enchanting atmosphere they created once the sun fully set in the west, and thought, R'hllor, Beric, Thoros, whichever one of you fire-loving bastards can hear me, don't let her change her mind. You saw me wed her, for whatever reason. All I ask is that it's true and not another flawed interpretation.
Once the she-wolf finally appeared and stood beside her younger brother who sat adjacent to the weirwood tree, its pale bark and dark red leaves all but glowing inside that primal place, Sandor knew it would only be seconds before his bride appeared.
He met Wylis Manderly's gaze. The fat lord sat in an ornate ironwood chair beside a brightly lit torch and gave him a nod of approval. Out of all the northern lords, he proved to be his greatest supporter.
Three years ago he would have decorated White Harbor with my head, and now he attends my wedding with the daughter of Winterfell.
It would never make any sense.
But there she was, smiling, emerging from the trees beside the entrance, escorted by the bastard of Winterfell.
' There she is, Clegane — Sansa Stark ', he remembered Thoros' words when they caught a glimpse of her in the Riverlands. Thank the gods, Sandor thought. Thank the bloody gods.
She wore a gown of ivory with a snug fitting bodice that glittered in the torchlight, delicately embroidered from the bust down to the flowy ends of her skirts. Her wavy hair was draped over both shoulders, framing her face that radiated in the dreamlike atmosphere. She wore a cloak fastened around her throat, grey wool with a white fur trim — her family's colors. Sansa might have been a widow, but she remained a Stark, and before the night was through, he would be one, too.
Northern weddings, to his pleasure, were not the sort of tedious ceremonies seen in the south. Upon the bastard escorting Sansa, Sandor recited what Jon had told him to ask. "Who comes before the old gods?" to which the bastard sullenly responded, "Lady Sansa of House Stark has come here to be wed. Who has come to claim her?" Sandor stated his name, watching Jon's broody expression become broodier, and then Sandor proceeded by asking whether she accepts him as her husband to which Sansa said eagerly and willingly, "I take this man."
Jon Snow, all but withering away from his outward misery, took her hand and placed it in Sandor's. Together, hand in hand, they kneeled in front of the heart tree's melancholy, unsettling carved face and prayed in silence. While Sansa would be praying to her old gods, Sandor's prayer consisted solely of him begging the Lord of Light who had given him another chance at life that when the time comes (far off in the future, he hoped), he would live one day shorter than Sansa, that way he'd never have to live without her.
Following the silent moment of prayer, they rose as man and wife.
The she-wolf stepped forward with something bundled in her arms. Without uttering a word, she handed him the woolen fabric and returned to stand beside the tree with her brothers.
He unfolded the woolen cloak, finding it mended and stainless, as white as the bark on the weirwood tree. "Little bird," he exhaled, his throat growing tight.
Sansa's eyes sparkled in the light, welling with tears. "I know I'll remain a Stark, but I want you to cloak me with this." She reached out and let the Kingsguard cloak run through her fingers. "The same cloak you left me that night, the same cloak I held onto the years apart, and now, the cloak that will make me your bride."
Had they been the only two inside the godswood, he would have skipped the feast and bedded her right there, sentient tree be damned. Instead, Sandor removed the grey cloak and wrapped her in the other, listening to her sniffle as he clasped it at her neck. Their union was far from traditional. Sansa was a highborn lady, and he was naught but a former sworn shield. Sansa would keep her family name, and he would adopt it. And yet, that moment felt more natural than any thousand year tradition ever could.
Upon cloaking his bride, Sandor picked her up into his arms and kissed her, first with tenderness, then with hunger.
And if he could trust his ears, the northern lords and ladies were clapping and cheering.
The wedding ceremony was over, all without a single flake of snow.
As he carried her towards the Great Hall for the feast, which with limited provisions would likely be an ordinary supper with an excess amount of ale and wine, he and Sansa exchanged ribald whispers.
"I want to make love to you in that same position tonight," she said innocently, twirling a lock of his hair around her finger.
Which bloody one? he thought, reflecting on the six they had tried last night, but what he said was, "We can do them all tonight, wife." The word felt as fine as silk on his tongue. "You can sit on my cock every which way."
He looked down at her in his arms and discovered her cheeks were flushed. Sansa caressed his scars and said, "What about on your face?"
Sandor abruptly turned on his heel away from where the feast would be held and prowled towards the Great Keep instead.
Tossing her head back in a fit of laughter, Sansa hit him on the shoulder and said, "Not yet! You need to go—"
"Clegane," the bastard's voice called out behind them in a dour tone, "to the Great Hall."
He came to a halt, and Sansa's laughter ceased.
The day this bastard fucks off back to the Wall and lets the Others take him…
Sansa wrapped her arms around his neck, as if she sensed his frustration. "Let's go, Sandor. Everyone will be eager to celebrate."
She always knew how to gentle his rage. While his time on the Quiet Isle had taught him the severity of taking another man's life (Gareth Umber had been the first man he killed in three years, and his death had been more than justified), Sansa remained his greatest motivation not to conduct himself like the same savage Hound that had died in the Riverlands.
Sandor gave her a kiss of gratitude and made for the hall.
The modest feast was modest, but certainly not any less lively than the wedding feasts he attended while serving the Lannisters.
Inside Winterfell's Great Hall, eight long rows of trestle tables were full of men and women from the North, from the Vale, and from beyond the Wall. While venison and mutton were limited, wine and ale certainly were not. And within fifteen minutes of being seated on the dais beside his bride, the entire hall was thoroughly in their cups.
Music filled the balmy hall, as did laughter and the occasional hot shouts from men gambling with one another and arm wrestling for an extra serving of meat. All were pleasant sounds, though Sandor found himself becoming too engrossed by his pleasantly tipsy wife to appreciate them.
It had taken only three cups of mulled wine to do it to her. So bloody innocent, he thought, watching as she missed the food on her plate with her fork, and chuckled under his breath. Sansa never had any intention of getting drunk, but as they watched the arm wrestling taking place inside the hall, the two of them made it a game and bet on which man would win, the loser needing to take a swig of their drink.
At that point in the evening, Sandor had been right every time, and a drop of ale had yet to touch his lips.
Once the dancing had started, the bastard rose from his seat beside them on the dais and took Sansa's hand, almost urgently. Jon Snow and his brooding self did not seem like the type of man to be fond of dancing. It was not difficult for him to see what he was doing.
The bastard wants to speak to her in private. He found himself vexed by that, knowing that if Jon said anything to her that dampened her mood the slightest bit, Sandor might find himself in his second duel in two days. Sansa draped her bride's cloak over her chair and gave him a wet tongue kiss before departing.
If this is what mulled wine does to her in public, my cock has no chance tonight. Sandor took a swig of his ale and thought of new ways he would fuck her in an hour's time.
As Jon and Sansa danced with one another to a steady tempo while the bastard lectured her about gods know what, Sandor nearly drew his dagger once he felt someone suddenly standing behind him.
"You need to dance with her," the she-wolf's voice said.
Sandor quaffed his ale and refilled it. "I will."
Arya sat beside him in Sansa's chair, squinting. "You don't know how to dance, do you? Guess that's to be expected when my sister marries an uncultured shit like you."
"I heard you cried yesterday out in the yard," Sandor teased the goading child. "I heard you cried a lot."
"Not for you!" she said defensively. "I cried because...the armor Gendry and I stayed up all night forging was ruined."
Sandor snorted into his ale. "This Gendry, what is he?"
Arya frowned. "What do you mean what is he? He's a blacksmith."
"What's his family name?"
"He doesn't have one. He's a bastard."
"A bastard blacksmith, eh?" Sandor peered at the trestle table where the black-haired lad sat. There was a likeness to him that was vaguely familiar. "How old is the boy?"
"Old enough."
Sandor eyed her suspiciously, then slammed his mug onto the table. "Old enough for what?"
Arya chewed her lip, then scampered away, grabbing her bastard lover's hand before the two exited the Great Hall.
"Bloody hell." Sandor downed the remainder of his drink and stared off into the hearth.
If I ever have a daughter, I'm like to go mad.
When the northern tune had concluded, Jon escorted Sansa back to the dais, and luckily for the bastard, she didn't appear any less jubilant than before. Upon sitting down, she leaned over, placed her hand on his groin, and gave him another shameless tongue kiss.
Jon cleared his throat loudly and leaned down to speak to him afterwards, murmuring, "She's had enough wine. When the serving girls come by, see that she drinks water for the remainder of the evening."
The bastard's audacity incensed him. Not only did Sandor have a serving girl refill Sansa's cup once Jon stepped off the dais to speak with his steward down the hall, he made sure the girl brought his wife a full flagon of the spiced wine.
The wildlings ended up taking over the music, bringing out their pipes and drums and filling the Great Hall with foreign, frenetic tunes. Watching the chaotic dancing taking place, and knowing Sansa would be as novice to it as him, spawned an idea.
Sandor rose from his chair. "On your feet, little bird."
She looked up at him as she took another sip of mulled wine, majestically inebriated. "Hm?"
"Let's dance."
That appeared to sober her up. Nearly choking on the wine she had just swallowed, Sansa placed the cup down and said, "I- I can't dance to this."
Sandor grinned at her reluctance. So bloody innocent. "Why not?"
"I don't know how," she stammered. "This is music from beyond the Wall, and it's so...fast."
He grabbed her hand and lifted her onto her feet. "All the better, then. I like it fast."
Sansa's eyes grew heavy, as if she meant to bed him right there on the dais. "I've known you to like it both ways."
Before his cock would conspicuously strain against his laces, he led her to the tumultuous floor.
"Sandor, wait!" she shouted, though she did not pull away from his grip. "I don't know how!"
He pulled her in close to him and watched the others. "Neither do I, little bird."
The boldness she had exhibited all day seemed to flee; not even the wine could convince her. "Oh gods, I'll look so stupid."
"Aye, we're about to make an arse out of ourselves." Sandor lowered his gaze and lifted up her chin. "But we'll do it together. Take a look around you, girl — they're all drunk. Not one of them is like to remember."
At least I bloody hope not .
Luckily for him, the wildling's style of dance did not appear to require much skill, nor did it have the refined nature of the Westerosi dances he had seen over his years. The men all but snatched a woman from her seat, wildling and noble alike, and traveled across the floor with hurried steps, matching the tempo of the frenzied folk music filling Winterfell's Great Hall.
Sandor looked down at her and grinned. "Are you ready?"
Wide-eyed, she said, "Oh gods, I can't."
The rhythm grew faster, and then they were off.
Half-gasping, half-laughing, Sansa said, "Sandor! No!"
Mimicking the others, he guided her around the floor in a jumping, sprinting sort of manner. It was unrefined and unpolished, a far cry from the elegant rock and sway of the hundreds of dances he had seen at feasts and tourneys and weddings.
"Sandor!" she screamed with glee. "Wait! Stop!"
The drumming picked up speed again, and so did they.
They spun around and were an inch away from crashing into Lady Alys Karstark and her wildling husband. Sansa shouted again, laughing all the while, "Sandor! No!"
Others had joined in, and the floor was becoming more and more crowded. Rather than a dance it became a game of moving as fast as you could throughout the hall without knocking over a knight or a lord on his arse. Sandor could hear the zestful hoots and cheers from the wildlings who rallied them on. The hall felt warmer than a summer's day in King's Landing, and had become just as busy, too. Eyes shut and mouth parted open from laughter, Sansa's everlasting innocence left him in awe. He became mindless of their surroundings, crashing into more than one couple as they capered about the floor. The more frantic the rhythm and the less control they had over their own bodies, the louder the two of them laughed.
In that moment, they were free, more so than when they had traveled alone together in the Neck. Because no longer was their love for one another a secret. She was his wife and would be until the day he died.
By the end of the song, they both had sweat on their brow. Catching her breath, breasts heaving up and down alluringly, Sansa looked up at him and said, "That was the most fun I've ever had in my entire life."
Not minding that they were in the middle of the hall, Sandor lowered his head and kissed her, slow and heavy.
That had been a mistake, Sandor realized, once he heard Wylis Manderly's thick voice announce, "Lord Commander, what say you? Is it time for the bedding?"
"Oh no," Sansa giggled into his chest.
Whether she was intoxicated from the folkish dance or the spiced wine Sandor did not know. But what he did know was that his stomach would need to be sliced open in half again before he'd allow every man in the hall to strip Sansa of her dress.
Curling his arms around her possessively, Sandor found the bastard sitting on the dais brooding, even in the midst of a wedding feast. He rose from his chair, gave a curt nod, then departed through the rear exit of the hall.
The wide oak and iron doors to the Great Hall opened just then, and a stupefied guard scurried inside. "My lady...and lord...there's…uh...there's…"
Still outraged by the thought of a bedding ceremony, Sandor shouted, "Bloody hell, lad, spit it out!"
The guard opened his mouth to speak, but it was another voice that filled the suddenly silent hall.
"My, my, my, what a pleasant surprise after that grueling northbound journey. We all know how much I love weddings." Upon hobbling into the Great Hall, the unexpected visitor stole a cup off the nearest trestle table and raised it high in the air. Grinning impishly, Tyrion Lannister said, "A toast to the newlyweds: Sandor Clegane and Lady Sansa Stark, may all your ups and downs come only in the bedchamber."