An empty flagon flew across the Great Hall in a hazy blur and struck the wall with a startling clank, triggering her vertigo. Sansa lost her balance and clutched onto the closest person her hands could find — Tormund Giantsbane. The wildling took a meaty arm around her waist with an eagerness that was far from innocent, and helped her back onto her feet. He might have never let go had Sansa not wriggled out of his handy grip.

If her husband hadn't already been going mad, he certainly would have upon witnessing that . But he didn't notice, for he was too preoccupied with hurling a second flagon into the hearth and flipping over an empty bench. The frightening rumble echoed above in the rafters, sounding like the roof itself was caving in, followed by another sound more threatening still.

"Three bloody years!" Sandor bellowed inside the silent, bewildered hall. He turned to the Imp with two clenched fists. "Three years you've been missing and you come here on my fucking wedding night!"

Undaunted by Sandor's wrath, Tyrion downed the contents of the cup in his hand and set it down on a trestle table wearing a satisfied smile. "Consider the debt paid, Clegane. You left during the Battle of the Blackwater, forcing me to lead a sortie out past the city walls. The scar that you see on my face, and the nose you do not, are as much your doing as Ser Mandon's, and, let us not forget, my sweet sister's."

Sansa could hear her husband's teeth grinding together. Before Tyrion would be next to be thrown across the hall, she stumbled forward and placed a hand on Sandor's hunched shoulder. The touch, as simple as it was, prompted him to unclench his fists and relax his jaw. He looked at her, eyes heavy with remorse, then released a dispirited sigh.

"The solar," was all he said, before lacing his fingers through hers and escorting her out the hall.

She tripped over her own feet as they walked towards the ajar oak and iron doors, intoxicated from overindulging in spiced wine. Her body felt loose and clumsy, but her mind did not. If anything, the wine sharpened her mental acuity. Sansa scrutinized the unexpected visitor, Tyrion Lannister, as they walked towards him. It had only been three years since she saw him last, but he had aged ten years in that time. He had grown out a pale blonde beard, his nose looked worse than it had just after it had been cut off during the Battle of the Blackwater, and his stare was more disconcerting than it had been on their wedding night. But most curious of all was what he wore around his neck — a chain of linked golden hands.

He's Cersei's Hand, she thought, impulsively, until she observed his companions standing outside the Great Hall, each of whom were garbed in armor not custom to Westeros. No, not Cersei, but the one we've all heard about. The dragon queen.

At an utter loss, Sansa stared at the dwarf with her mouth agape, tripping once more. Sandor swiftly picked her up into his arms before descending the steps and carried her towards the Great Keep.

As they left the comforting ambience of the feast, she discovered snowflakes decorating the yard, as a snow storm brewed in. Sansa looked over Sandor's shoulder and watched as Tyrion, along with his small retinue, followed them out. What does he want? she wondered, before correcting herself. What does his dragon queenwant?

Her husband carried her in silence towards the solar with a demeanor nearly as vacant as Bran's. He is lost in his thoughts, she knew, but what thoughts could those be?

Before they were halfway across the yard, the wildlings returned to playing their rousing tunes. I should be consummating my marriage with my husband, Sansa thought with dismay, as she twirled a lock of his dark hair around her finger. I shouldn't be holding council with my first one.

Moping inside the dreary solar and sitting with his hands clasped tightly atop the desk was Jon.

Only then did Sandor break his silence to issue a snarling, mirthless laugh.

Jon knew Tyrion would come, she realized, recalling the lecture he had given her regarding duty as they danced earlier that night. It had been amusing to her then, hilarious even, but that all changed as they entered the solar — it was infuriating. Jon was preparing me for something, but what?

Upon gingerly placing her down into a chair beside the desk, Sandor stood behind her and firmly placed his hands on her shoulders. That's when Sansa saw it: a parchment beside Jon's clasped hands, and the broken red wax seal.

Tyrion waddled in alone and shut the door, leaving his stolid men to stand outside in the corridor. "Unsullied," the Imp began, as he sat in the chair beside her. "They may come across as dull, but they are certainly fine traveling partners — quiet, obedient, and I need not fear them raping anyone."

"Slavery is outlawed in Westeros, my lord," said Sansa, earnestly.

"Indeed, Lady Sansa, but the Unsullied are no longer slaves. Queen Daenerys has given them their freedom." Tyrion reached over and grabbed the mug sitting atop the desk, sighing once he discovered it was empty. "The Unsullied serve her willingly."

Sansa looked again at the golden necklace. "And you're her Hand?"

The Imp grinned. "I am." He lifted his eyes and considered Sandor for a brief moment, tilting his head. "Now, how is it that you convinced the Lord Commander to wed the lady?"

"I dueled Gareth Umber for her hand," Sandor said, his words dripping with spite. "That's how, dwarf."

"Gareth Umber..." Tyrion stroked his unkempt facial hair. "Was he the Umber who once tracked down a man for taking his whore?"

"That's the one," her husband seethed.

Tyrion drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. "Where might I find this Gareth Umber?"

The question had been directed to Jon, but it was Sandor who answered. "You can find him outside the walls, burnt to a crisp."

"Ah," the Imp uttered with disappointment. "I could have used his sleuthing prowess. I've been searching for a woman for years. Perhaps Gareth Umber would have known where whores go." Tyrion sighed. "A pity."

"A pity ?!"

Sansa placed her hand on top of Sandor's in another effort to dampen his rage. Sansa eyed Jon's sulky demeanor before asking, "Why did Daenerys send you, Tyrion?"

"The Hound and Sansa Stark. The bear and the maiden fair," Tyrion pronounced, disregarding her question. "My own wife, wedded to my own family's pet."

Agile considering her inebriated state, Sansa turned in her seat and grabbed Sandor's jerkin with two desperate hands before he could lumber forward at the Imp. And in that same instant, Jon had shot up from his seat and drew his Valyrian steel sword.

That did nothing to drain Sandor's frustrations. "What the bloody hell do you think you're doing, bastard?"

"Lord Tyrion will not be harmed," Jon said gravely. The edge of his sword was so sharp it hurt Sansa's eyes to even look at it.

Sandor snorted. "Or what? You'll kill me, is that it?"

"I gave my word to Daenerys Targaryen that he would not be harmed. If killing is what I must do to uphold my honor, then so be it."

Sansa felt her blood drain from her face. "Stop it!" she blurted out. "The three of you are acting like foolish children!"

"The lady has the right of it," Tyrion admitted, though Sansa could still detect a hint of mockery in his tone. "Clegane, you have my formal apologies. I am, indeed, aware that Petyr Baelish paid the High Septon quite a bit of gold to annul my marriage with Lady Sansa in secret. It was a jape - a poor one, I'll admit. Shall we start over?"

While she was grateful Sandor didn't decide to follow through with his impulses, that was mainly due to the fact that he was too preoccupied with glaring at Jon. It was not until her brother sheathed his sword did Sandor look away.

Tyrion smiled, a bit nervously. "Now, Lord Commander, who shall have the honor?"

Jon made to speak, but first took a deep breath. "Sansa, let's pay our respects to Robb and father."

"I visited the crypt yesterday," Sansa said, bemused. "Have you forgotten that it's my wedding night?"

"It won't take long." Jon gave Sandor one last cautious glance before striding out the door.

Begrudgingly, she made to stand from the chair until Sandor started to knead her shoulders. The sensation sent a blissful chill down her spine, evoking a profound emotional release. Sansa closed her eyes and tilted back her head when he dug in deeper. The strength in those hands and how seamlessly they worked her muscles elicited small satisfied whimpers to pass her lips.

Until suddenly, Sansa remembered they were not alone.

Her eyes shot open. Tyrion Lannister was watching them with an expression that was equally as intrigued as it was horrified. Before she could excuse herself, Sandor lifted her from the chair and turned her around to face him.

"I'll wait for you in our chambers after I speak with the buggering dwarf."

The thought of him and Tyrion alone together in the solar deeply unsettled her. "Sandor, I—"

He gripped her bottom with both hands. Without so much as bothering to whisper, Sandor said, "Then I'll feast on your cunt until first light."

Coming from behind her, Sansa heard Tyrion shift in his seat and murmur, "Dear, cruel gods."

Had she not been dreading what conversation awaited her in the crypt, that might have made her giggle. Sansa stood on her toes to kiss her husband, tongue and all, and stumbled over her feet as she exited the solar.

Outside in the corridor beside the small group of Unsullied soldiers, Jon stood with a frown and offered her his hand. How dare he do this to me on my wedding night, she thought. Could it not have waited until the morning? In a sour mood, Sansa passed him right by and tottered forward towards the stairs.

They walked through the blustery yard towards the First Keep where the ironwood door leading to the crypts was located. Upon entering, Jon took the torch off the sconce beside the entrance and guided their way down the narrow, spiral stone steps. Twice she had almost tumbled down the stairs, not because of the wine, but because of the thick skirts of her wedding gown. Against her will, Jon took her arm in his and assisted her onto the level where statues of their father and elder brother had been installed soon after destroying the Boltons. Neither of their bodies had been recovered, so there had been no need for a tomb. It sickened her to know their bones would never return to where they belonged. And what made it worse, their likeness carved into the stone was poorly done. Even the direwolves that had been carved to lay at their feet did not look authentic.

Whoever constructed these statues never met my father, nor my brother, and certainly never found themselves too close to Ghost. While she silently made the decision she would have their carvings remade, Jon breathed in deeply through his nose and began.

"We need to go north."

Sansa looked at the stone face that was meant to resemble Lord Eddard Stark and felt her heart stammer. She knew who Jon was referring to, and she knew what was north.

Duty, she remembered his lecture. But it was not mine he was speaking of.

"No," she said, with the same sternness as their late father. "No."

"Your husband is a lord now, Sansa, which means he has the duties of a lord. He and I, along with a few others, will leave on the morrow to go beyond the Wall."

Sansa turned away from the two poor renditions and swung her hand, slapping Jon's face with all her strength. Neither the glove she wore nor the mulled wine could dampen the sting in her palm.

Jon didn't flinch, but the flames on the torch he held swayed about madly. "Sansa—"

"What, pray tell, do you take me for — a stupid little girl?" Her venomous words echoed off the tombs of Starks past. "Do you think I cannot see what you are doing? Taking him to the Wall when the Others march south to have him killed!"

"As long as the Wall stands, the Others cannot pass."

Sansa placed a hand on her eldest brother's stone arm to regain balance. A thousand thoughts passed through her mind in that split second, with each and every one of them centered around Sandor. "If they can't pass, then why have you let the northern lords stay here all this time? Winter town is near bursting with men. And fortifying the castle...why have you—"

"Before Bran, all I knew was that the dead were coming," Jon interrupted with a deep melancholy. "I've seen them, as have the wildlings and others from the Night's Watch. There are hundreds of thousands of them, Sansa. If the Others destroy the Wall, the strength of every able man in the Seven Kingdoms might not be enough to…"

Upon Jon trailing off and regarding their father's effigy as if he hoped it would provide him some counsel, Sansa studied him with a critical squint. "I imagine it would take more than a hundred thousand dead men to bring down the Wall."

"It need not take one dead man, only one horn."

"A horn ?" That didn't make any sense. Instead of bedding my husband on my wedding night, I'm speaking of dead men and horns with Jon in the crypts. She felt the sudden urge to slap him again, perhaps even kick him, anything to take that perpetual somber expression off his face. But instead, Sansa kept her arms and legs to herself and awaited his explanation.

"Joramun's horn, the horn of winter — it belonged to the King-Beyond-the-Wall thousands of years ago. The wildlings believe that blowing the horn will bring down the Wall. That is why when the Others returned, the wildlings searched for it themselves so they might seek refuge south of the Wall, though to no avail. But Joramun's horn is out there, and we must find it before the Others do."

"If the wildlings couldn't find it, how do you expect to do so? How do you plan on avoiding the hundreds of thousands of dead men?"

Jon lowered the torch, casting elongated shadows on the vaulted ceiling. "Because Bran told me where we need to go."

Sansa stood there, rigid with terror, as still as the dead Starks. "I'm growing weary of prophecy and visions. Bran never mentioned Sandor would be killed in the duel, only that he won."

"Perhaps he didn't know. He can't see everything, Sansa. I've asked him about...other matters, and he could not tell me how they would unfold. The past and present he reads like a book, but it's not the same for what is to come."

"He knew," she said, almost in anguish. "Bran placed his hand on mine a second before Gareth Umber's sword sliced my husband in half!"

Jon sighed. "Then perhaps Bran was showing you mercy by not telling you."

"I'd sooner have the truth than mercy." Sansa's dewey eyes left her father's statue to regard the man who looked more like Eddard Stark than the carving ever could. "And I'd sooner have you stop keeping secrets from me. You knew Tyrion was coming."

"I did," he admitted at once. "Daenerys Targaryen has arrived at Dragonstone, seeking the Iron Throne, as is her birth right."

This game for the throne will never end, she thought, as her head began to pound like the wildling's drums inside the Great Hall. "The Iron Throne lies in the south," she began. "So why is her Hand here in the North?"

"Sending Tyrion was an act of good faith — Daenerys relies on his counsel. Should we not retrieve the horn before the Others, she has agreed to fly north with her three dragons while her armies set sail." He turned to face her. The torchlight danced dangerously close to his face, but he didn't seem to mind. It was almost as if he longed for its touch. "Daenerys Targaryen will fight with us."

He reveres her. That was easy to see. It was in the tone of his voice and in the way his eyes suddenly became more intense. He may even love her. "Why will she not come now?"

"Her priority is Cersei Lannister. She will not risk her men and dragons to stop the Others if the Wall stops them for her."

Her caution is justified, but more so vexing. Sansa exhaled, despondent and sober. "I expect that she will ask for something in return."

Jon did not hesitate. "She has requested for the northmen and the knights of the Vale to travel south and fight alongside her armies in King's Landing."

Not only will Sandor go to the Wall, but should we escape the threat of the Others, he will have the duty of a lord to lead the northmen south.

Sansa laughed humorlessly. "Northbound, southbound, then where, Jon? Shall we seek passage for Essos? Or perhaps we should try our luck and sail west."

"Queen Daenerys has agreed to grant the North its independence, Sansa." The defensiveness in his tone was staggering. "That is not something Cersei is like to grant."

For a moment, she could do nothing but stare at him. QueenDaenerys, she noted in silence. It ismore than reverence.

"You have yet to meet her. How can you trust her?"

"I can't explain why, but I do," he said, returning to his somber self. Jon turned to face the statues. "Sandor and I leave on the morrow. You've wedded him, and you still have tonight—"

"On my wedding night." Sansa spoke in a voice as soft as a ghost's whisper. "You tell me this on my wedding night."

He didn't respond. His eyes were closed, as if he was lost in prayer. Staring at him made her eyes well up with tears, tears of anger and disgust and fear. They were hopeless tears, tears of submission.

Through her blurry eyes, she stared at Robb and her father. Duty and honor, but what of love? she thought, but she already knew the answer to that.

Some seconds later, Sansa said, "Jon." Her bottom lip was trembling. Once his eyes opened, she took a long, shuddering breath and continued. "If anything happens to my husband, anything at all, not even the little of the blood we do share can ever make me forgive you."

Bound by duty, bound by honor, Jon Snow nodded the once, then bowed his head in silent prayer.

The zestful music from the Great Hall still filled the late night snowy air as Sansa entered the Lord and Lady's chambers. Furthest from the entrance stood a large canopy featherbed, its bedposts as thick as the trunks of small trees and engraved with a charming pattern of weirwood branches and leaves. The brazier sat in the middle of the wall adjacent to the bed between two shuttered windows. And in front of the lively blaze inside the brazier sat her husband. He sat with his back against the foot of the bed, and his elbows propped up on his knees, holding his head between his palms as he peered into the flames.

Upon her entering, he didn't look up. Tyrion told him, she knew at once. A part of her feared that he was rueing the decision of marrying her and adopting the duties of a lord. But another part of her, a wiser part, knew him better than that.

Sansa latched the door, then minced her way up to him. "Sandor."

"All I see is fire," he said, never looking away from the orange serpents swaying inside the hearth, "wicked, bloody fire."

"Sandor."

"Why bring me back?" he asked, though she knew he was not speaking to her. His hair fell past his face, making it impossible for her to see his expression from the side. Even so, the tone of his voice could not be hidden, and it was as equally incensed as it was pained.

She kneeled down beside him and placed a tender hand on his arm. "Sandor."

"Show me something, you buggering fire god."

Sansa emitted a small sigh. Words won't do , she realized. It's not talking that he wants, nor is it what he needs.

She rose from the ground steadily, with a confidence that was more like to have been born of the inevitability of him leaving her than of the spiced wine. Sansa had been bold with him before, several times even, but the idea at the forefront of her mind rose color to her cheeks all the same.

It was apt for her to feel as shy as a maiden on her wedding night, if only for a few passing seconds. Though, it wouldn't stop her from bringing her idea to fruition.

Her bride's gown fell onto her feet like a mound of snow. Sansa lifted her shift over her head and removed her ivory heeled shoes. By the time Sandor looked away from the fire, she was left only in her smallclothes. The heat coming from the brazier reminded her of their first time together inside the cave, intimately warming her near nakedness. But Sandor's gaze burned hotter, still. Sansa slid the silk past her hips, then took a step forward.

Starting at his temple, she slowly combed her fingers through his hair, eliciting a deep, satisfied moan. He closed his eyes in response as she massaged his scalp, much like she had done inside the solar. Kindling that same emotional release, Sansa could feel the tense energy leaving his body. Once his hands began to explore her legs, she yanked his head back against the featherbed with an assertiveness that might have made him laugh in another situation. But not then. His eyes were gleaming, not with amusement, but with an aching desire for her to continue. Sansa obliged and took that last step forward, planting her feet outside of his hips, then placed her sex onto his mouth.

That first slow, methodical lick spread open her lips, inducing first a gasp, then a whimper, then finally a tremulous moan. Sandor's hands trailed up to her thighs and squeezed, firmly positioning her there in front of him. Though his fingers were digging into her skin, it only heightened the sensation of him tongue-kissing her slit as if it were her mouth. Following each smooth kiss, his pursed lips created a gentle suction which pulled on her nub and tugged on her folds. Sandor would accompany each tantalizing pull and tug with a quick flick of his tongue, then parted his lips to kiss her sex before doing it all over again.

Sansa did not only whimper, nor did she only moan - she cried out his name and let loose a curse. Unable to suppress the urge any longer, Sansa grabbed onto the bedpost with both hands and rocked her hips back and forth over his tongue, tossing her head back upon the sensation of his nose rubbing against her swollen little bud. While she was in control of the speed at which she fucked his face, Sandor's hands seized either of her cheeks and followed along with her grinding. Dominating a man so large and powerful in that manner felt euphoric, even more so than straddling him and riding his cock. He was at her mercy; Sansa was in charge of the pace and pressure, selfishly chasing her peak. And judging by the way Sandor eagerly thrusted his tongue inside of her as she rocked her hips back and forth, he seemed to thoroughly enjoy being the submissive.

The more she cried out his name, the more he growled into her folds with devilish delight. When one hand abruptly released its firm hold on her cheek, Sansa opened her eyes and looked down.

While he kissed and sucked and licked, Sandor loosened the laces of his breeches with his right hand and pulled out his cock. Sansa had never seen him so aroused. His manhood jutted upwards with immense longing, tempting her to lower herself down and feel it stretch open her walls. She considered it until he started to glide his hand up and down his cock.

He was pleasuring himself as he pleasured her, stroking his cock as he stroked her nub with the tip of his tongue. They moaned in unison, matching the others rhythm. Soon their movements became hasty, as if it were a game of who could reach their peak first. When Sansa slowed down, so did he. When she sped up, his hand followed suit. It was as beautiful as it was stimulating, to feel so connected to him. Not a word needed to be said, they just knew.

Lost in her pleasure, Sansa's hands found their way to her breasts, pulling down the silken smallclothes that still covered them. The sensation of her breasts spilling out evoked another curse to pass her lips, and then several more once she started to pinch her own nipples while writhing on his tongue.

While his right hand busied itself with his cock, his left hand remained on her ass, caressing, spanking, and squeezing until her skin felt raw. It wouldn't be much longer, she knew, not at all. Every fiber in her body was being fondled or fucked, one way or another. But Sansa didn't want it to end, she wanted to keep it going. She wanted to pull back just before her peak and ride his face until first light seeped through the shutters. But once he slid one finger in between her cheeks, rubbing her opening in cadence with the flicks of his tongue and the strokes of his hand, Sansa grasped onto the bedpost, convulsed on top of him, and succumbed to her pleasure.

The next thing she knew, she was on her back with her knees bent and touching her breasts, lying mere inches away from the brazier. Sandor did not bother to remove a single item of clothing, not even his dagger which hung off his loosened breeches. With his cock primed and ready, he positioned himself between her legs, pressed her knees back as far as they could go, and dug into her. Every thrust he delivered was more desperate than the last. It was more than just lust and hunger. He was fucking her like it would be the last time. When her eyes lifted from the cock driving into her and fell onto his face, she discovered that he was watching her, not her breasts, nor her sex, but her . Their eyes met, and that profound connection sparked her to peak again at once.

Sansa was half in a daze when he started to spill inside her, watching a bead of sweat trail down his wrinkled forehead while he cursed and moaned during his release. As his seed was filling her insides, his sweat dripped from his brow and glistened on her skin in the firelight. She had never felt nor seen something quite so beautiful.

Sandor collapsed on top of her, supporting his weight with his elbows while his steadying breaths mingled into the crook of her neck. His cock was softening inside of her. Every few seconds, Sansa would squeeze her sex around him and smile when he jolted and cursed. She ran her fingers through his hair, played with the sheathed dagger hanging off his breeches with her foot, and soon found herself dozing off to sleep.

On the cusp of entering a dream, she felt a chill on her neck, followed by hearing Sandor whisper, "Bloody fucking hell."

Sansa opened her heavy eyes, discovering that he had lifted his head and was looking into the brazier.

"What's wrong?" she asked, her voice dry and hoarse. Sansa could see the reflection of the animated flames in his eyes. When he didn't respond, when his eyes grew wider as he scrutinized the brazier relentlessly, she cleared her throat. "Sandor, what do you see?"

Staring ahead, unblinking, he said, "You...me...our little girl."