The Kingslander bastard's horse died four days ago, and it was Sandor's turn to ride double.

"Touch me and I'll knock you off the saddle," he threatened the boy over his shoulder. "Whine and I'll throw you off."

"Y-yes, m'lord," Gendry stammered.

M'lord. Sandor gave a bark of laughter and urged his horse forward. I'll get used to hearing that the same day I learn to love fire.

Traveling southbound slowly mended the hole inside his heart. Each day, the festering, rotting wound that had developed the moment he said farewell to Sansa became slightly more tolerable. Nine days or less would bring them to Winterfell, meaning nine days or less the suffering would stop all together. And yet the fewer days there were, the slower they seemed to pass. Nine days, nine years, nine hundred leagues away, it did not matter. He'd travel south and return to her over any expanse of distance and time.

Sandor looked briefly at the sky above. The ash colored clouds were as still as lakes of ice, threatening snow but not quite succumbing. No Others had come for them yet, nor had an undead dragon flown overhead as Jon Snow expected. Had he not witnessed the Others firsthand, Sandor would have laughed at the idea of resurrecting a dragon. But he saw their swords and armor, made of ice, but interlaced with magic and spells and other otherworldly things he did not understand. Doubting the white walkers' abilities would be the mistake of a fool, and Sandor refused to be the one to rue it.

They rode like their life depended on it, because it did, mounting at first light and riding until dusk was several hours old. It was stupid and reckless, but so, too, would be traveling leisurely given the ominous threat. Gendry's horse was the first to go, and Sandor knew it wouldn't be the last. If anything happened to Stranger, he'd never forgive himself, but they were both like to be dead if they didn't continue to haul ass away from the Wall. He spent extra time with him once they dismounted for the day, brushing him, speaking to him, even crying to him on his darkest days (which was nearly every day). A horse he was, but there were some things he'd sooner express to Stranger than to the four men who'd never let him live it down.

The weather, on the other hand, favored them greatly. But it was...unusual. Sometimes it would snow, but there had yet to be a storm since they left Castle Black. If that wasn't queer enough, the wind was all but absent. Jon didn't like that either and claimed it had to be related to the activity of the Others. Again, Sandor would not be a fool and doubt it, but at the very least the weather conditions kept them from losing hours of traveling time.

"It's the calm before the storm," Edd liked to tell them, again and again. "It's brewing."

As irksome as it was to hear, it was the truth, and his grim words never failed to make them ride a little bit faster.

However, even if the Others weren't on the brink of having an ice dragon annihilate the Wall, Sandor would have ridden south just as quickly. He had done his duty as Lord of Winterfell, as futile as it was, and his place was beside his wife. Not to mention the nightmares...

Those bloody nightmares.

They came every night, enough to make him dread sleep. He'd stare at the campfire afterward, desperate to see something in the flames to bring him a measure of solace, but there was nothing. There was always nothing. Something was wrong, he knew. Something was…

He had that one dream again. He had that one often. It was the one he had months ago, finding Sansa on all fours and submitting herself to a man with a shadowed face while heavily pregnant. It was different each time. Sometimes he'd find her in the godswood at Winterfell, other times in the haunted forest beyond the Wall. Sometimes she would be crying, other times she would be screaming for help. Once he even mounted his horse when he awoke in the middle of the night, until Jon woke, too, and commanded his beast to run out and stop him.

"It's too dangerous to travel alone, Clegane," Snow had called out to him.

Sometimes it felt like Beric Dondarrion had never died. "This Umber...if he touches-"

"-he won't!" Jon had said with conviction. And that had been the end of that.

Sandor wondered how the bastard could have so much confidence in the young lord. Men, even the best of them, were prone to think with their cock from time to time. Jon's own father was a prime example of that. And a boy of seven-and-ten who had the same blood as Gareth Umber was bound to err gruesomely . There were times when Jon Snow's reassurances were convincing enough, but there were also times Sandor wondered if he even knew the boy at all. He was desperate to return to Sansa - sickeningly desperate.

And he was not alone. They were all desperate to return, for one reason or another. Aside from Jon's frequent mentioning of the dragon queen, the gash on his calf urgently needed to be seen by a maester. The wildling did a fair enough job when it came to stitching it up, but his steward never failed to note the smell of it when he'd clean in the evening.

Gods, don't let the bastard end up like me after the Crossroads, Sandor thought more than once, not realizing he was, in a way, praying for Jon Snow not to fall over and die. He wondered why he kept doing that when praying felt so…wrong. The only god he believed in was Dondarrion's, and that sliver of faith was like to vanish if he never witnessed another vision in the flames.

Gendry spoke of Arya often, too often, Tormund spoke of a handful of women, one of whom was Sansa's own chambermaid, and Edd spoke of no one besides the Others and their looming demise.

Desperate, so bloody desperate.

The day was over, and eight days were all that remained. There was no snow that night, only clouds frozen in the black sky overhead. The calm before the storm. Once the fire had been built, he and Jon spoke to one another for some time while the others slept, until they heard the faintest sounds of hooves hitting the earth.

The albino beast took off, rushing south along the Kingsroad, a silent, massive blur.

"Ghost!" Jon shouted, awaking the others. He tried to stand, but the torn muscle in his leg only made him wince.

Sandor was on his feet at once, his sword at the ready, squinting as the faintest outlines of riders approached. They carried banners, two of them, and Ghost padded alongside them, panting so fiercely he looked to be smiling. Sandor sheathed his sword, peering at the banners.

A grey direwolf running on an ice-white field. House Stark. The sight was exhilarating until he recognized the second coat of arms. A giant, roaring on a red field.

House bloody Umber.

The surprises continued. The first rider to approach was not a man at all, but a girl. The she-wolf came to an abrupt halt and hopped off her horse, darting towards Gendry as if he was the only one there.

"Arya," Jon Snow whispered, though it was as loud as a shout with the absence of the winter winds. He and the bastard exchanged a look. "Clegane…"

The others came to halt beside the Kingsroad and then dismounted their horses. Sandor looked away from the bastard's silent threat and observed the four men. He recognized him at once, the boy who had to be Cregan Umber, and outwardly laughed with disdain.

Every maiden's bloody dream. Every whore's, too. The dream of every woman with working eyes, even the bloody silent sisters.

This Umber stood a few inches shorter than him, nor was he as broad in the chest, but considering he was seven-and-ten, he was a bloody giant. He looked like a lord. He looked like the man Sansa should have wedded. Strong jaw, clean beard, and hair cut shorter than most northmen he had seen, Sandor wondered if the gods were playing a cruel joke on him.

Was it envy? That was as foreign to him as praying. But there was some innate competitiveness that overcame him; Sandor almost felt like the Hound again - almost.

Cregan Umber bowed his head. "Lord Commander."

"Lord Umber," Jon observed from the ground, as bewildered as he was. "Why did Sansa send you north?"

"Your brother-"

"Bran won't wake up," Arya interrupted, pulling her bastard lover along with her. "We didn't know if you made it back from beyond the Wall."

Jon looked as pale as his wolf. "What happened to Bran?"

"He warged into a raven and flew past the Wall the morning you should have been riding south. I wasn't there when it happened, but Sansa said his eyes just closed and then he was unconscious. The maesters can't figure out what is wrong...why are you sitting?" Arya squinted at his leg. "Seven hells, are you hurt?"

Snow ignored that. "Is Queen Daenerys still in Winterfell?"

"She is, Lord Commander," Cregan Umber spoke up. "Jorah Mormont leads her armies from Dragonstone to defend Winterfell."

"Good," Jon sighed, rubbing his hands down his face. "Very good."

The young lord opened up his saddle bag and took out what appeared to be a heavy bundle of furs. Without a moment's hesitation, he handed it to Sandor. "Her Grace wanted me to give this to you first thing."

Sandor all but snatched it away from him and let it unravel in his hands. It was a woolen cloak, almost as jet as Jon Snow's from the watch, but with various shades of grey in the fur. A northern cloak made by my northern wife. He felt his heart swell, until it occurred to him what the Umber lord in front of him had said. "Her Grace?"

"Yes, your wife is no longer the Lady, but the queen. The Queen in the North."

Sandor blinked in silence. A wolf howled in the distance, and then Ghost took off. I should have been there.

"Was it Lord Wylis' idea to crown her so soon?" Jon queried.

"No, Lord Commander," Cregan almost stuttered. "It was mine."

"Yours?" Sandor boomed. The she-wolf started to snicker, but when he absently placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, her snickering quickly became a gasp. "You made my wife a queen? You? While I was away?"

Umber scratched the back of his neck. "Yes...Queen Sansa is a remarkable woman. I gladly bent the knee for her."

It was like swinging a stick at a wasps' nest. Tormund erupted into a boisterous laugh, Arya gripped the hilt of her Needle, the three men accompanying Lord Umber all bared their steel, and Jon Snow shot up from the ground on his wounded leg, all in the same instant Sandor grabbed the front of the lord's cloak and brought him an inch away from his face.

"Being funny, are you?" he rasped.

"Enough, Clegane!" Jon raised his voice, grimacing as he leaned on his sword. His hand clenched tightly around the wolf's head pommel, using the Valyrian steel as a cane. "Lord Umber, may I have a word with you in private?"

Sandor released him with a little shove, but Cregan was nimble enough on his feet to avoid falling back into the snow.

To his surprise, the boy betrayed no indication of fear. "Put your swords away!" Cregan ordered his men, as he adjusted the onyx clasp around his throat. "He is the Queen's consort. Your loyalty is to him before it is to me."

Was he mocking him? Sandor was sure that's what that was and would have grabbed him again and followed it up with a fist had the she-wolf not seized his arm. As Cregan helped Jon walk over to an area out of hearing distance, he and Arya sat down beside the campfire, its flames full of vigor.

Arya shooed the others away, including Gendry, and then looked at him with a semblance of a smirk.

He did not have the patience. "Say what it is you want to say."

She chuckled and said, "He's a real small clothes dropper, huh?"

Sandor leaned over and smacked the back of her head. "Did this buggering Umber touch Sansa?"

For whatever reason, she found that utterly amusing, despite having been clouted on the head. "Trust me when I say no."

"And the Imp? What of him?"

"No! Seven hells, you sound stupid as shit. Sansa isn't unable to defend herself, you know."

That was true. It was she who had escaped the clutches of Littlefinger. It was she who likely turned away the advances of hundred other men he did not know about in the years apart. Sansa protected herself more than he ever had, if truth be told. Perhaps his fears were more irrational than he cared to admit.

"I know that," Sandor sighed, mindlessly running his fingers through the fur of the cloak she made him. "She just means-"

"-everything to you?" Arya finished his thought. For once, there was no sarcasm in her tone. "Well, all she ever talks about is you ."

That quelled his darkest fears, even if only for a little while. Once his mind was free to wander, he abruptly said, "Is Sansa with child?"

Arya shrugged. "The maester never confirmed anything before I left, but her titties look huge. When you see them, you'll probably die."

"Seven bloody hells," he cursed, imagining burying his face between Sansa's full, supple breasts. For a few passing seconds, Sandor closed his eyes and reminisced how soft her teats felt when they filled his hand, how beautifully they jiggled when she'd ride on top, how sweet those firm pink nipples tasted when he'd suck them dry…

"Bran said he saw her have a boy."

That quickly interrupted him from his lewd thoughts. He opened his eyes, observing the girl grimacing as if she had read his mind. "A boy? I saw a girl."

"Well, obviously you saw it wrong," she sneered. "Bran has a better track record when it comes to prophecy than you."

"Arya!" Jon called out from the trees, beckoning her over.

Sandor muttered a curse as he watched Cregan Umber making his way over to the campfire. The she-wolf stood up, then kicked his foot. Before walking away, she said, "For what it's worth, Sansa told me to tell you to be kind to him."

Just like she told me to be kind to her bastard brother, he thought. Sansa is too pure for the likes of me.

It had only been a month ago that he and Jon couldn't stand the sight of one another, but Sandor's guilt had been enough to bury that hatchet. Even so, getting along with an Umber was bound to be a much greater challenge than getting along with his good-brother.

If Sansa has asked it of me, I must try. He's not like his brother, that's what Snow told me. I must bloody try.

Cregan stood in front of him and bowed his head. "Forgive me, Your Grace, for-"

Suddenly, Sansa's wish was forgotten. "Your Grace?" he issued a sharp guffaw. "Go on and mock me one more time, Umber."

"I was not mocking you, Your..." He trailed off and sighed. Without being asked to, Cregan sat down on the opposite side of the campfire and opened up his wineskin, looking pensive as took a drink.

I've been here before, Sandor thought, staring at the Umber across the flames. No matter how many days passed since that first night he spoke with Gareth, he would always remember that infuriating conversation. 'There's no such bloody thing as raping your own wife', Gareth said to me. Sandor's hands balled into fists just thinking about it. He wondered if his brother shared similar morals. Jon Snow said he didn't, but he would learn the truth of that soon enough.

When the boy leaned over and offered him a drink, all he saw was a younger, cleaner version of Gareth Umber looking right at him.

Sandor crossed his arms. "Bugger your wine."

Cregan lowered his eyes, but he did not appear to be easily intimidated. "It was not my intention to slight you by crowning your wife queen while you were away."

He refused to believe a word. The mere resemblance was enough to make him sick with fury. "Is that so?"

"I swear it. I suppose a part of me hoped to follow in my father's footsteps. Before the War of the Five Kings, he declared Robb Stark-"

"I know what he did!" Sandor snapped. "I'm not a bleeding idiot."

"Of course not, I apologize." Cregan took another pensive sip before adding, "I would also like to thank you for ridding us all of my brother."

Sandor snorted. "No need to thank me. I enjoyed every minute of it, especially when my steel split open his skull."

"I would have liked to have seen that."

It was not the response he was expecting. Sandor eyed him, a bit intrigued. "So what was it between you two? Did he catch you in bed with one of his precious whores?"

Cregan set the wine aside and looked him dead in the eye. "No, he caught me in bed with a man."

Sandor scrutinized the maiden's fantasy, unable to digest the words; certainly he had heard that wrong. "With a what?"

The boy took a deep breath. "When I was four-and-ten, my father and eldest brother traveled to Winterfell upon Robb Stark calling his bannerman. I begged to go along, but my father wanted me to stay behind with my sisters and two of his uncles. Once they left, I had never seen the Last Hearth so empty. I also had never been so free. There was a boy who stayed behind, the son of my father's steward who was only a year older than me. We had always been friends, but something changed once we no longer had so many eyes on us. My uncles hunted most days, so I never worried about creating suspicions about how much time I was spending with him.

"One morning, I kissed him in the godswood and he kissed me back. It made sense to me then. I had never been with a woman, nor did I ever wonder what it would be like to kiss one or lay with one. But when I kissed him, I understood why. I realized I was different from my friends and brothers. I also realized that I loved him.

"Gareth was visiting Karhold at the time, so I assumed he would ride alongside the Karstarks to Winterfell. But I was wrong." He paused when Ghost returned. Once the beast curled up just beside him, Cregan scratched behind the wolf's ears. "We were never close, Gareth and I," he went on. "He returned to the castle late one night and came to my chambers once he heard I stayed behind, calling me a coward and the like. When I wouldn't open the door, he beat it down and found Edric and I. He didn't say anything at first. After I begged him not to tell our great uncles, he gave me his word and ordered Edric to leave. Not another word was said between us before he walked away.

"About an hour went by before Gareth returned with a whore from the nearby town - a woman. He stood in the doorway and paid her a silver to strip off her clothes and climb into my bed. I prayed he'd leave after that, but he just kept standing there . The woman sat beside me as naked as her name day and then Gareth told me to touch her.

"But I wouldn't do it. When he took out his dagger, I thought he meant to kill me, but instead he threatened to cut open her throat if I didn't do what he said. So, I touched her." Cregan's hand shook as he pet Ghost's fur. "And Gareth...he continued to stand there and watch me with his dagger in his hand. I knew what was next. He demanded that I lay with her, but I couldn't. I physically couldn't. He saw that once she pulled the furs off my lap. I'll never forget the look he gave me... pure hatred.

"I thought it was over when he took the woman and left. When I woke up the next morning, Gareth was already gone. And Edric…" Ghost licked his hand, as if he could sense his distress. "The stableboys were the ones who found him. They screamed so loud we all thought we were under attack. No one besides me knew what happened. Edric was...almost unrecognizable when I saw him. I spared Queen Sansa the details, but you know as well as I what Gareth did to him."

Sandor did know. Beat him, gelded him, and left him for dead. Hate crimes such as that were not uncommon in the capital. Sandor held out his hand and cleared his throat. "The wine, boy."

Once Cregan tossed it to him, Sandor opened it up and took a hearty swig of the spiced wine, deeply disturbed by the testimony. To think Sansa could have wedded him … His brow was sweating. The absence of the frigid breeze was, for once, deeply missed, and the fire in front of him was not helping.

"Your brother was a sack of shit," Sandor said before taking another swig. "Had I known, I would have settled for slicing off an arm during the duel so you could have finished him."

Cregan gave a sad smile. "He who slays his kin is cursed forever. Gareth knew that too, else I wouldn't be here."

That never stopped me from wanting to kill Gregor all those years, he thought. It took an encounter with death and atonement on the Quiet Isle to stop me.

Sandor took one last drink from the wineskin, then handed it back. "Well, I don't give two shits where you put your cock, so long as it's not in my wife."

That made the lad laugh at least, but he could hear the presence of the pain - a pain that would never fully ebb. Sandor prayed he'd never come to know the feeling.

"You have my word," said Cregan. "You are the consort to the Queen in the North, and I gave her my word, too."

The Queen in the North. Sandor looked down at the cloak in his lap and smiled. Who better to be a queen than her? "And what did you tell my queenly wife?"

Ghost perked up upon hearing his master's whistle, trotting off silently through the snow.

"That I'd bring you home," the Lord of the Last Hearth said, "or die trying."

Cregan Umber was the brother he should have had.

As slow as the days were without Sansa, the hours were little less mundane now that he had company he could bear for longer than ten minutes. His relationship with Jon Snow had become cordial as far as good-brothers went, but he and Cregan spoke to one another without boundaries, like family, like brothers.

And it wasn't all good. They argued often, mainly over petty manners such as who would win in hypothetical duels and which strategies would be best for the wars to come. One time the argument became so heated that they decided to settle the matter with steel, the first to disarm their opponent being the winner.

Cregan lied when he said he was only a fair swordsman, or perhaps he was only too humble. He was better than half the men Sandor had ever fought, and far more skillful than his brother. But Sandor was stronger than him, and larger besides. He could have won if he wanted, but watching the boy brag to Jon Snow about how he bested the Queen's consort in combat was more amusing than winning an argument over where the infamous Dothraki should be placed in battle.

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but you'll be a good father," Arya told him that evening, as they gathered wood and kindling for a fire.

"Boys are easier than girls," he muttered. When Sandor noticed her glaring at him, he added, "Don't give me that look, she-wolf. It's the bloody truth."

"Not that, even though you're wrong about that, too. I told you Bran said Sansa will have a boy."

"And I told you she will have a girl."

She rolled her eyes at that. "Well, if it is a girl, what will you name her?"

Somehow he had yet to think of that. He paused briefly. "I'll let Sansa decide."

"She'll probably want to name her after our mother."

"Catelyn? That's a pretty enough name."

"If I were you, I'd think of a boy name you like. A boy version of Catelyn or something that starts with a C. After our father was killed, every northman named their son Eddard. It's too common, so I doubt she'll name him that now."

Sandor considered it, for the sake of shutting her up. "Not Cregan, if that's what you're getting at. I'll admit, I'm fond of the lad. Doesn't mean I'll name my son after him."

"Obviously, I'm not stupid."

He stopped and leaned against a tree, putting more thought into it. "Is Edric a respected name in the north?"

"Yes, Edrick Stark was one of the Kings in the North. You know that was Cregan's-"

"Bloody hell, where do you think I heard the name from?"

That earned him a scowl. "That doesn't even start with a C."

"No, but Cedric does."

Arya dropped the firewood onto the ground and looked up at him, her mouth agape. "Cedric Stark...Sansa will fucking love that."

He did, too. It was a strong name, a good name, but it wouldn't matter. Not right away, that is. Their first child would be a girl. And going forward, every time he thought about their daughter, he'd call her Catelyn.

More days passed, and each day brought less snow and wind, making their travels easier and their fears greater. The calm before the storm. There was no sign of Others, nor an undead dragon. Maybe they couldn't wake the beast, Sandor thought. Maybe this northbound journey wasn't for naught.

If he were a fool, he just might have believed that.

When they were a little less than half a day's ride from Winterfell, Tormund Giantsbane's horse collapsed, dead, an hour short of dusk. He saved the Horn of Winter from being crushed (not that it seemed to matter), and much as he did with everything else, the wildling bellowed out a laugh. "Crow, looks like I'll be riding with you! Har!"

He wasn't sure if it was that or the dead horse that gave Jon pause. "We should stop here for the night," Snow said, surveying the land. "We will not reach Winterfell before the morrow anyway."

Sandor would not have it; he was too close. Too bloody close. "I'm riding ahead."

"It's another eight hours, Clegane," Jon sighed. Even cordial, the bastard still brooded. "Not even your horse can manage that."

I thought you were eager to 'meet' your dragon queen, Sandor wanted to say, though it would have been a shame to return to Winterfell quarreling with one another again.

"He can rest here for a few hours first," Cregan suggested. "I'll go with him, Lord Commander."

Jon yielded with a nod, and then three hours later, he and Cregan Umber continued south.

First light was only hours away when they arrived outside of Winterfell's main gates. The guards posted atop the massive dark walls nearly shouted their arrival, but Sandor spat out a threat to them from below, commanding them not to inform Sansa he returned. He spoke with Cregan about it during their travels; he wanted to surprise her. He wanted to see the look on her face when she turned over in bed and found him lying beside her. If I can sneak up on her, he thought.

She'd have the door to their bedchamber locked, he knew, and cursed himself for not thinking about taking a key before departing. The only person besides her that would have one would be the maester. Sandor found the maesters inside the turret below the rookery. They were all awake, despite the godsforsaken late hour, muttering to one another about her younger brother's condition. Bran had yet to wake.

"Ah! Your Grace, you've returned," one of the elderly men said, forcing a smile. "How splendid."

There was no splendor in that greeting, but Sandor couldn't care less.

"A key to my wife's bedchamber," he demanded. "Now."

The youngest of the maesters nodded and scurried over to a cabinet beside the diamond-paned window, unlocking it with one key to unveil hundreds more, one for every door inside the castle. The grey-robed man skimmed the contents for a moment before presenting him an iron key. When Sandor turned on his heel and descended the stairs to make for the Great Keep, the maesters continued their muttering, and he overheard one say, "...warg into a dragon."

He was sweating and breathless by the time he approached the Lord and Lady's bedchamber, the Queen's now. The guard posted outside stood up taller upon his presence and bowed his head, feebly hiding the fact he had quite obviously been asleep.

"Leave," Sandor commanded in a hushed tone, daring not to wake her up now. I'm so close, he thought. So bloody close.

The guard cleared his throat. His voice was still raspy with sleep when he said, "Her Grace has ordered me to-"

Sandor only needed to give him one piercing look before the man took off down the corridor without ever looking back.

After nearly two months spent apart, the only thing separating him from his wife was the oak and iron door before him. He grasped the handle and slid in the key, his pulse throbbing his neck, and then hesitated. Sandor placed his forehead against the door, as nervous as he was the first night they spoke together after three years apart. It seemed foolish to be shy around one's own wife, and yet he hoped that feeling never went away. He'd be a fool for her. He'd be a fool for her gladly.

There was only silence on the other side of the door. Sandor turned the key painfully slowly, inching it open just enough to peer inside, inch by inch by inch...

He let out a harsh breath, far louder than he intended. It felt like he had been blind his whole life and suddenly he could see.

There she was - Sansa Stark. His wife. The Queen in the North .

Lying atop the canopy bed, nude save for his white Kingsguard cloak that was draped over her midsection, Sansa slept with her right hand resting on her cunt while her left hand was propped on top of his helm just beside her.

His cock threatened to burst from his laces.

Sandor eased the door closed behind him, wincing when the latch turned with an audible click. He looked over his shoulder and held his breath, feeling immediately relieved once he saw that Sansa continued to lay there motionless and unaware.

There was a tub full of water left inside the bedchamber. He inched his way over to it, daring not to make a sound, and placed his hand slowly into it to test the temperature. It was lukewarm. The little bird took a late bath and attended to herself afterward. He had never been so aroused.

Still holding his breath, Sandor undressed himself from head to toe. He had half a mind to bathe or at least wipe down, but there was no way that would go unnoticed, and waking her would ruin the surprise; he knew exactly how he wanted to surprise her. Before she sees that I've returned, I want her to feel that I've returned.

He was a predator on the prowl, and she was the unsuspecting prey. As he stepped lightly over the stone floor towards the bed, he noticed a bronze and iron crown resting atop the table - a dainty open circlet with two twin direwolves meeting at a point.

The Queen in the North.

Sandor stood beside the bed and took his throbbing cock in his right hand, steadily stroking it to the sight of her breasts rising and falling with her slow, even breaths. They were bigger, more than a handful now, and her nipples looked to be a shade darker, too. His mouth was salivating, longing to suck on them and make her squeal. He thought of waking her that way, then he thought of replacing the tender hand that rested on her cunt with his own.

But what ached more than his tongue, what yearned more than his hand, was his cock, hot and pumping with his blood. He could wait no longer. It was time. Sandor climbed on top of her, then spread her legs apart with his knee. He expected her to wake up and startle or scream, he even hoped she might slap him, but all she did was knit her brow, give a little whimper, and roll her head to the other side.

So bloody innocent. So bloody beautiful.

He could spill just by watching her. He could spill just by smelling her. And if looked at her breasts any longer, his seed would soon be painting the inside of her thigh. Sandor took a deep breath and filled his nostrils with that familiar scent, lavender and rose but mixed with something new, something just as sweet. Her hair was still wet, and the pillow underneath her damp. He looked down and was tempted to remove the cloak that still blanketed her belly, until he became distracted by the auburn curls between her thighs, realizing only then that she had shifted her hand over.

Everything about her looked more radiant, more vibrant. The pink in her lips, the cooper in her hair, the milky color of her skin. He wondered why he continued to torture himself by only staring; one inch was all that separated him from feeling her insides for the first time in three fortnights. The wet heat from her opening radiated against the head of his cock, as if it were guiding him to where he belonged, where he was needed.

And he was ready to give it to her.

Sandor fixed his eyes on her face and whispered, "Little bird."

He felt a chill on his face when she gasped, and as soon as those two blue eyes shot open and blinked rapidly up at him, he brought his hips forward that last inch.

There were times Sandor thought he wouldn't fit inside her tight cunt, and this was one of them. His grip on reality was lost once he felt that soft, warm, wet little hole gradually stretch open for him. "Seven fucking hells!" he groaned. It felt better than the first time with her, and he had been convinced that nothing could feel better than that. He forgot all about the Others and the Wall and the wars to come; all that was real, all that mattered anymore was her . She was his world, and fucking her senseless became his only purpose.

He kissed her lips as they parted in an "O", moaning into her mouth once his balls were flush against her arse. From the moment he entered her, her cunt rhythmically milked his cock, squeezing even tighter once he started to pull out, as if begging him not to leave. "Sansa," he exhaled, his voice heavy with lust. "Sansa...fuck!"

All the things he wanted to say to her were lost, all the declarations of his love and desire forgotten once their breath mingled and their bodies became one. Four powerful thrusts was all he could deliver before his balls lifted and he was filling her with his seed, grunting and groaning wildly as her tongue mapped the inside of his mouth. Yet even once he reached his peak, his hips continued to undulate, and somehow his cock remained fully erect; he couldn't stop.

And he wouldn't.

He thrust his hips back and forth, encouraged to quicken his pace each time he felt her tighten around his shaft. Those two dainty hands found their way to his face, caressing his cheeks with a gentleness that brought him to tears. He grabbed the wooden headboard with one hand while the other seized her waist, pinning her down beneath him as he rammed into her cunt. The bed shook violently, his helm tumbling off the edge and crashing onto the floor. Even as the headboard was slamming against the wall, Sansa's high-pitched moans were louder still.

While his cock stirred the seed he spent inside her, his mouth trailed from her lips down to her darker nipples, sucking and gnawing on her flesh and eliciting those squeals he loved to hear. Sansa didn't just smell different, she tasted different, too, sweeter and better than anything in the Known World; he quickly regretted not tasting her cunt before he soiled her natural flavor with his seed.

Her hips thrust upward in time with his own, their skin slapping together for the whole Keep to hear, and then she was cursing. Sandor might have laughed had it not made his cock pulse every time a vulgar word passed those rosebud lips.

"Oh yes, fuck me," she moaned, more brazen than he had ever heard her. His gaze lifted from her breasts, meeting those two blue eyes, more striking than those he saw beyond the Wall. "Fucking give it to me, Sandor."

"Oh fuck." When it was his time to depart the world for good, he wanted to die like this.

She is still so innocent, he thought. Begging me to fuck her and still so bloody innocent .

Sandor did as he was bid, and he did it harder than ever before, watching her rounder, fuller breasts bounce each time he delivered another thrust. He fucked her hard enough to make her curse again, he fucked her hard enough to make her cry, and just when he felt himself about to spend himself inside her again, her cunt spasmed, becoming even wetter, as if her fluids were shooting out. Sansa cried out his name, digging her nails so deep into his neck that he could feel blood beginning to bead; it was the sweetest pain there ever was.

He joined her then, pressing his forehead onto hers and spilling a second load inside her to add to the copious amount of fluids.

His cock did not remain hard after that, and pulling out of her embrace was as physically painful as it was mentally. I can't ever be away from her again, he thought. Fuck going south. Fuck the Iron Throne. Fuck the dragon queen.

The sheets underneath her were soaked. Sandor rolled off and just as quickly pulled her to his side. "My...little bird," he said in between erratic breaths, forking his fingers through her damp hair. "My wife."

"My husband," she breathed, sniffling into the side of his chest. Sansa tore off the cloak that had been draped over her belly, all but sticking to her skin due to the sweat, and then took his hand in her own, placing it on the small, firm swell that developed there while he was gone. "The father of my child."