Update: This fic will be going on a SHORT hiatus (...please don't leave me T_T...) I am planning it for 2 weeks. The main reason is because of my writing style; I try to stay a few chapters ahead and I've fallen behind. We are about 10 chapters until the end so I want them to be good! The other reason is my birthday is in 2 weeks, so I have to deal with some real-life stuff.

After this is a non-main-character POV chapter and I know some of you don't like those so I wanted to warn you in advance. But it will let you know I'm back! The chapter after that one will be back to Sandor/Sansa POV.

We will also be entering the infamous time skip. Therefore it's a great time to leave a review! Thanks again to Magnus for always dropping one *heart*

This chapter turned out pretty loooong (and my computer ate it which was really frightening.) It's also got more sex, I don't know what's gotten into me lately, haha.

CHAPTER 41

SANSA

Sansa looked on as Sandor slept peacefully in her bed, his scarred and muscled chest rising and falling in the dull gray dawn. They had slept together in the squashy brown sleeping bag so many times, Sansa was surprised at how quickly she grew bored with the newfound comfort of sleeping together in bed. She had a way to fix that. Sandor grumbled awake from her staring at him, and she hoped she looked seductive in her thin nightdress.

"Sandor, I was thinking . . ."

"Hm?"

"Well . . . I am the Lady of Winterfell, and you are my Sworn Shield."

"Yeah."

"Everyone knows that. But here, in private, it's not really the same, is it?"

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He plainly didn't know what she was getting at.

"Out there, I have a lot of power. But, of course you're more powerful than me. You're bigger and stronger. When it's just the two of us, it's . . . different."

"Yeah?"

"So, I was thinking . . . maybe when we're alone, we could play a game."

"What kind of game?"

Sansa steeled herself and brought her delicate fingers up to trace the hard lines of his chest. She could not help but blush as she made her first play. "A game that might feel a little more real than our circumstances . . . milord."

Sandor laughed when she called him that—a genuine, wheezing belly laugh—and Sansa reddened, unsure if he was laughing with her or at her. He had been somewhat distant ever since he came back from the Wall, and Sansa longed for them to be close again.

"You want to play like I'm the master, and you're the servant girl?"

She nodded coyly.

Sandor leaned back against the pillows with his hands folded behind his head. "That would be quaint, wouldn't it? A pretty servant girl begging for my seed, an ugly cad like me. Thinking I'll make her a lady once she swells with my child, just because she's beautiful."

Sansa blinked at him innocuously for several seconds, a feeling of embarrassment growing on her as she tried to work out what he meant.

Sandor turned to her. "Tell me, Sansa. Do you know what servants do?"

"Of course I know!" she stammered. "They take care of chores. They help in the kitchens, or groundskeeping—whatever they're assigned—and they keep the house in order. They help their lord."

He smiled wryly. "And you want to help your lord out, is that it?"

She nodded, hoping he was warming up to her. But Sandor gave a mirthless laugh and got out of bed. He reached for his clothes and put them on. Sansa stayed quiet, feeling awkward and waiting submissively to see where he took the game. He turned back to her as he was adjusting the cuffs on his shirt.

"Make the bed."

"What?"

"You heard me." He pulled at one corner of the heavy covers and dragged them until they fell in a pile on the floor. That left Sansa curled up on the mattress, which looked lumpy and uncomfortable without its bedspread. Sandor stared at her cynically. "Make the bed."

He has to ruin everything. She rolled her eyes and slid her legs out from beneath her. "Fine."

Sandor was suddenly standing so close to her that she fell back on the mattress, and he growled low in her ear as he leaned over her. "I think you mean, 'Fine, milord.'"

He does want to play with me, Sansa smiled, looking up at him with a devious expression. Sandor smirked and leaned back to watch her work. She resolved to give him a bit of a show, arching her back as she bent to pick up the covers. She hoped he would notice her toned legs and heart-shaped rear and thought she heard an appreciative "Mm," from Sandor, but the covers proved to be heavier than she thought. She was unable to lift them in one lump, awkwardly squatting and straining to gather them all for a few tries before settling on just one heavy blanket.

This was not quite the show I wanted to give him, she thought, a thin sheen of perspiration growing on her forehead. She struggled to drag the corners of the heavy blanket to match each on the mattress, but couldn't reach the other side and had to climb over the bed. She followed this process with the second cover before realizing that she had put it on the wrong direction. It's fine. It's not like he's going to notice, she thought, and glanced at Sandor, who was watching her patiently with his lips set in a thin smile. Sansa pulled the third blanket around until it followed the length of the bed. Then she threw the thick furs on top and stood back to admire her work.

It was a sloppy mess. She looked aghast at Sandor, who threw back his head and guffawed.

"Stop it! Stop laughing at me! Sandor, stop it!"

The door to the servants' room burst open and Jeyne came in. Sansa nearly screamed and grabbed one of the furs to cover herself—the nightdress she wore was far more immodest than the long cotton one Jeyne usually saw her in. Sandor—who was clothed—had no reaction to Jeyne's entrance, as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

And it was. Jeyne angrily pushed passed them on her way to her morning chores. Her face was as red as a beet and she looked like she was going to cry. She gathered the bedpan and Sansa's dirty clothes—scattered all over the floor—before pausing with her arms full to admonish her mistress.

"I'm not an idiot, Sansa! I know what you're doing." She jerked her head towards Sandor and Sansa felt humiliated. A pained expression crossed Jeyne's face. "We're supposed to be friends! Why are you keeping secrets from me? Don't you know that after everything we've been through, I don't care who you take to bed? And what a stupid attempt to hide it—making the bed poorly as though I wouldn't know he was sleeping in it! Seven Hells, all this sneaking around and you can't even put on a robe!"

Jeyne slammed the door and Sandor burst out laughing. Sansa felt that she was on the verge of tears. She fell on the bed and threw the blanket over her face.

"Hey," Sandor found her under there and brushed her hair back. "Don't be sour. I like this game."

"It doesn't seem like it!"

"That's for me to know," he held her by the shoulders and her heart beat a little faster to see him looking at her so possessively. "I like that you want to make me happy. And, it was funny."

I do want him to be happy! Sansa mused as she chewed the inside of her cheek. "I suppose . . . it was rather funny."

"That's better," he tipped her smiling face up by the chin to see her glowing at him and gave her a quick kiss before stepping out. "Now, to attend to my lordly duties."

Sansa dressed herself and headed for the courtyard a short time after. In truth, Sandor was the master of the house in all but name. He oversaw everything that had to do with animals and combat, including hunting, training dogs, and teaching men how to fight. Sansa needed him—while Winterfell prospered for her administrative, political, and social insights she had no martial prowess. Sandor was more than just a smart general to advise her—he formed her military up from nothing, enlisting strong men and drilling them in mock battles. He taught promising candidates how to use a sword; her only other commander was Anguy, who taught every able-bodied person in Winterfell how to shoot a bow. Sandor organized the management of the wolfswood—a group of rangers were chosen to begin breaking trails and counting animals so that sustainable hunting could take place, as well as gather any boon from the woods and report on any mysteries, banditry, or poaching. And Sandor naturally took up the training and breeding dogs, giving pups to Winterfell's inclined residents and teaching them how to drive a sled. It worked perfectly with Sansa's plan to establish regular trade with the rest of the world through White Harbor—they could build lodges along the way, and dogsleds would bring goods to the interior.

Sansa was grateful that Sandor took on so much responsibility because she had plenty to worry about on her own. The main thing was food—she was constantly weighing, counting, and projecting rations of food to ensure that the castle and its town would make it through the winter. Her parents had collected a lot; root vegetables stored in a damp underground sand pit to keep them as fresh as possible, ten tons of grain and flour, and dried spices. But it wasn't enough—two or three years' worth, and they were going through it quickly. Besides, Sansa wanted to grow her town—people from lesser settlements all over the North typically took residence at Wintertown over the coldest months. Sansa wanted them to come—and to have babies, too. The population was horribly depleted from famine and war, so she did what she could to encourage feelings of renewal and positivity in the damaged populace. Then there was the constant threat of scheming Queen Cersei in the south, dangers from desperate bandits or Ironborn, and ruling on claims of injustice brought up at court between her citizens.

It was easy for Sansa to see how a lord and lady, finding themselves together in an arranged marriage, could build a successful house without ever falling in love with one another. There was simply too much else to do. She and Sandor were so busy, they could easily go days without having any reason to speak to each other. In truth, Sansa realized, it wouldn't be that hard to get along with any spouse so long as they were a hard-working and honorable person. It was more important to build Winterfell's strength than pursue romantic attachment. But Sansa snuck Sandor into her room each night, and counted herself blessed that she had a lover she couldn't be with openly instead of a spouse she was emotionally estranged from.

When her father, Eddard Stark, was Lord of Winterfell, he used to reserve one place at the high table so that he could invite a servant to join him during the meal. Jeyne's father, Vayon Poole, had been her father's steward, and when he sat with the family the talk was of money, supplies, and servants. Now Sansa continued her father's tradition, inviting a different servant every day to sit with her so they could discuss their sphere of the castle. Today was the lead ranger's day, but Sandor dominated the discussion. Sansa had the strange feeling that he was the lord, as though they'd been playing her morning game all day. It made her weirdly excited.

But Sandor betrayed nothing, even inviting the Maester into the discussion to explain the symptoms and cures of frostbite to the ranger. The meal ended with Sansa feeling bored and a little disappointed. But it would not do well for us to tease our relationship in front of others, she thought as she headed up to her room. It would cause a scandal if word of their relationship got past her most trusted allies. It would be like playing with fire.

Jeyne helped her get ready for bed, chatting amicably, so Sansa figured that the morning's events were behind them. Sansa dressed in the long-sleeved cotton frock that she usually wore to bed while Jeyne hung up Sansa's heavy clothes and returned to braid her hair. Jeyne could get it straight in the back quicker than Sansa could with her own hands, and after her braid was tied Sansa returned the favor.

"Sansa, do you remember when we were girls, and we attended the Hand's Tourney?"

"Of course!" Sansa smiled fondly. "It was the first tournament you and I had ever been to, held in honor of my father." And the Hound won the lists.

Jeyne chuckled. "I remember that you teased me for thinking Beric Dondarrion gallant. You said that a low-born girl like me would never catch the eye of a high-born lord like him."

"I—" Sansa started to deny it but caught herself. She didn't precisely remember saying that, but she probably had. Her fingers worked faster through Jeyne's brunette locks. "I'm sorry. I meant no harm by it."

"But look now at the lord that has caught your eye!" Jeyne turned her head so Sansa could see the grin on her face. "Sandor Clegane is truly hideous!"

"Jeyne!" Sansa snapped at her. "Turn your head around! I'm not done with the braid."

"I sometimes felt jealous of your beauty," Jeyne continued, her head pointed obediently forward. "But our Master now is so ugly that I feel sorry for you! The bee chooses the flower, after all, not the other way around." She giggled. "And bees sting!"

"I don't know what you're talking about!" Sansa tied up the end of Jeyne's hair. "Let's just go to bed."

She climbed in and Jeyne pulled the covers and furs up to Sansa's chin. "No, I'm sleeping in the servants' room. You're staying here." She touched Sansa's cheek affectionately. "You poor thing. I wonder what sort of mean things he'll put you through tonight?"

"Jeyne!" Sansa turned her face away violently from Jeyne's gentle hand. "What's gotten into you!"

"Nothing," she snorted, heading for the door. "The situation humors me, that's all. It is funny, isn't it? That your fair beauty caught you such a brute? And if you wish to refuse him, you can't do anything about it!"

Sansa stared daggers at the girl. She knew that Jeyne was teasing her, but her words had a sinister edge she wasn't used to hearing. She didn't like private aspects of her relationship with Sandor spoken aloud, but Jeyne laughed it off. It's nothing too scandalous to her, Sansa realized, she's been through too much horror with Ramsay. Jeyne was positively gloating as she bid Sansa goodnight and snuffed out the lantern. Sansa was alone in the quiet. The large full moon spilled light through the high arched window and cast long shadows in the dark blue room.

Sandor never came to her room unbidden, but now she heard him as quietly as his heavy tread would allow. His shadow loomed over her and the weight of his arms crushed the bed down on either side. "Well, well, what a pretty servant girl that has found her way into my bed. I wonder, did she steal in here herself or was she put?"

They are in on it together! Sansa realized, a little surprised at the deviousness of her servants. Even if it was just for the purpose of this game, they had conspired without her to get she and Sandor alone together. No wonder Jeyne spoke so freely to me, Sansa realized, it was a joy for her to play that we were both servants, for a change.

"I was put!" Sansa pouted. She felt tricked, but Sandor's possessive frame and the way he took control so easily caused a feeling of butterflies and a knot in her stomach.

"Now, there . . . that's no way to speak to your master," he growled, but stroked her face gently as he said it.

"I was put . . . milord."

"Put here for my pleasure." He took off his shirt. Sansa felt distracted by the Hound's massive figure—she couldn't make out his scars, only the silhouette of his hard-muscled body in the moonlight. He dropped his breeches and she gasped at his boldness as he pushed the covers to the side and crawled, naked, over her. Her nipples turned stiff under her nightdress in the cold air and she shivered as he ran his large hands over the curves of her body.

"Mmm. A pretty maid like you, I'd have to have you. I'd call you to my bed each night and the other maids would make you come. Better her than me, they'd think, and serve you up like a bird at the feast to sate their master."

Everything he says is true, Sansa knew. People were afraid of him—if he were the lord, and she a servant, the others would throw her to him if they thought it would stave off some of his rage. She grew excited and her heart beat faster in her chest. Sandor pinched her nipples beneath the roughspun fabric of her dress and rolled them between his fingers. "Tell me, did the other one dress you and comb your hair to make you ready for me?"

"Yes, milord," she managed, writhing from the attention on her nipples. He reached around to the button at the back of her nightdress and pulled it down so that she was naked from the waist up, her breasts two full globes with rose points. He took one in his mouth and one in his hand, switching between them.

Sansa grew dizzy from pleasure, moaning beneath him until he finally had mercy and pulled away. "You think I'll take you," he held her to him and his hand wandered down to her stomach, "and put my bastard in your belly?"

Her heart beat faster. "As you wish, milord."

Sandor laughed. "Do you know what any lord would think, if he heard that from a low-born girl?"

Sansa could not think, especially now that Sandor had brought his hand up to her face and was tracing his thumb over her lips. "No . . . what?"

"I can't have her pregnant. I'd better use her mouth."

"Ohhh . . ." Sansa gave a long, low moan as he pushed his thumb inside and pressed down on her tongue. The knot in her stomach shifted lower as he explored, and when he withdrew his hand and lay back with his manhood sticking up Sansa licked and suckled him until he stood at firm attention.

She did not know if something was wrong with her, but when she touched this part of him a mind-numbing lust came over her. All she could think of was the iron hardness, the skin fascinatingly soft for how unusual it was to find on his calloused body. She needed to feel his relief for herself, a release of all the pain and tension held inside him, and she had a fearfully selfish need to reach her own pleasure as well.

He pressed against the back of her throat, large and pulsing in her mouth. His hands gripped her hair and forced her head down as she sputtered and struggled to take him even more deeply, moaning in the throes of enthusiasm. Sandor pulled her off him. "Get up," he said. "Get on top of me."

She straddled him, one smooth milky white thigh on either side of his hips. Even though they had already done everything together, she still sometimes felt like a virgin with him—as she did now; anxious, excited, shy about what would happen next. He weighed her breasts in his hands and Sansa cooed appreciatively, teasing his shaft by rubbing it against her sex. She rather liked being in control—setting the pace, guiding him into her—and she reached down at the same time he dropped his hands to tightly grip her waist. Sansa trembled, her perky breasts left alone and pointing high in the air. He was pushing into her.

"Oh, Sandor," she pleaded, "please be gentle."

He slapped her on the rump—quick, hard—and Sansa gasped and drew up to escape the pain.

"Milord! Please!"

Sandor grunted his approval and slowly pulled her down onto him. Sansa felt his rigid member nestled against her sex, pushing past her tight entrance and pressing deeper. I will never get used to the size of him, she thought, tossing her hair back and steadying her hands against his chest. She spread her knees wider, but this only encouraged him to thrust deeper until he was buried in her to the hilt. His hands massaged her body, squeezing her hips, thighs, and her stomach as though he could feel himself inside her.

"Oh, Gods, hnng," Sansa murmured stupidly, her mind a blank mess that could concentrate on nothing but the feeling of him stretching her. She rode him slowly, sitting up straighter at the end of each thrust when he would grab her butt and pull her down firmly onto him. She squatted, riding him faster and soon she was shaking needfully as she reached the brink of her pleasure. Sandor gathered her to him and flipped her over on her back.

Sansa moaned and, shyly realizing that she was drooling from both mouths, tried to close her spread legs. He grabbed her ankle, lifted it above her head, and quickly spanked her—Sansa threw back her head and howled. "No more, no more, please!" He hit her again. "Milord!" She managed, and he took over her body, spreading her legs for a few more deep thrusts before he roared and released inside of her.

Sandor's excitement tapered off to intermittent cursing before he gathered her up in his arms, "Ah, Gods, Sansa," he said between deep kisses, "You're too good to me. You're too sweet." She whimpered quietly, feeling that her very bones had grown weak inside her wet and trembling body. His full weight crushed her, but she refused to protest and when he rolled over on his back she cuddled closer to him. If only we were animals, who have no rank or title, she thought, staring at the moon before she fell asleep, then I could submit to him in everything.