"You sent for me, my lady?"

Sansa stood, smoothing her skirts as Clegane clomped into her study. She felt like a field mouse in front of a hungry direwolf, but she summoned her blandest expression, the one learned in the Lannister court and perfected by life with Ramsay Bolton. "Thank you for coming. I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

He shook his scarred head. "Not particularly. There's only so much wine I can drink, and there aren't any wh—" He scowled, cutting himself off. "Never mind. What did you want, my lady?"

And it begins. "I have a proposal to make to you. I'd like you to return to Winterfell once your business in King's Landing is concluded."

"How did—" Those dark eyes narrowed. "Bran. That spying little shit."

"You're talking about my brother," she said with some asperity. "And the person who acted as bait for the Night King."

He grunted at that. "He's still a nosy little shit. And why should I come back here once I'm done at the Red Keep? You don't need another guard. Between Ser Brienne," he gave the title a sarcastic weight, "and that sister of yours, you're well protected."

"You're right. I don't need another guard." Just say the words. "But I do need a husband."

It was difficult to read Clegane's expression beneath the scarring and thick beard, but for a moment she saw a flash of longing before it was buried by his customary dourness. "And what do you want me to do about that? Am I supposed to track down the poor bastard and drag him back to Winterfell for you? Or is it the Imp you want? At least he'll be easy to carry—"

You great clot. "I was talking about you." She swallowed, hoping her face was still calm. "I'm asking you to marry me. On the condition that you take the name of Stark. I want the heirs of Winterfell to be Starks."

She'd finally shocked him into silence. And then his jaw clenched so tightly she could see the knotted muscles through his beard. "I know you've changed over the years, little bird, but I didn't think you'd become cruel," he growled. "I don't deserve this mockery—"

"I'm not mocking you," she said sharply. No—be gentle. You don't tame something by shouting at it. "I'm asking for your hand in marriage. I want you to be my husband and consort."

"You do mock me," he shot back. "You want me to be your husband? Me, of all the men in Westeros?" He stalked towards her. It was a struggle to hold her ground and not flee to safety, to stare up at him as he loomed over her. "You're telling me you want to look at this for the rest of your life?" he said, jutting his chin so that his burn scar was clearly illuminated. "Do you want to see it hanging over you in our bed? Because if I marry you, I intend to fuck you as well, count on it."

"I would hope so," she said, striving to keep her voice even. "Since it's the only way I know of to produce children."

His jaw dropped open at that, and she felt a flicker of satisfaction. Yes, I know you want me. And you can have me, too. But you have to agree to my terms first.

It took him a moment before he regained control and closed his mouth with a click. "You'd bed me. Of your own choice."

The suspicion and disbelief in his tone made her heart ache a little. "Yes." Even though the thought of it frightened the life out of her. "And have your children, and live as your wife. Sandor and Sansa Stark of Winterfell." She tried to smile. "It has a nice alliteration, I thought."

"Hah." He paced away from her, resting his balled hands on the window ledge as he stared out into the waning afternoon. "Why me?"

This had been so much easier in her head. "Politically, it makes sense. As Lady of Winterfell I will need to wed again and produce heirs. I would prefer a husband who can command the respect of our allies and the fear of our enemies. And I need one who won't try to rule the North through me." She studied his broad back, wondering what he was thinking. "You never struck me as the type who wanted to rule."

"Gods, no," he muttered.

"Well, then. You're a nobleman, even though you have no love for the nobility. And…" Her voice faltered as memories overwhelmed her. Pain, and her desperate, begging screams as Ramsay subjected her to yet another intimate torture. She pushed them away, clearing her throat. "You once told me that you wouldn't hurt me. Do you still mean that?"

Clegane glanced over his shoulder, scowl softening just a bit. "You know I won't hurt you, little bird."

She nodded, wishing that she could stop the tremble in her stomach. "Then you have all the qualities I need in a husband. The biggest sticking point is taking the name of Stark. I know that it's a great deal to ask, but—"

"I have no great fondness for House Clegane." He turned, resting against the sill. "My father chose his favorite son long ago. It's not my fault that Gregor's turned into … well, whatever he is now."

She'd heard only the barest of details from Jon about the grey-skinned hulk with burning eyes that had stood behind Cersei at their meeting. "Do you agree, then? Will you marry me and take my family's name?"

He remained silent for a moment, studying her. "When?"

"Tomorrow afternoon."

The one eyelid that could still move freely flickered in surprise. "That quickly? I would've thought you'd want to wait until we came back from lopping Cersei's head off and planting the dragon queen's ass on the Iron Throne."

She ignored the mocking crudity in his words. "If you married me tomorrow, you would head south afterwards as my husband. I could send some of my guard with you as your men."

He snorted. "I don't need a guard. Let them stay here and protect you."

Brusque as it was, she could see his point. "Then you would go south with my name, and my regard. That might be of some help to you in certain circles."

"Your name and regard. How generous of you." He crossed the room, stopping less than an arm's reach from her, so close she could feel the warmth coming from his body. It was a surprising comfort in the cool room. She wondered what it would be like to be held in his arms, surrounded by so much heat. "And your love? What about that, little bird? Or is that only given to pretty boys like Joffrey?"

She looked at him directly. For the first time she noticed that Sandor Clegane's eyes were a rich shade of brown, thatched with dark lashes, and his mouth and nose were well-formed over a strong chin. If it hadn't been for the burn scar and his perpetual scowl, he would have been a comely man. I wonder what he looks like with his hair washed? Or better yet, trimmed, along with his beard? "That will come with time," she said evenly. "My mother and father's marriage was a political one, but they grew to love each other. I believe we will, as well."

"Oh, you do, do you?" He tried to sneer, but it lacked conviction. "You think you can come to love a dog like me?"

With a shock, Sansa realized that he had just given her a glimpse into the secret core of his heart. Underneath the sweaty, scarred surface of the foul-tempered warrior was a man who had been convinced by the actions of his own family that he was unworthy of love. Many would have cut out their own hearts at that, spending the rest of their lives as cold-blooded killers. But violent as he was, Clegane still maintained some core of humanity, a tarnished but functional code of honor that had allowed him to come to her aid time and time again, with no promise or hope of reward.

In his own broken way, the Hound was more a true knight than all of the Kingsguard combined. "I can come to love a man like you, yes," she said, and meant it. "So, shall we be married tomorrow?"

After a long, painful moment, he shook his head. Her heart fell. "But—"

"We'll be married tonight. I know your people are preparing a feast—it can do double duty as a wedding feast." He paused, then gave her a faint smile, the first she'd ever seen on his face. "You're so eager for me, after all. No point in waiting."

She had to stop herself from sagging in relief, ignoring the fear behind it. "All right. Tonight, then."

"Mm. I'll be in the Great Hall. Have someone come get me when everything's ready." He gave her a brief bow, then turned to go.

"Wait."

He paused. "What?"

"I thought—" She licked her lips, trying to stop their trembling. I have to know what it's like, before the ceremony. I don't want to flinch and humiliate him. "Seeing as we're to be married and all, I thought you might like to ... kiss me."

"Oh." His gaze fell on her mouth. "I don't—I mean, the wh—"

He fell silent, grimacing, but she guessed what he meant. It seemed unbelievable, but considering how sensitive he was about his scars— "Have you ever kissed a woman?"

To her astonishment, a hint of pink spread across his cheekbones. "M'mother," he mumbled. "Not like it's that important, is it? Not compared to other things."

"It is important." Steeling herself, she reached up and cupped his face. His beard was crisp against her palms, and the scarred skin on the right side felt cool and stiff. He smelled surprisingly good, with hints of leather, steel, and clean sweat over a dark note she knew was male. "I would like you to kiss me, Sandor. Please."

He hesitated, but let her tug his head down to where she could press her mouth against his. His lips were too firm at first, but she persisted until they softened, parting slightly under her own. It was ... pleasant, she decided. He didn't know what to do, but then again, she reasoned, neither did she. The few times Joffrey had kissed her had been like kissing a dead fish, wet and sloppy. Ramsay's kisses had been brutal, bruising her mouth as he almost choked her with his tongue.

But Sandor was different, clearly expecting her to take the lead. She followed her instincts, letting the tip of her tongue flick along the seam of his lips. When they opened more, she slid her tongue into his wine-tart mouth. He seemed startled at first by her boldness, hesitantly brushing his tongue against hers. Cautious as it was, it caused an unexpected heat to pool between her hips. She slid her arms around his thick neck, clinging to him as they explored this new pleasure together.

When he groaned softly and wrapped his arms around her, she knew she'd won. Their mouths finally drew apart and she sucked in a breath. "I liked that."

His own breath was short as well, and he gazed at her with a soft amazement. "So did I."

A scolding servant's voice in the hall outside brought both of them back to reality. With obvious reluctance he tugged her arms from around his neck, but held onto her hands. "If I stay here much longer, I'll take you on the rug," he muttered, "and to all seven bloody buggering hells with a wedding ceremony."

The ridge she had felt pressing into her belly during their kiss gave truth to his words. "You'd better go, then. Or I'll let you."

He groaned, louder this time. "Sansa—"

No. There was far too much to do, a septon to speak with, guests to corral. Oh, Gods, she would have to tell Arya. Did she even have clean bedding for her wedding night? She squeezed his hands, wondering how they would feel on her bare skin. "Tonight, Sandor. We can wait that long."

"Maybe you can, little bird." He glanced down at his trousers. "I'm going to be in fucking agony for the rest of the afternoon."

Since her time with the Lannisters Sansa had always considered her femininity to be a burden. Now she saw the power in it. "I'll make it worth the wait," she promised.

Another of those faint, hesitant smiles, unexpected as a bloom in winter. "Tonight, then."

Letting go of her hands, he turned and left. She curled her fingers around the memory of his touch, using it to force away the fear of what would happen later. Not all men are Joffrey or Ramsay. And Sandor promised he wouldn't hurt me. In theory, she knew that what happened between a man and a woman in bed could be pleasurable—Shae had assured her of it. But whether such pleasure could be achieved with a man like Sandor Clegane remained to be seen. If he's gentle and quick, I'll be happy with that.

With a nod, she turned her mind to the task of arranging a wedding in less than a day.

"You what?" Arya hissed.

"I'm marrying Sandor tonight, and I need your help," Sansa repeated. "I've already pressed all of my ladies into service, so I need you to make the rounds and tell everyone the feast will be delayed."

"They'll be furious."

"Not if I invite them to the wedding."

Arya started to reply, then shook her head, grimacing. "Can I at least ask why?"

You owe her that much. Sansa laid out her line of reasoning, pointing out the political benefits and the need to add more Starks to the pack. "And I want him," she admitted, cheeks heating. "I think I always have."

Arya made a face. "Better you than me. Then again, he's an improvement on your last husband."

She wholeheartedly agreed with that. "So will you help me?"

"If I have to. What time is the ceremony?"

Her first stop after Sandor left her study had been to Septon Hoyt, a tall, genial man with a halo of white curls and slightly protuberant blue eyes. The septon had been unexpectedly understanding of her request, seeing as he'd been tending the wounded and mourning folk of Winterfell since the battle. "Give me enough time for a wash and to find a clean robe, my lady, and we'll get you and this Clegane fellow wedded properly," he'd promised.

"Moonrise," Sansa said now, "and it will take place in the godswood." The small sept that their father had constructed for their mother at Winterfell had been destroyed by Viserion's thrashing. And to be honest, she preferred the idea of getting married in the godswood. Not only would there be enough room for everyone, but it was a way to symbolically erase her marriage to Ramsay Bolton.

"The godswood at moonrise. I'll spread the word." Arya paused, studying her face. "Just so you know, I'll support you if Jon or anyone else objects. I'm not saying I like Clegane, but you'll be safe with him. He'll disembowel anyone who looks cross-eyed at you."

Sansa remembered how Sandor had fought for her during the Bread Riot in King's Landing, spilling the insides of her would-be rapists on the stone floor before carrying her to safety. "It wouldn't be the first time."

The news quickly ran through the keep, and people began stopping Sansa to offer congratulations on her upcoming nuptials. Some of them were more enthusiastic than others—her ribs still ached from the massive hug Tormund had given her before Brienne ordered him to let her go. "You will take the sadness from his eyes," he boomed. "Keep him warm and give him many children, eh? And perhaps other people will get ideas." He leered over her shoulder at Brienne. Sansa couldn't see her guard, but she could image the disgusted eyeroll.

The one sour note was Jon, who had steered her into a quiet corner. "Clegane? Sansa, are you mad?" he'd muttered. "The man is absolutely vicious. How can you want that in a husband, especially after..."

He'd grimaced, obviously not wanting to mention Ramsay Bolton to her. Trying to control her irritation, she repeated the political reasoning and need for Stark heirs she'd laid out for Arya, leaving off the part about wanting Sandor. Jon had seemed as unconvinced as their sister had been, but finally accepted her decision. "If you're sure—"

"I am," she had said, resting a hand on his arm. "He isn't going to hurt me, and he'll be good for our house."

An odd look flickered across her brother's face, but he'd drawn her into a hug. "Just be happy, Sansa. You deserve it."

She hugged him back. "Thank you. And while we're on the subject, I have a favor to ask you…"

Later that evening a light snow started after moonrise, just as it had the first time Sansa came to the godswood to be wed. But this time the path to the weirwood tree wasn't lined with iron lanterns on poles. It was lined with the people of Winterfell, each one holding a candle and watching in quiet, happy benediction.

Taking a deep breath, Sansa started down the path, arm in arm with Jon. She smiled at the well-wishers lined up to see her—Brienne and Jamie Lannister, Podrick, a grinning Tormund. Davos, Tyrion and Varys standing together, a faint look of regret on the small man's bearded face. Arya next to Bran's chair, one hand on his shoulder while the other held a candle. Behind them were northerners, wildlings, Dothraki, and Unsullied packed in all the way to the trees, here to celebrate the ultimate victory of life over death.

In the place of honor next to the septon stood Daenerys Targaryen, white-blonde hair freshly braided into a regal coronet. She wore her newly cleaned white fur coat and watched Sansa and Jon's approach with a polite expression. Behind her, Missandei and the Unsullied commander Grey Worm stood in place of the late Ser Jorah, silent guards against any potential enemies.

But there were no enemies there tonight. Only friends and comrades waiting to see the Lady of Winterfell wed.

Septon Hoyt had even been kind enough to use the marriage ceremony of the old gods instead of the one dictated by the Seven. "The old gods or the new, it doesn't really matter in the end," he'd confided to Sansa. "What matters is that you hold to your wedding vows and respect each other. Can you promise me you'll do that?"

She'd promised, and had been rewarded with a pat on the arm. Now Hoyt stood at the end of the path in a white robe and gold surplice. And next to him—

She hid her shock. Sandor's long, shaggy hair had been washed, neatly cut, and brushed back from his face, and his beard had been trimmed into an elegant style. His scars were on display for all to see, but that didn't seem to bother him. Instead, his gaze was locked on her, admiration, anticipation, and desire combined there in a heady mix.

She smiled at him. Soon, I promise. And then I'm yours, the way you wanted.

Hoyt smoothed his robes. "Who comes before the old gods this night?" he called formally.

At her side, Jon cleared his throat and said, "Sansa, of the House Stark, comes here to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?"

Sandor stepped forward, flakes of snow glittering in his newly shorn hair. "Sandor of House Stark. Formerly of House Clegane and of the Kingsguard."

A surprised rustle went through the crowd and she saw the dragon queen's head snap around at his announcement, but Sandor's attention stayed focused on her. "Who gives her?" he added.

"Jon of House Stark." Sansa heard a strange hesitation before the house name and her heart went out to him. You're as much a Stark as Arya, Bran, or I am, brother. "Warden of the North and former Commander of the Night's Watch."

Hoyt beamed at them all, waving Sansa forward until she was facing Sandor. "Lady Sansa, will you take this man?"

The last time she stood here she hesitated, afraid of what lay ahead of her. This time there was no hesitation at all. "I will take this man."

Hoyt nodded, continuing with the ritual. "Then by the authority of the old gods and the new, I name you man and wife," he concluded, gesturing to them both in benediction. Sandor took the cue and leaned down, kissing her gently.

Before he could straighten up again she whispered, "I like your hair."

He snorted. "It was the Imp's idea. He said I shouldn't look like a wildling at my own wedding."

"He was right. You look very handsome."

His unscarred eyebrow rose at that, but he seemed pleased nonetheless as he took her arm and presented them to the cheering crowd.

The wedding feast wasn't as lavish as some of those Sandor had seen in King's Landing, usually from his guard post behind the royal throne, but it was spiced with good comradeship and a rowdy affection that put it head and shoulders over those icy southern events.

The only thing he didn't like was having to sit at the head table with Sansa. Not that he objected to sitting with her, but he would have preferred to do it in a quiet corner of the hall. As the Consort of Winterfell, he supposed he would have to get used to being on public display. At least the damned title should cut down on smart remarks. And if some mouthy little shit pisses me off, I can have someone else beat him bloody.

Of course, where's the fun in that?

On Sansa's other side, Daenerys and Jon sat together, giving each other the occasional strained glance. Sandor would have bet his helm that they were fucking before the Night King arrived, but now it seemed like a crack had formed between ice and fire.

Not that he cared. He had his own problems to deal with. Tossing back the wine in his cup, he debated pouring himself another, then decided against it. It wouldn't do to go to his marriage bed sloppy drunk, especially as he was becoming increasingly worried about what would happen once he got there.

Sansa seemed to sense his discomfort and leaned over, her lips touching the ragged remains of his right ear. "All we have to do is get through this course, and we can leave," she whispered.

Which meant he didn't have much time. "All right." He studied the great hall full of people busy eating and drinking. As fate would have it, his eye fell on the one person who might be able to offer some advice. Gods, this will be fucking humiliating. But it's for Sansa. "I'll be right back."

Sansa gave him a smile, then turned to Jon. He stood and wound through the crowd, reaching his goal. "Lannister," he growled.

"Clegane. Sorry, Stark." Tyrion Lannister saluted him with a goblet before taking a noisy slurp from it. "I'm glad you took my advice on the hair. It's quite fetching on you." He wiped his mouth, the twinkle in his eye abruptly going out. "Now that we have the pleasantries out of the way, please know that if you hurt Sansa I'll find someone even bigger than you and have him slice off your balls. Slowly."

Sandor glared at him. "You'll have to line up behind Arya, Brienne, and Jon Snow, then." Each of them had already cornered him before the wedding and offered to rain down seven hells on his head if he harmed a hair on Sansa's. The only threat he took seriously was Arya's. "Why does everyone think I'm going to hurt her?"

Tyrion rolled his eyes. "Because you're you."

"And when have you ever known me to harm a woman?" He grimaced. "Well, apart from that blonde bitch that Tormund keeps trying to fuck."

The little man leaned back on his seat, raising one wobbly finger. "For your own continued well-being, I would suggest not calling Ser Brienne that, especially in Tormund's hearing. Or my brother's."

"Fuck your brother, and fuck that ginger cocksucker as well. I only fought Ser Brienne because she tried to take Arya." He rubbed his thigh, feeling the faint ache that was his parting gift from that brief, vicious fight. "I don't hurt women if they don't try to run me through or knock me off cliffs."

The Imp blinked for a moment, then his head tilted in acknowledgement. "You don't, do you? Come to think of it, I've never even heard a whore complain about you."

And why should they? He paid them well, didn't waste their time with unnecessary talk, made sure they were oiled and ready, and took them from behind so that they didn't have to look at him. He even suspected he pleased them a few times. His cock was certainly big enough, and he'd heard that women liked that—

An image flashed through his mind, of Sansa in her shift at King's Landing the morning she'd started to bleed. Tall but slim, with narrow hips. She'd filled out some since then but she was still slender. And he towered over her. "Anyway, I need to talk to you," he said brusquely.

Tyrion waved at the empty seat next to him.

"Not here." He jerked his head towards one of the unoccupied corridors. As he hoped, the Imp got up and followed him, goblet still in hand.

In the corridor the noise from the hall died down slightly. "All right, you have my full attention," Tyrion said. "What do you want?"

He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to speak. "Advice. I know you've fucked your way through every whorehouse from here to Oldport. I need to ask some things. About … women." He desperately wanted to grab the little man's goblet and drain it. "I'm bedding Sansa tonight, and everyone keeps telling me they're going to turn my guts into a banner if I hurt her, and—fuck it. I'm worried I'm going to do just that, without meaning to." His fists clenched. "She's tiny, compared to me. I don't even know if she can take me without splitting in two."

After a moment Tyrion's face contorted. After a moment Sandor realized the little man was trying not to laugh. "While I'm sure that your cock is a mighty weapon, Stark, I doubt it's the size of a baby's head, and women's bodies deal with those regularly. Still, I can see where your … stature might be a problem."

His fists clenched again, hard enough to crack the knuckles. "Don't you dare fucking laugh at me," he growled. "This is serious."

"Oh, no, I agree. It would be inconvenient in so many ways if you accidentally killed the Lady of Winterfell in your wedding bed."

For one mad moment, Sandor wondered if he could make Tyrion Lannister's head pop right off his stunted body if he squeezed hard enough. "Imp—"

Tyrion held up a hand. "Peace, Stark. I've just thought of the perfect wedding gift. Although now that I come to think of it, this may be more of a gift for Sansa than you. Wait here." He waddled back into the crowded hall, leaving Sandor to pace.

When Tyrion returned, it was with the squire who followed Brienne around like a suckling pup. "Stark, allow me to introduce you to the only man from whom the whores of King's Landing refused to take payment," he said with an ostentatious gesture. "Podrick, I charge you to tell the Consort of Winterfell everything you know about pleasing a woman."

Podrick gave them both a nervous look, but nodded. "I'll try, my lord."

Sandor bristled. "I know what to do with a woman."

"Yes, if she's a whore who doesn't care what you do with her as long as she gets paid," Tyrion said patiently. "A wife is an entirely different matter. You wanted my advice, I'm giving you my advice—talk to Podrick. Trust me, even I learned a few useful tips from him." The little man saluted them with his goblet. "Now, while you two are chatting, I'm going to find some more wine. This arid northern air has a horrible tendency to dry out my cup."