A Refused Proposal

Jon scrapes the old whetstone against Longclaw's blade. Ghost lies contentedly at his feet, gnawing on a leftover venison leg. Ned gave him his first sword and whetstone for his thirteenth nameday and he still uses the same fluid motion his father taught him so long ago. Sharpening his sword brings a measure of comfort and conjures memories of his father sitting under the weirwoods of Winterfell.

Mulling over his upcoming conversation with Stannis, he can still see the mask of fear returning to Sansa's face as he presented Lord Celtigar's offer. Cursing himself, he roughly courses the edge with the stone and soon hears the gate being raised. At the sound of the soldiers entering the castle gate, the huge direwolf raises to himself to his full height and growls. Jon strides over to greet Stannis and Lord Celtigar in the courtyard of Castle Black. "My lords, I hope this day finds you both well."

Glancing around, Stannis frowns. "Where is Lord Eddard's daughter? We understood she was to meet us as well."

Ghost sniffs the lords thoroughly before growling low and returning to his master, his attentions unsettling both of the men. "Lady Sansa is very devoted to both the old gods and the new. At present I expect she is worshipping in the godswood, having spent the last few days deep in prayer. Lord Stannis, being a worshipper of R'hllor and keeping counsel with a most dedicated priestess, I understand that you share her zeal for religion."

Gritting his teeth, Stannis replies, "Do you mock me, Lord Commander Snow? I do not consider this matter a jape at all."

Shaking his head, Jon answers, "Not at all, my lord. I was merely commenting that you and my sister share a deep devotion to the gods in hopes of providing a sufficient explanation for her absence at present."

While Stannis thinks this over, Lord Celtigar steps forward and addresses Jon. "I deduce by your sister's absence that I have received my answer then, Lord Commander Snow."

"Indeed. I approached her with your proposal and unbeknownst to me it seems another man has already claimed her affections. I explained you generous offer, Lord Stannis, but as you may well imagine after her experiences with the Lannisters and Lord Baelish, she is no longer interested in arranged marriages as a means of securing her ancestral home. Forgive me if we have wasted your time."

"Who, pray tell, is this 'other man' that he is more worthy than Lord Celtigar?" Stannis asks, scrutinizing Jon closely.

"I am not at liberty to say. The man of which I speak has done my sister a great service and treated her with uncommon devotion."

Visibly alarmed, Stannis quickly dismounts and strides toward Jon, only to be blocked by Ghost who snarls low at his advance. "Do not tell me she is to wed Sandor Clegane! Your father would never approve such a match. This cannot be! Tell me truly, is Sandor Clegane the man?"

Raising his hand, Jon interrupts. "I already informed both of you men that I am in no position to arrange any marriage alliance for my true-born sister. It is her choice and I will not discuss it any further. During my visit with him, Sandor Clegane expressed no interest in the war or even in Winterfell itself for that matter."

Frowning, Lord Celtigar asks, "This man Sandor Clegane-does he have terrible scarring on his face?"

Jon nods. "Yes, as a matter of fact he does. What of it?"

"Several of the soldiers serving under my command ran into him last night in one of the cabins. He was quite aggressive and claimed the men were upsetting his woman. Lord Commander Snow, I did not think you would allow your sister to associate on such private terms with any man. Frankly it may lead to questions about her honor. How is it he is under the impression she is 'his woman'?"

"You would do well to no longer speak of my sister at all. Her honor is not up for question by you or any man. Do I make myself clear?" Jon replies, his voice thick with anger."My sister's safety is my main concern and a well-founded one, at that. Apparently I must be especially careful with so-called men of honor, I can see that already." Glancing at Stannis, Jon asks, "Your men ran into Clegane and my sister in one of the cabins, you say? On whose authority did they act?" Stepping closer to the young lord, Jon squints at him warily. "What were they doing among the private homes? Your men only had permission to visit the center of White Tree, not harass the clan folk in their cabins. Answer me."

Stannis glares at Lord Adragon. "You, take four of my guardsman and make sure none of my soldiers are lost. Should you come across Clegane, give him a wide berth. Believe me, he is not the man with which you want to cross swords. I have seen him best better and faster men, good men, and kill them with a smile on his face. I cannot spare any one of you. Lord Commander Snow, I apologize for the men's behavior. It has been awhile since they have been among civilized people but that is no excuse for this travesty. I will see to their punishment."

Once Lord Adragon and the soldiers are out of view, Stannis leans in. "I want Clegane, Lord Commander Snow. I will not be refused in this matter. That man personally provided protection for my nephew. Need I remind you he participated in the death of your father? Are you aware he assisted Joffrey with preparations for the Battle of the Blackwater? I saw him cut through many a good man as though they were sheep brought to the slaughter! Lord Commander Snow, I mean to see him pay for it. He is not to be trusted any more than Gregor was and make no mistake."

"Now that Lord Celtigar has departed, please join me in my solar, Lord Stannis. I have an offering that I believe will help us reach a mutually satisfying agreement to our situation," Jon replies, motioning for the soldiers to follow him into the castle. Stannis watches Jon curiously and then allows him to lead him inside.

"Get those wet clothes off, woman," Sandor calls out while changing into dry breeches, trying not to concentrate on the fact that she is undressing within mere feet of him. Listening to Sansa nervously fumbling behind the changing screen, he laughs as he stirs up the embers in the great fireplace. "Once you're warm, you can change into the dry frock I brought you. Come on out before you catch cold," he motions to her, sitting on the hearth and patting the space in front of him.

Slowly she emerges from behind the screen wearing only her shift and a deep blush spreading from her cheeks clear down her neck. "About bloody time," he chuckles as he removes his wet tunic all the while trying not to gape at her beautiful figure. "Come here, you'll warm up faster if we share body heat. Don't be shy, I'm no maiden," he chuckles and, despite her embarrassment, Sansa joins him in laughing heartily at very idea.

Hesitating, Sansa's gaze sweeps over his bare chest slowly, her cheeks burning an even deeper shade of red. His chest and stomach are muscular and defined as though chiseled out of marble, reminding her of the statues in the Red Keep. Shyly her eyes follow the path of thick black hair from his chest down his stomach and disappearing below the waistband of his breeches. Moving closer, she spots faint white scars crisscrossing his back and chest, reminding her of her own scars from Meryn and Boros's beatings.

"What is it, Little bird? Can't bear to look at a man's naked chest? Or is it just mine?" He teases, wrapping her close in his arms and then bundling the furs around them. Basking in the warmth of the crackling fire, Sandor is amazed to find her skin is even softer than he imagined. The Little bird's hair smells of lavender and Sandor tentatively pulls her even closer while deeply inhaling her sweet scent.

"Forgive me Sandor, I know it is very unladylike of me to-to stare at you so. It's just-" Sansa's voice trails off as she timidly runs her fingers along the ridges of his stomach and then lower over the path of a long white scar. Her touch and boldness both surprise and powerfully arouse the man. All coherent thought is quickly obscured by the feel of her tenderly touching his bare skin. Lifting her face, he roughly asks, "It's just…what?"

"It's just that I was thinking we both wear scars on our bodies, that's all," she whispers, delicately continuing her exploration. "I'm ashamed for you to see mine. Forgive me."

Grunting he shrugs, apparently unperturbed by her blunt observation. She sees my scars as a sign of bravery, as having coming from battle whereas hers are the result of abuse and the Little bird feels they are a source of shame. "Don't apologize for telling me the truth, Little bird. You forget I was there when you got them. I'm the one that should feel ashamed. I stood there in that bloody white cloak and let them beat you."

Smiling sadly, she strokes his cheek. "No, Sandor, do not say such. You were the only one who called for an end to it and gave me your cloak besides. I still have it, too." Her eyes are full of longing and Sandor finds himself lost in her soft gaze.

"Bloody hells, Sansa. You need to stop collecting my cloaks." Removing the furs, Sandor drapes Sansa's thick hair over her shoulder. "Let me see your scars, Little bird-the gods know you've seen mine plenty enough."

Tears of humiliation sting her eyes but she assents, lowering the straps of her shift until long raised red stripes come into view, a stark contrast to the creamy white expanse of skin on her back. "They are ugly, I know. I have them on the backs of my thighs too-"

Sandor interrupts her. "You are beautiful, Little bird. No bloody scars change that. Ugly is the bloody bastard who called for your beating. Ugly is that cowardly shit Meryn. If he wasn't already dead I'd skin him alive for this," Sandor growls. Fascinated by the sight of her beautiful skin laid bare to him, Sandor leans close and gently strokes her back. For Sansa, the delicious feeling of his calloused fingers faintly tracing the length of her scars sends shivers of pleasure throughout her body. "Wear them proud. It shows you survived. You lived to see another day and that is all that matters."

"Yes, we both lived to see this day, thank the gods. Now we will wed." Snuggling against his chest, Sansa makes no move to cover herself, reveling in the feel of his strong arms against her bare skin, the hair on his chest and stomach tickling her back. "Sandor I must say, you do look rather nice without your shirt. You're so very big and strong," she giggles, hiding her face from him.

"Aye, you think so, do you? You look better without clothes too, my blushing little bird," he whispers, nibbling on her earlobe while gently caressing her stomach with his large moves the furs away from her once more and tenderly places his mouth against each scar, softly kissing the discolorations trailing down her back. "I've longed to do this since the day you were beaten."

Gasping, Sansa's head swims with the pleasurable feel of Sandor's warm lips against her bare back, his beard brushing enticingly against her skin with each kiss. "I…I wish you had. Oh my that feels good," He is so very tender with her and Sansa soon relaxes under his touch, her scars and the memories accompanying them vanishing under the feel of his mouth on her body.

"So beautiful," he whispers hoarsely, his hot breath sending shivers through her. "Tomorrow I will go to your brother. As much as I want you Sansa, I would make you my wife first."

Sansa tries to speak but cannot, the feelings of his lips and tongue trailing down her back removing her train of thought. "Oh yes, do speak to him," she manages before moaning low, her obvious pleasure gratifying Sandor immensely.

"Such an eager Little bird," he teases, gently moving her straps down her shoulders. Suddenly emboldened, Sansa surprises him by wriggling out of her shift, leaving on only her bottom smallclothes. "Careful girl or I'll be inclined to think you'd rather not wait," he rasps out, his voice thick with need as he gently runs his hands over her bare breasts, softly nipping at her neck and collarbone.

"Sandor please I...I do not wish to wait," she gasps out. "I wish for us to become one this night."

"Always so courteous," he chuckles low. "Are you certain Sansa? Look at me now," he says suddenly turning serious, turning her chin up to him. Gazing into her lovely eyes now glazed with desire, Sandor struggles to control himself, his voice rasping out his next words. "I would not have us joined in such a way without being wed." Love has never been a part of his involvement with women, his experiences limited to drunken, animalistic encounters that ended as quickly as they began. An intense shame accompanies his recollection of most of them, the unpleasant emotion Sandor expertly learned to drown with Dornish red along with the rest of the miserable happenings he wished forgotten.

Over the years, making love to his beautiful little bird has been a regular feature of his dreams. Since his time on the Quiet Isle, Sandor's singular wish is that their joining take place with love, tenderness and most importantly, a commitment before the gods. Sandor knows his past experiences have left him woefully ill-equipped to please such a delicate maiden but that does not prevent him from wanting to share a loving experience with her.

He longs to make her his wife, to leisurely explore Sansa and learn what it feels like to be wanted and desired by her. More than anything, he desires her to find her own pleasure as well and for their lovemaking to be as good as it can be for her. Sandor is determined their encounters will not bear the remotest similarity to his past couplings.

Sansa kneels in front of him, holding his face in her hands while she stares deep into his eyes and nearly taking his breath away with her next words. "I am no longer a child, Sandor. You must trust my words when I tell you that I love you. I love you, Sandor and I want you, too. I am yours and ready to be thus with you." Wrapping her legs around his waist, she settles herself on his lap and then delicately begins kissing his neck, nuzzling her face in his beard.

"Sansa," he whispers as she draws his head down to her breast.

"Sandor, please my love, I want you," she whispers in his ear, gripping his head.

Unable to resist, he tenderly begins tasting her beautiful curves and exploring her lovely body with his hands. When Sansa reaches down and begins unlacing him, he is jolted out of his reverie and remembering his promise, he stills her hands. Burying his face between her breasts and clinging to her, Sandor struggles to maintain control. "I promised your brother I would not compromise you honor. I mean to keep my word," he grunts out, his breath coming fast, his desire heavy upon him.

Stunned, Sansa smiles shyly at her future husband, proud he is a man of his word even in such matters as this. "As you wish, ser. That is most gallant of you, though my honor was never in danger of compromise, I assure you. How can there be dishonor in loving you in body as well as heart?" She tries to move away but he maintains a tight grip on her, clinging to her with all his might.

"Please, just be still a moment. Let me hold you, Sansa." Once his breathing returns to normal, he gently releases her. "Bugger your gallantry, little bird," he laughs low. "What sort of wedding do you want? I can't promise any bloody jousting dwarves."

Surprised by his reference, she bursts out in laughter. "Don't bother finding dwarves for our wedding, Sandor, please I beg you," she gasps, happy tears filling her eyes. "I wish us wed under the Heart tree with Jon and a few of our friends as soon as you speak to my brother. By tomorrow afternoon I wish to be Sansa Clegane and for you to finish what you have started tonight."

Grinning wickedly, he moves closer still, wrapping his arms around her waist while carefully stroking her stomach. "As you wish, my lady. Now sit back down here with me woman, it's bloody cold in here."

Sansa giggles, "I cannot promise I will be able to resist you," she purrs, her words sending Sandor's blood to boiling once more. Just as they settle themselves down once more, a loud pounding on the cabin door interrupts the couple's wedding plans.