The appearance of the white walker changed everything. There were still not enough weapons made from dragonglass ready, but Jon Snow had little choice but to prepare his army to march North. She had thought, like her king, that there would have been more time-time to spend with her family. And...
Sandor.
She watched him eat at his place below her, watched the precision of his movements that came from years of training and killing. Those hands have murdered women and children, she thought, but it did not turn her stomach. She had seen real monsters, and she knew they hid behind smiles, lies, and pomades. Her Hound was no mad dog. What else does an injured beast do, but bite at the hands that try to heal it?
No, she was more fixated on what else he knew his hands were capable of. As if he heard her thoughts, he looked up at her with heavy eyes, and Sansa knew her cheeks were turning pink. What strange power he had over her, making her body tingle without even being near her. She bit her lip and cast her gaze down at her untouched food, knowing she could not eat a bite with her stomach in its current state. "Excuse me," she said, standing as gracefully as she could. "Your Graces. I fear I'm not feeling well."
Most everyone paid her little mind, except for Sandor. She knew he was observing her as she pushed in her chair and left the hall. She knew it would only be a matter of minutes before he would be following her. She made her way to the godswood, far away from the noise and heat. The winter chill felt like a salve on her flushed face, and she settled down at the base of the weirwood, her thick skirts protecting her from the hard earth. "I always know I'll find you here, little bird." There he was, and she took in the sight of him, healthy and dark-haired. His body was long and wide, and she knew where every scar was under his leathers; no one could ever match him, not skinny Joff or bloated Ramsey.
"Kiss me," Sansa ordered, wanting to touch him. Without anymore hesitation, he crossed the distance to her and knelt, taking her chin softly in his fingers and brushing his lips against hers. It set her body on fire, and she leaned towards him when he pulled away. "Are you disobeying your lady?" she whispered, gripping the fabric of his tunic that peeked from his collar. It was useless to try and pull him back in, so she opted instead to slide into his lap, straddling his hips with her thighs.
Sandor let out a groan as an answer. His hands wandered down to grab the flesh of her bottom, and she ground herself down into his warmth, loving the feeling of his hardness between her legs. Sansa kissed him hard, biting at his bottom lip (careful to avoid the scarred side). "Take me," she pleaded quietly. "I want you more than anything. Please-"
"Don't talk like that," Sandor hissed. "You'll fucking kill me."
"I know you want me, too." Sansa swirled her hips, making him groan again.
"The lady of Winterfell wants me to fuck her in the dirt like a dog?"
She ignored his mocking tone. "I would let you have me anywhere, Sandor."
Sansa felt his whole body shudder underneath her. "I'm still convinced this is a dream. You should be in a handsome lord's lap, someone who's not incomplete, someone with pretty words and a prettier smile."
She pushed down on his erection again. "You are a handsome lord. You have a family name, Sandor Clegane. You are no common man, with a common life. I despise flowery speeches and stretched-out grins. They live their whole lives convinced that they don't look like a fool, but you and I both know that all liars are fools."
"Where did that little bird go?" His voice was full of wonder and arousal. "Tell me."
"I am the same as I have always been." Sansa's back straightened. "I am Sansa Stark."
No more words, she breathed out in her mind, and the weirwood behind them seemed almost to tremble. Sandor was pulling her wool skirts up around her waist, kissing her like it was making him drunk-she was so dizzy, so breathless, it was all she could do to hold on to his shoulders. No more doubts. There was snow falling on her bare skin. Her bodice was loose, her breasts are rubbing up against the hard leather covering his chest, and he was hot and insistent on her cunt. Sansa was mesmerized when he finally pushed up inside of her. She had never felt anything like this before in her entire life, like there had been some vital part of her missing for years. He was fully sheathed in her, and they were both panting, totally unaware of the cold air. I have never loved anyone but you.
Sansa started to ride him before he even thought about moving. The wonderful, full feeling in her gut and Sandor's curses were more than enough to distract her from the frozen ground under her knees. "Gods," her lover murmured, taking both her breasts in his hands and letting her please herself with him. "Fucking hells. Sansa-"
She came at the sound of her name, and the rest of his words were just noise in her ears. She cried out as her thighs twitched, relinquishing control to him as her body collapsed. Through her blurred vision, she could see Sandor baring his teeth to her like his namesake, almost a snarl; before she could comprehend it, he was up on his knees and she was hoisted up, still wrapped around him. His arms and hands were keeping her body off the ground. "Gods," she whimpered. She weighed like nothing to him, and it excited her so much she almost came again, at the sensation of being lifted. For a split second, she remembered the same feeling when her father would scoop her up as a little girl, and she bit down into the leather on his shoulder to keep those memories at bay. This was not about her family or her past. This was about Sandor, Sandor, Sandor. Sandor, who touched her like he was afraid she would shatter. I will not break. I am not made of porcelain.
Joffery, Ramsey, Petyr, Dontos, even Tyrion. They had all tried to claim her, tame her, lock her away like a gemstone or a criminal. She was always trailing behind them, flinching in her silks and uttering empty words. Sandor had never treated her as anything less than his equal-he never lied, he never hurt her, and he never viewed her like pretty furniture. When she felt his cock swell and twitch inside her, when she felt her womb being filled with his seed, she felt intensely smug and proud. No man had ever given her pleasure besides her Hound. They had never deserved it.
They stayed, clinging to each other like children, gasping for breath. He lowered her down until they were both sitting in the snow, her on his lap and his forehead resting on her shoulder. She could feel snowflakes melting in her hair, on her nose, and turned her head up to watch the flurries above her. She listened to her lover breathe, and knew, in her heart, that she could never marry again unless it was to Sandor Clegane.
"Please, tell me this is a joke."
Sansa endured her sister's incredulousness with good will. "You did accuse me of "fancying" him, you know. Is this really such a shock to you?"
Her, Arya, and Bran all sat together in Sansa's solar, drinking spiced wine to chase away the chill settling in. Evette had come and gone, all her duties were taken care of, and there was nothing left but to enjoy the peace that came before war. Her little brother looked like his blankets would swallow his frail body, and she felt a pang in her chest at how skinny he had become while running from home. His face, however, remained unchanged since the day he appeared at the gates-it seemed nothing could surprise Brandon Stark anymore. He was not drinking his wine, either, though she was sure it was the first cup he would have as an adult. "The old gods have already given their approval," he said in a quiet voice. "You don't need to ask Jon."
"He is my king and my lord, as well as my brother. It would not do to elope with his strongest warrior right before the fighting begins." It was still strange to her, to hear Bran speak in such a way. The curious child she had known wanted little to do with any gods, old or new.
Arya let out a disgusted sound, and downed the rest of her drink in a very unladylike manner. Sansa was well-adjusted to Arya's impropriety by now, but still wrinkled her nose up at her sister's display. "I just can't get over you...with him. I always thought you'd end up with some fancy man." A pause, and a sniff. "He's so ugly."
"I never thought I would be the one telling you you are being shallow, Arya. I've had my share of 'fancy men', and no one can hold a candle to Sandor. I know, now, what is important to me. I am not a child any longer."
Her sister grumbled, but had no retort. Sansa drank from her goblet, taking secret pleasure from the soreness between her legs. It was an odd sensation, to revel in her pain. Before, it had been a reminder throughout the day what awaited her at night. Ramsey, heavy with wine and anger. He was dead almost a year, now, but Sansa was not naïve enough to think his death would be her cure. Or poor Theon's, for that matter. Nor did she believe that Sandor was a 'cure', either.
It was a start, however. A beginning of a happy life. There would be no better revenge for Sansa (sans Ramsey rising from the dead so she could devour him all over again).
You thought I was yours, you thought this castle was yours, you thought the North was yours. Now the family you sought to destroy is sitting where you longed to be, and your wife watched your dogs drink your blood. Seven hells is not big enough, cruel enough for you.
Lord Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the King, Warden of the West, looked as out of place as he did years ago, when his sister was still alive. He was as homely as he always was, with his impressive scar and mismatched eyes, but Sansa was older and wiser-such things did little to upset her, now that she had seen things far worse than an ugly dwarf. She had come to the godswood to pray for Jon and Sandor, but found the little lord instead, observing the great weirwood like he had never seen one before. Sansa approached after some apprehension. She had yet to be alone with Tyrion ever since he arrived, and she was ashamed to admit that she had been childishly avoiding him.
"Lady Stark," he intoned upon seeing her. "I was right, all those years ago. You have survived-in fact, you've outlived many others who fancied themselves cleverer than you."
"Underestimating me was their mistake." She dipped into a short curtsy. "I apologize for not speaking to you sooner, Lord Tyrion. I find myself very preoccupied as of late, and I've little experience in leading or keeping a hold fed and running."
"We both know you're excellent at it. Perhaps you should stop underestimating yourself, as well."
Sansa knew what she was capable of-it was this world and the people in it, stuffing her into skirts too short and rooms too small. She deigned not to answer him, instead passing him to sit on one of the tree's gnarled roots. It is...warm. Was it just her imagination? The wood should be as solid as ice beneath her, and yet... "I figured I would find you here. Even at King's Landing, you preferred the godswood to the castle."
"I was trying to escape a den of lions." Her voice held no bitterness, despite her obvious allusion to his family. Really, it had only been one lioness, and one pinch-faced cub. Just like the devil pretending to be a man, they were dead, too. "Now, I come to give thanks that my family is finally home." Sansa titled her head to notice that Tyrion was standing almost exactly where Sandor (her betrothed) and her had made love not even half a day ago-she successfully held back her smirk, but had to bite the inside of her cheek. "You were looking for me, my lord?"
He walked as gracefully as she'd ever seen him to sit a few feet to her right. His green-black eyes squinted at the frozen pond for a second before speaking. "Indeed, I was. Considering that Jon Snow is your brother, is it safe to assume that you know of his...affections for our queen?"
Sansa remembered the way Jon's hand had rested on Daenerys' waist, like it was muscle memory for it to be there. She flushed to think how long the two had been sleeping together, especially if Tyrion was making it a point of discussion. "I do know. What of it?"
"If things continue to go in the direction they are, we'll have a king and queen for these Seven Kingdoms. Jon Snow rules the North now, but if he marries Daenerys, and if he follows her back to the Red Keep-"
Jon will leave Winterfell, for good.
Sansa stood abruptly, her fists clenched underneath her cloak. Tyrion gave her a look of concern but did not rise, instead crossing his legs at the knee and sighing. "It will not be an easy decision for him. He may have to decide between the North and his own happiness. Your brother is a noble man, like your father. Did he not choose duty over love?"
"You're mistaken, my lord. My father went to the capital for love, love for Robert and for Jon Arryn. Love for his family, who needed his protection. A good man knows he has duty not only to his servants but to the people he cares for." She inhaled slowly, letting the winter air fill her lungs until it hurt. "Why are you the one telling me this, and not Jon himself?"
"Nothing is set in stone, yet." Tyrion scratched the still ragged-looking scar that spanned his face. "Jon Snow still looks at her Grace like he cannot believe she exists, so I have doubts that he'll be the one propose marriage. And there's the battle beyond the Wall. It would do no good to announce a betrothal if there is a chance neither of them will return. Her Grace has not even approached me with her thoughts. This is all speculation on my part, but I am merely trying to think of the future. If they succeed, and if Jon accepts her, I have a feeling that he will leave the North in your hands."
She spun and stared with wide eyes, mouth half-open as she let out a shaky gasp.
"Your siblings are too young. Arya is impulsive, and Bran cannot connect to people. Neither have the qualities needed to rule a country this large and untamed, and you already have the respect of the people. The wildlings practically worship you. Plus-" He slid off the tree root, hitting the ground with a crunch, and took a few paces to stand directly in front of Sansa. He met her gaze steadily. "-you've been running the North. You protected your hold and the people instead it from internal and external threat. Not only that, but it was because of you that Winterfell was even reclaimed at all."
"The people won't want a woman ruling-"
"Their sovereign ruler will be a woman. If they have problems with it, they can take it to her Grace. I'm sure she'd be very understanding of their fears," Tyrion joked, and Sansa couldn't help but smile a little at the thought. "I thought that if Jon were to be the one to talk to you, you may not think of yourself and try to convince him to stay. It is ultimately his decision, but his family would be the one thing that might make him hesitate. I thought, if I were the one to speak to you, you would seriously consider my words."
He was right, and she would be lying to say that having Winterfell did not set her heart aflame. But... "However much the people respect me, they named Jon the King in the North. If he leaves to marry Daenerys, they will look at it like he is abandoning them. They still remember Robb and all his loud promises. They are jaded, and tired, and have gone through much in the past few years. I know they will not want me."
"Jon will be expected to marry, regardless. And have you seen many ladies come calling?"
"Ah...no."
"I do not think he intends to marry, really. Love might change his mind on the subject."
"Jon...is scared of having a family. He said he will never marry or sire children unless he has a true name. It was difficult growing up as a bastard, even if he was treated like a brother and son. My mother was cruel, and I-I dismissed him." She observed the dirt at her feet. "Her Grace has already told me she is infertile, or she believes herself to be so. I sincerely doubt that she relayed that information to Jon, though. She must not know his fears."
"We shall never really know what they discuss amongst themselves. It's our job to support them whatever choice they make. Yes?"
What you mean is, don't ask Jon to stay.
Still, she answered, "Yes. You're right."
It was a curiously silent night. Sansa could normally hear the sounds of snow and ice outside, the static and the cracks of icicles, the crunch of footsteps; indeed, the winter held a different set of sounds altogether than that of summer, and could never truly be described as "silent". Yet, it felt like the entire North was holding in a breath in anticipation. The lady of Winterfell felt the fear of the people below like a prickling of her skin. Before the sun would even rise, Jon Snow would be marching beyond the protection of his hold, and he was taking Sandor with him. She knew, of course, that he would always be leaving to fight, but it had seemed abstract during their courtship (could it be called such?). Neither of them discussed it in length. What else could she say to him but please don't die. If you do, so will I? He would scoff at her words, dismiss her affection, forgetting for a moment that he had agreed to marry her.
Sandor had refused, as she had a feeling he would, but an hour more of love making had convinced him to accept her. Her thrill over becoming Sandor Clegane's wife was dampened severely by his imminent departure. She had not told anyone besides Arya and Bran, nor did she plan to until her lover returned, dead or alive. It gave her comfort and excitement to hold in deep in her heart. It felt like a victory.
Along with the lack of noise came a bracing cold, which the walls of Winterfell did well to keep out. She thought of the makeshift shelters that the freefolk and her soldiers had put together, and trembled for them under her layers of fur.
A sound broke the silence-a short knock on her door, breaking her of her reverie. There was no one else it could be at this hour, the hour of the wolf. Sansa slithered out from her bed and padded across the stone floor, staying on the balls of her feet like she was balancing. When she opened her door, Sandor brushed past her, no longer hesitant to enter her chambers. Sansa closed the door, locking it for good measure, before following him into her bedroom, where she could barely make out his silhouette in the darkness. She said his name, and he moved quickly to grab her, pulling her to him and crushing her to his chest. His hands seemed to cover her entire back, they were so large. It was hard to breathe, but she let him hold her there, knowing he was just as afraid as she was.
"You're not a little bird anymore, or even a little wolf. You're something else entirely now, something beyond fucking comprehension. There's no way in all seven hells I could die before I get to call you my wife."
Sansa wept all through their lovemaking, grateful for the cover of night.
an: now if only i could write original stuff...