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Chapter Text

The morning was not the sunny, warm, day Jon had wanted. A fresh snow had coated the earth over the night, then frozen in hard, packed ice. The skies were grey and threatening, the septa threatening that weather was only going to get worse throughout the week. He didn’t want that. He wanted Winterfell at its best. He wanted the winter roses to be in bloom, some of the lush green under the snow to show. He had important company arriving. He had invited a man who had saved his life to Winterfell. It would be his first time entertaining as Lord, as a true Stark, a Targaryan even.

Sansa came down, wearing the new dress he had gotten for her. It was soft blue, the color of the ocean and it brought out the brightness of her eyes. She had done her hair up too, like he asked, like their mother used to wear it. It suited her, framed her face and long neck.

She looked busy in her mind, but that was understandable. She would be leaving soon, if all went according to plan. She’d be going to the Quiet Isles, searching for a man many believed dead. Her sister Arya had told her in dirty details what had transpired between her and the Hound, and when she last saw him.
How she last saw him.

“I left him there, and I’m not going to apologize for it.” Arya had replied, stiff of jaw.

Sansa shivered, Arya had been as graphically detailed as she possibly could, hoping to shatter her sister’s dream.

Since then Sansa had not been able to get it off her mind. She had heard rumors, Brienne being the greatest stoker of them. Letters to the elders on Quiet Isle added to it. And now, with Jon’s guest arriving, hope was also coming for Sansa.

Lord Crestwaves of the Southeast Cape and Coves was arriving. During the war for Westeros, when Jon and the men of the Nightswatch were traveling to King’s Landing, their ship hit a terrible storm. Boiling and freezing waters nearly sunk them when a passing ship, captained by Lord Crestwaves himself, happened to save their lives.

He took the Nights Watch into his home. Healed them, fed them, clothed them, housed them while they prepared themselves. Serving his home to them as their base of operation. He was a good man, Jon thought. Bright, fiery, and above all, kind. Kindness was rare in those days, and along with gold, he had it to spare.

When Jon was legitimized by Queen Daenerys and made Lord of Winterfell, he had gone to Laen in an attempt to pay back his debt to him.

“There is no debt, Jon.” Laen explained with a cool laugh. “It was my pleasure to help you and your men. I have more than enough gold and men at my disposal, I do not need your newly rekindled glory.” He smiled, showing off his gold tooth. “All I need is your thanks and your friendship. Besides, knowing I have Winterfell as an ally is very comforting.”

Jon sighed, still not satisfied, and some what guiltily he took a shot in the dark. “I have a sister, her name is Sansa.”

Laen’s blue eyes watched him knowingly. “And I have a brother who died three years ago.” He laughed. “What is your point Jon?”

“She was just released from her marriage. She has told me she is untouched,” he cleared his throat. “Perhaps a marriage of our houses…”

Laen laughed, bright and cheerful. “Jon, your sister doesn’t want to be married to an old fish like me.” He shook his head, coppery-golden hair fluttering. “Not after being married to the imp!” He tsked. “I am too old for that sort of thing anyways. I will be happier to spend the rest of my years alone. Marriage has not been fair to me in my youth. And I am not a man who can be a proper husband. I do not want to pass that on to your sweet sister.”

Jon nodded, relieved some he had turned the offer down. “Well then, at least, once Winterfell is rebuilt, I would insist you and your men come and celebrate with us.”

Laen nodded. “I do enjoy a good party.” He rubbed his chin. “It is a deal then! Please, alert me as soon as you can have me.” And they shook hands.

The gates opened, and great painted horses came storming in. Sansa held onto Jon’s arm, watching with a cool gaze as they filed in, creating a semi-circle in which a carriage rode in, behind it, a red painted horse ran front and center.

Jon approached the horse, smiling. “Lord Crestwaves, welcome to Winterfell!” He exclaimed happily, reaching up to extend his hand to the man.

He took Jon’s hand, jumping off his horse then pulling Jon into a hug. This surprised Sansa some as she watched. The last time she had seen men hug and genuinely mean it was her father and the dead King Robert.

“Jon! I told you, call me Laen.” He said, slapping the boy hard on the back. “It is good to see you.” His smile waned some as Sansa approached. His eyes trailing over her slowly, taking in the lovely creature who had suddenly appeared.

“And who is this startling lady?” Laen approached, kneeling before Sansa and taking her hand.

“Laen, this is my sister, Sansa.”

Sansa watched as Laen took her hand, kissing it. “It is a great pleasure to meet you, Ser.” Sansa replied in her soft way.

Laen kissed the back of her hand, skin scented with rose. “Pleasure is all mine, lady.” He stood, keeping Sansa’s hand. “I must tell you, I have not enjoyed a woman’s beauty so in ages.”

Sansa smiled, blushing demurely. “Thank you, Ser.” She offered her arm to him, which he took happily.

“Is this the girl who is to be borrowing my ship?” Laen asked as they walked back towards the entrance.

Jon nodded. “Yes.”

“And what does a lovely girl such as you need a ship for?” Laen queried, looking at Sansa.

Her lashes fluttered. “I am searching for an old friend.” Sansa answered softly.

Laen nodded, patting her hand on his arm. “What a lucky devil.” He turned, motioning to the captain of her guard. “I’ll escort you to the ship myself. Do you have anyone else going with you?”

Sansa shook her head. “I’ll be meeting with the Elder Brother.” She replied. “He has promised to look after me while I am there.” She removed her arm, taking both his hands. “I will let you rest from your journey. I still have things to must take care of.”

Laen nodded, smiling. “I hate to see you leave, my lady.”

His smile was a pleasing thing, Sansa thought. Even with that funny gold tooth, it is handsome and warm. She found she could not hate this man and she saw what Jon saw. Kindness, Jon had told her, he was full of it, but it was a weapon he did not use lightly.. “And I hate to leave. But as you must know Ser, a lady’s duties are never done.” Lord Crestwaves bowed low to her and she turned on her heel and left them to return to her room and finish her packing.

Lane tilted his head watching her go.

“I thought you were too old for this sort of thing?” Jon teased as they continued walking to the great hall.

“I was not prepared,” Laen laughed. “I must admit, your sister caught me off my guard!” He exclaimed, taking a seat before the hearth. “I had heard of your mother’s loveliness, seen it once since the Tullys and the Crestwaves share the waters.” He rubbed his chin. “But your sister…She is bewitchingly lovely. The Imp must have been made of cold iron to resist her as she grew.”

Jon laughed softly, ignoring Laen’s comment about Tyrion. “Then have you changed your mind about an engagement.”

Laen took a drink of wine from a goblet offered to him. He made a sour face, rolling his eyes. “Your sister is enchanting. But I am still not interested in marriage. Are you that eager to marry her away?”

Jon shook his head, puppy dog eyes widening. “Certainly not. Although, we do need to think about continuing the North. I hate to ask it of her, but it is necessity.” He looked back towards Laen. “And I would prefer it be someone I know who would honor and take care of her instead of some random lord.”

Laen sighed dreamily. “It would not be a long marriage, considering my age. And I cannot promise children.” He winked cryptically, drinking deeply from the goblet. “Besides, I doubt your sister would have me. She seems very disinterested.”

Jon laughed, rolling his shoulders and leaning back in his chair. “Her mind is elsewhere.” He replied.

Laen’s captain came in, standing beside his chair. Laen reached up to him, whispering softly and then the captain nodded, turning and exiting just as quietly as he had entered.
“I could tell.” Laen continued. “Who is this friend she is searching for? And on the Quiet Isle of all places?”

Jon sighed, running his fingers through his curly hair. “Do you recall Sandor Clegane?” He asked.

Laen’s golden brow arched. “The Hound?” He laughed jovially. “What on earth would a girl like Sansa be interested in the Hound for?”

“I have not heard the full story,” Jon shook his head dolefully, leaning forward against his knees. “Arya had told me some, so has Tyrion. But, and I am not sure on this, I do believe he had been protecting Sansa, serving her in his own, odd, way.”

Laen’s brow pinched. “That does seem odd, someone who was so unanimous with killing…” He drifted momentarily. “I had heard he died.”

Jon nodded. “So had I.” He leaned back in his chair again. “But apparently, the wind has picked up quite a few whispers.”

Laen smirked. “And so the little wolf goes running.”

Jon shrugged, laughing to himself. “Well,” he looked to Laen. “I believe she may be in love with him.”

Laen hesitated on his drink, looking at Jon with a shocked look upon his face.

Jon chuckled. “Yes, I know. But the more I watch her, the more I see it. I cannot dismiss it, especially after the bargain she made with me.”

“Which was?”

Jon looked towards him. “I granted her to search for Clegane, just as long as that, when she returned, with Clegane or no, she would have to accept a marriage.”

Laen sighed, chest heavy. “Aye? Well, Clegane would be no marriage now, would he? Alive or dead, before or after.” He finished his wine, holding it out for more. “And after all the tales that flowed down from King’s Landing and into my waters, I do not blame the girl for not wanting any sort of marriage.”

“I just want the Stark name to continue on.” Jon replied. “I had considered marrying her myself but I just…”
Laen laughed. “Blood or no, you love her too much to torture each other like that.” He reached out, patting Jon on the back. “You may have some dragon in there, but above all that you’re a wolf, Jon”

Chapter Text

Shrugging off her dream and rubbing her eyes, she dressed herself in a tunic and left the apartment, wandering down the stairs into the slowly busying septry.

Elder Brother had made sure she was always well taken care of. A meal was ready for her when she came out to eat and a set of selected brothers to keep a watchful eye on her. Although, Sansa could take care of herself in case anyone tried to harm her. On her hip she carried a short sword, something special made for her by her brother. A sword she named Promise.

She was hoping to travel a little more today. Although, she had promised to have tea with Elder Brother before she went out again. With any hope he was correct. Perhaps what she was looking for was here.

She was being watched, and by more than one set of eyes. She had always stood out, always in a good way. Her beauty, good breeding. It made her the focus of gentle eyes. The brothers here seemed to enjoy her presence, and despite their silence had approached her to offer their help or to bow before her. She remembered being stared at with hate almost at constant back in King‘s Landing, and she had made sure to never be stared at that way again.

Only one set, she recalled, ever stared with both.

She looked around the septry, eyes wandering, still sleepy, yet awake. The isles were quiet, the people kind. She had yet to meet an unfriendly face. Elder Brother had really been the only one she had conversed with, the other brothers still attached to their vows of silence and cowled in dun-and-brown.

And then she saw it, the large shape in the back of the room, slumped over the table, fists clinched. The other brothers moved about him like he was no different from them. Yet the man was taller than Brienne, wide of shoulder and back, arms as thick as tree stumps. He was her opposite in appearance.

How did someone like that come upon being a brother? She wondered, watching him as he ate.

Sansa stood away from her meal, brothers coming out of the wood work to take her plate and goblet and clean the table. His broad shoulders slouched forward. Did she dare approach? Perhaps she was still in a dream, perhaps her sleep addled eyes were deceiving her. But she walked forward anyways, going through the tables and chairs, reaching the dark back corner.

He did not see her approach, but a soft, feminine scent reached him first. A familiar smell. He closed his eyes to it, turning his wrapped head away. He didn’t know this apparition before him. All that was Sansa was gone, life breathed only into her in his stumbled angry prayers, and soft moaning in the night.

Most times pain, but sometimes pleasure.

Always followed by more pain than he began with.

Despite how good the brothers and the isle had been to him, he still felt convinced that only one set looked upon him with kindness, only one. He swam in her eyes, the only waters that could quell the fire in him.

He had come to view Sansa Stark as a concept. A prayer. It was the only way he could cope with not having her. She paved his salvation, the cracked and blasphemous thing it was. Years with the brothers had worn away much of the jagged edge of the roughened man.

The Hound was dead. That sick, hateful part of him was buried. In spirit, with its pound of flesh long rot and gone. A chunk missing from his inner thigh the only testament of its existence that he carried with him, war having quieted much of his black name.

Worse men than him had came and went. The Hound was no longer hunted, and no one had ever given two shits for Sandor bloody Clegane.
She touched his shoulder, feeling his body tense as she did. "Excuse me, Ser." She asked, voice trembling with anticipation. She took a steadying breath. "Ser, could I ask you a question?"

He nodded, head wrapped in brown, slate eyes downcast to the table.

He was silent.

Sansa moved around him, standing before him and looking down at him. She just wanted to see his eyes. If she could meet them, she'd know. But he kept them down, barely acknowledging her.

"I've been looking for someone." She started.

He listened, as he was trained to do. He listened to her speak, taking the words as a confessional. Channeling them to the seven as he could.

"He looks like you, a bit." Sansa continued. She took the seat across from him, folding her hands across the table top. "I'm sorry if I've bothered you."

Look at me, she willed in her head. Just look at me.

He sat quietly, his silence inviting her stream of thought and words.

Sansa pressed her lips into a hard line, intent on finding what she had come seeking. She had waited over six years for this moment. She was a woman of two tens. She had been released from her marriage to Tyrion. She was now Lady of Winterfell, her brother Jon now the Lord, now a legitimate Stark with the blood of the Targaryan, but still tied to the Wall and the Night‘s Watch. At any given time Sansa could become the Ward of the North.

"I was told by the Elder Brother that the man I was looking for might be here. But he never really said if it was him or not." Sansa continued. "I have known him since I was a young girl. I owe him much." She stared at him, burning holes into the wrap around his head. "I want to know if the man I pray for is dead or alive."

His eyes met hers, offering no solace. They were grey, aye, but not the slate of the hound. Not those hate-filled things that terrified her before more than his burns or history. These depths were well worn stone, smoothed. Tempered.

He stare into her, never speaking, drinking through his wraps. Water.

Elder brothers words rang true. "The hound you seek is dead." He had said simply, knowing her before she spoke. "Answers more than I can give you lie elsewhere.”
It was a shock at the first, the eyes that looked at her were so foreign so new. But Sansa saw the shape to them, the burn around the right.

Her mouth parted slightly, a soft sigh escaping. "I thought as much." She wanted to reach out and touch his hand. "I doubt he'd want to see me if he was." It ached her fingers not to touch his hand. "I wounded him last we saw each out."

And here she met with this strange clothed man. He truly was a stranger. Stripped of everything, he was a different person.

Sansa stood. "I'm sorry to have bothered you."

His eyes cast down. They were young, and smoothed again. He breathed longingly out his nose, turning his palm over. He held her hand, his own rough with spade use. The old calluses of sword-use long healed and gone

He squeezed softly, thumbing the softness of her palms. He stood, seemingly following her. He looked to her to lead him.

Sansa looked up at him and then pulled on his hand, leading him back up the stairs to her apartment. She took him inside, barring the door behind her. She then turned, looking up at him, touching the cloth around his face.

He winced, but did not stop her. His hands fell at his side.

She placed her other hand around the back of his neck, standing on tip toes to reach. "May I?" She asked softly.

He nodded, kneeling slightly.

His heart was steady, this dreamlike state he was in. A trance of sorts. He let her small hands work away at the wraps, flinching as his face met the cool air in the room.

Unwrapping it slowly, letting it trickle down to the floor. Her breath hitched, running her fingers through his short, pitch hair. Some grey around his scars and temples. She held his face, a relieved, pain smile running across her face. She chocked out a sob, covered as a laugh.

She was frozen in place, afraid to move, afraid to wake up.

He seemed his age, his face softened. He was comely, pitch hair salted at the front. His lips were soft on one side. He was clean. His hair stuck up in different directions, having been matted. His jaw was strong, having no stubble. His lashes long on his unburnt side.

His eyes bore to hers, pupils deep black.

His voice stuck in his throat, having lived in silence for three years. His last words spoken her name, always a prayer on his lips.

"Do you forgive me?" Sansa's voice shuddered. She wanted to hold him, but feared he was made of smoke he had burned for so long.

His head inclined. Of course he forgave her. There was nothing for her to be forgiven for. He inclined as he had forgiven himself as well as he knew.

She pressed her forehead to his. "I should of ran with you that night at Blackwater." She whispered, tears coming to her eyes. "I could of saved you." She wrapped her arms around his neck.

He shook his head, slowly wrapping his arms to her back, stroking consolingly

"I could have!" Sansa argued, close to sobbing. She pressed into him, her face buried in the wall of his chest.

He was still, a large form , putty in her hands. He stroke her hair gently, leading her to the couch in her apartment. He sat her down, bringing her a wineskin, kneeling.

He was dressed in the traditional dun-and brown, clean-cut. A vision she couldn’t have imagined. His muscles were shaped differently, not warrior honed, but thick things. He was more burly, thick with labor.

He put the wineskin in her hands, relaxing. His lips parting as if he were speaking, his body language supporting it. He touched her face softly, bringing her chin up. He met her eyes and firmly shook his head. No, even if she had run with him, she would not have saved him.

If she had run with him, they would both be dead now.

“We have both changed.” Sansa spoke again. “We are both strangers again.” She cupped his hand in hers, fearing his silence but understanding it as well. “Shall I tell you why I came?” She asked, smile perking up the corner of her lips. “Shall I tell you the whole tale? Or should I just tell you simply that I am still so very selfish?”

He ran a thumb over her lips, urging her to drink. He shook his head, body telling her to relax. That is was not so.

Sansa took a deep gulp of wine, coughing slightly. "It's dark." She smiled weakly, leaning into his palm. "I have missed you so much."

He frowned lightly, eyes soft. He sighed. His hands moved to his own face, dragging them down. He lay flat on her floor, palms over his eyes.

She looked down at him, questioning eyes. And then she slid from the couch, down to her knees, and then onto the floor beside him, curling into his side, hand laid flat on his stomach.

He grunted softly at her touch, flinching. He looked upon her, staring. Never speaking.

Sansa laid her head upon his arm. "I was released from my marriage." She murmured. "I was taken back to Winterfell, taken home. Jon is with me, but he will have to return to his duties at the Wall, I know it soon.”

He stroked her cheek, listening intently. He did want to know this story, to fill in all the questions that screamed at him.

Sansa looked up at him expectantly. "If I asked...would you come with me? I could keep you safe." She said, speaking the same words he had spoken to her.

His eyes were so soft, so open. He would follow her to the ends of the earth.

“My brother, Jon, he made friends with Lord Crestwaves.” She continued. “That’s whose ship I sailed in on. He lent it to me so that I could come here.” Her fingers caressed up his chest, palm warm and pleasant. She didn’t tell him though how she was allowed to come. Her promise to Jon.

“You could come with me, over the sea and to Winterfell.” She nuzzled her cheek to his shoulder. “And I could give you the honor you deserve.”

Sansa fell, pressed atop him, her lips hitting his, claiming him. Her fists balled up against his collar. Sansa leaned closer, close enough he could feel her hair against his face, her eyelashes flutter against his skin. She was a wolf now, yes, she had become one long ago to survive. But now, here, she felt her heart flutter, the little bird alive again.

He groaned against her mouth, kissing back , barely pressing. He winced, sitting up, setting her arms length from him.

He exhaled , voice cracking, more of a rasp than not. "Bugger me," he coughed "I’m s’posed to stay silent, Sansa," he growled.

"What’re you doing, bird?" He murmured, back of his hand to his mouth, but not wiping away her taste.

She bit her own lip, looking at him, knowing she had moved too fast, too suddenly. "I'm rewarding my champion." Her eyes darted across his face. "I won't apologize."

She laughed, kissing him on the tip of his nose, easing back sitting on his stomach. "I'm sorry." She cupped her hand against his scarred cheek. "It is good to hear your voice again." She leaned in again. "Call me the name you gave me."

He touched her face softly "Sansa…” He murmured, voice low. "Little bird ." He smiled lightly "That’s not you anymore, though," his eyes cool. "You’re a wolf now."

“I’m an Alpha,” she corrected with a smirk. “I’m glad you noticed.” Her fingers ran along the side of his head, through his cropped hair and along his burns. She traced the melted welt that was once his ear.

His eyes flicked to her lap, nodding slowly. He lowered his hands. "We’re to leave for Winterfell, then?"

She beamed from ear to ear. "You'll really come with me?" She arched her back, his hands slipping onto her waist and down to her hips. "You'll stay at Winterfell?" She pressed her hands to his shoulders. "You'll stay with me for good now."

Chapter Text

Sandor was quiet all along their journey. Even on the boat he said more than a few words to her. Perhaps his vows were not as easy to break. He had been silent for years, speaking was new to him again. When he did speak his voice was soft and low, like the rumble of a distant thunder.

“You’ll have to speak up,“ Sansa often told him. “I can’t hear you over the waves.”

He would grumble and blush, then speak up louder for her.

“I can remember the days when the voice of the Hound echoed and boomed from the walls of the Red Keep,” Sansa said wistfully, intending to tease Sandor some with her adolescent memories. “Sing for me little bird. Sing for your little life!” She mimicked his gruff, burnt voice as best she could, cheeks puffed, chest out. She then laughed. “Who knew that voice would be cut to a mere whisper.”

He looked down at his hands, picking at a rather thick callus on his right palm.

Sansa turned looking down at him. “You said a lot of things to be I thought were cruel.” She murmured, reaching out and petting his cropped hair. Last she’d seen him, it was long and greasy, caked in black blood and sweat. “They weren’t cruel.”

He grumbled low in his throat.

She smirked some. “Well,” he chuckled. “I suppose in a way they were cruel.” Her long fingers rubbed the melted hole that had been his ear. “Most were cruel. But some were actually you attempts at being kind.”

He turned his head away, not wanting her pretty hands on her gnarled visage.

“You were so afraid,” she whispered gently. She cupped his cheek, leaning down to sit before him. “The septons preach about the seven hells.” She murmured to him, lips dangerously close to his burnt cheek. “What do they know? Only a man who's been burned knows what hell is truly like.”

Sandor stood then. “I shall fetch my lady a drink.” He murmured, voice ever low and quiet.

Sansa sat with her hands folded in her lap, a gentle but exacerbated sigh escaping her throat. “In due time.” She nodded.

When they landed, Winterfell was a fortnights ride away. And as its black walls loomed, Sandor tensed. It had been so long since he was there, since he first met Sansa and back when she was a young maid who believed in knights and songs.

Sansa was happy, but dread took her over as they approached her home. Jon would expect her to find a lord husband now, now that she had what she truly wanted. She squeezed onto Sandor's hand, she would pray in the godswood for an answer.

Sandor swore fealty to Jon, promised to keep Winterfell safe, to train up the men good an proper, even if it had been years since he last held a sword. He’d protect the North, protect the lady Warden and act as her hand in guiding the men of Winterfell.

“Sansa may know more than you at this point,“ Jon joked. “She’s become quite the tactician. The men respect her word more than mine sometimes.” He nodded, offering a drink to Sandor, which he turned down. “But, a decent master of arms has not been through Winterfell since…well, since my father was lord here.” Jon sighed, ignoring his own cup in respect to Sandor. “Even with your limp do you believe-”

“Limp never stopped me before.” Sandor answered gruffly.

 

Sansa prayed by the godswood, knowing suitors would be coming soon. If only she could convince Jon that Sandor was the rightful Lord to House Clegane, a fallen house yet, but with the Stark family, it could become a strong house again.

But what of Sandor’s wishes? He hadn’t given her reason to believe he wanted more than to protect her.

Sansa only didn't want to be thrown into the pit again, having been forced to marry Tyrion had broken her to the thought of a marriage. Yes, Tyrion had been merciful to her, but all she wanted now was someone to protect her, and Sandor had always done that in the past.

So one evening, Sansa waited, pacing by the hall where Sandor’s chambers were. Waiting for him to return from training.

He climbed the stairs, sweat clinging to his mail.

His eyes met hers. His hair was shagging around his temples, down his neck

It had grown in the short months here.

Sansa stiffened and smiled at him. Timid and sweet, nervous for what she was about to ask of him. Her fiery hair tumbled off her shoulder, a loose strand sticking to her lip.
He stood at attention , awaiting orders. "My Lady" he said, but not unkindly.

She scoffed at the name, shoulders slouching, relaxing. "No, Sandor, I'm not..." She shook her head, soft smile breaking. "May I have a word with you in private?" She asked, motioning her hand to his door.

He nodded, opening it. He ushered her inside and barred the door behind them, staring at her shoulders. "Are you feeling well, little bird?"

"I feel just fine. If not a bit nervous." She took the wineskin she had brought with her and offered it to him. Her fingers brushing against his.

"As you may know, my brother has been searching a lord for me to marry." She said, trying to keep her chin raised.

He struggled with it, taking only a small drink. He listened, knowing, afraid to speak up. He wouldn’t keep her from her duty. He had only asked the gods to let him see her alive and happy. They had granted him that, even though he had forsake his vows of poverty and silence, of non violence. This was more than he could asked for.

"I am not much for marriage." Sansa confessed. "I have been through it once, and though Tyrion is a good man, it was still traumatic for me." She moved across the room, her back to him. "I know, I have taken much from you. I have asked so much in these past months..." She took a deep breath.

"And here I am, about to ask much more." She glanced over her shoulder.

Hard raps on the door broke their conversation. Sansa was summoned at once to Jon’s chambers. The guard would not let up.

Sandor unbarred the door and snarled at him, letting Sansa out.

"I will come back." Sansa said, her hand resting and then gliding across his shoulder as she left.

He followed her, as he always did. The Hound was dead, but he was still a dog, a good dog now even. Lap dog the men sometimes sniggered behind his back.

Sansa held her hands folded before her skirt, enjoying him just a step behind her, knowing his eyes were upon her.

Jon stood, smiling. The great room full of robin egg blue clad men. "Lady Sansa" he called out. A strapping and familiar man stood near him. "Our honored guests of House Crestwave have returned.

It was obvious what this was. She knew she couldn’t avoid it any longer.

Sansa met him with stern eyes, resembling her late mother so greatly.

She went to his extended arm and bowed slightly at the waist. "My lord." She replied quietly, seriously. “It is good to see you again.” She said, soft graces breaking through. “How was your journey back South?”

The promise she had given stood. Her words her duty. "Let me go and find him: let me find him and return and I will wed whomever you find worthy."

How her words jumped to strangle her now, and naught could save her. Even Sandor.

Stupid girl, she hissed at herself. You never thought you'd find him, let alone awaken anything when you did.

She smiled graciously, but not friendly.

The blue eyes of Lord Crestwave held the ocean and all its glory. He was handsome, a long scar from his neck to temple hooked like a moon.

"My Lady," he said, his voice rough and deep. He was a grown man, white touching the forelock of his sandy hair.

Sansa nodded, fading into the rituals of meeting with her suitor.

Jon took Sandor, leading him away for a small aside. “Lord Crestwave and his men will be here for a while. I have asked him to help Sansa while she gets situated as Warden.”

Sandor scoffed. “You told me she was better than you.”

Jon smiled in return and nodded. “Ay, she is. But…it would ease my mind knowing she was watched over.”

Sandor frowned a bit, glancing at Crestwaves and Sansa from the corner of his eye. Wasn’t he enough in guarding the Lady Wolf? Did Jon not trust him?

No, it wasn’t that. Jon was a smart enough lad. This Crestwaves was something else. Sansa had promised Jon she would marry once she returned home to Winterfell.
Crestwaves was Jon’s choice.

He was better suited to Sansa than Tyrion. Even in his age he was still handsome and sprightly, a deathly charmer as well. But better yet he was kind hearted. And the seven knew that Sansa needed kindness in her world. The Lannisters and Littlefinger had almost drained her of what kindness her parents had given.

“Do you believe Sansa a fool?” Sandor asked Jon.

Jon’s eyes stared back, jaw slack a bit. “What do you mean?”

“You intend her to become sweet on Crestwaves while he is here.” Sandor answered with a nod. “The more you push, the more Sansa will push back as well.” A slight chuckle escaped his throat. “And I think Sansa’s bark is worse than your bite.”

Jon nodded. “Perhaps so.” He swallowed. “But even so, she made a promise she must fullfil. And Crestwaves is the least likely to offend my sister.”

Sandor turned at this, allowing Jon to go along his way. Perhaps Jon didn’t know a thing and was hoping his luck and puppy dog eyes would win the day.

Sansa’s laugh was clear and bright. He turned, looking towards her, smiling warmly at Crestwaves, in the middle of some story that had Sansa laughing and holding her sides. Sandor scowled, but how her smile and laugh warmed him. She never smiled or laughed like that in the Keep. And certainly never around him.

It was good to see life in her again.

Her hands rested on Crestwaves’s knee and a smile and light came to his eyes. And for a moment, the snarling Hound came up inside him again.

No, the Hound snarled, she is MY little bird.

Sandor took a deep breath, looking away as he did. The Hound was dead, he told himself. He would not allow this ghost to haunt him.

Chapter Text

The sound of swords singing brought up few good memories for her, but sitting in her own courtyard she was able to stay relaxed. Jon stood a few feet away from her, watching as their men sparred with Lord Crestwaves's.

She watched, smiling some, seeing Lord Crestwaves smile at her through his helm, sparring and taking out a challenger. He stood sure and brave, something Sansa still admired.

The styles of fighting slightly varied. Sandor barked out advice from the sideline, only finding his voice when swords were drawn. He winced as his squire was defeated by the lord. His eyes flickering to Sansa as she clapped at Crestwaves’s victory.

Sansa leaned forward some, her hair draping over her shoulder. She enjoyed the shadow of the beast that resided in Lord Crestwave, much like the one that had possessed Sandor.

He smiled, a cruelly sweet thing, whipping his hair free from his helm. He knelt before Sansa, taking her hand for a kiss. "My Lady," he growled softly, ocean blue eyes drowning hers.

Sansa smiled back, accepting him, enjoying him even. Even if her heart was not into marrying him. "Please, call me Sansa." She chuckled, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

"Sansa," he hissed, smiling.

Sandor looked away, or seemed to. He didn’t like the embers that stoked in his stomach when Crestwaves touched her. He hated that he was a decent man. Hated he was a warrior, well honed. Sandor’s leg threatened to ache. Sandor, the gravedigger, was a broken soldier, useless. He could take this lot and defend, but no better than any other man.

Lord Crestwave stood tall, commanding his men to keep training. He dismissed himself, offering his arm to Sansa for a walk. He stood tall with his victory.

Sansa took his arm, smiling warmly. She had taken one last look at Sandor over her shoulder, seeing what looked like fire in his eyes. She had not seen fire there since she was a girl. She squeezed tight on Crestwave's arm.

It was painful, she thought. It's only memory now.

He smiled, pulling her closer at her squeeze. His affection did not hide, it was as rough and swallowing as the sea. "Do you fence, Lady Sansa?" He asked, walking through the small town of Winterfell.

"The ladies of Crestwaves normally learn some form of combat. Fencing is elegant. Sensual." He murmured into her ear, S sounds hissing deliciously against her neck.

"No," Sansa answered dully. "But Arya does," she continued. "She can beat Jon with a sword now." He mind was drifting away.

He sensed her drifting, spinning her , smiling. "Far off shores have you, my lady?"

Sansa, now facing him, looked up at him and smiled. "Not in some time. I have just been enjoying some stability here at Winterfell."

He leaned down, turning her chin to his, his kiss hot and harsh, waves of pleasure rippling from her stomach outward. His kiss held love, love in waves.

"My Lady Sansa," He groaned against her lips.

She took a sweet breath still tasting him and her lungs full of his air. She felt light, but at the same time guilty. She could think of nothing to say, just be taken over. She had only been kissed like this once before. Only once, and only too briefly.

He breathed her in, claiming her mouth tenderly. "How I ache for you," he hissed pleasantly. He smiled, teeth white, one capped in gold.

Sansa felt an old urge within her, and old demon creeping up inside. She recognized this moment, the glimmer in his eyes. She was frightened for a moment, seeing the ghost of the Hound inside Lord Crestwaves.

Her breath shuddered, and he mistook it for lust.

He smirked, nipping her ear softly "Do I make you shake so, lady?" He grumbled softly.

She lowered her eyes, her stomach heavy and cold with guilt, the opposite of the rest of her body which was hot and light. She dared not speak, or she may loose her tongue. She cupped her hand against the back of his head, afraid to look him in the eye.

He can have me for this moment, she told herself.

He scooped her to his chest, nuzzling her neck affectionately.

"I’m an old fish, sweet lady. I haven’t courted in..." he thought a moment, "ever?" His laugh was soft, and warm.

"You do not wish to start this fight with me, my lord." She gasped, enjoying the touch of a man way too much, she thought. “I believe I will win in this tale of unfortunate romances.” She smirked.

He nodded in response, leaving it there. He eased closer again, hand rubbing her arm gently. "You’ll have to lead me, tell me if I displease you," he murmured.

"You are doing very well." Sansa gasped, guiding his hand to her waist.

He smiled at that, kissing her once more, tickling her neck with his chin and mouth.

A cry sung out on the training grounds, a roar of praise following. "Great blow," one had cried out.

"We’re missing something it seems, Lady Sansa," he said , smirking lopsidedly.

Sansa caught her breath. "So it seems." She cleared her throat, touching her hand to her face. "If you'll excuse me for a moment." She said, turning and heading for the doors, excusing herself like the lady she was. No need to appear hot and bothered around the men, around Sandor.

 

Sandor’s sword rung out. He had defeated the Crestwaves’s head guard with an amazing move. He pant, smiling. He looked up, finding Sansa in the corridor. He spit in the dirt, fire a steady ember.

Sandor’s eyes found Lord Crestwaves’s. He spit again, eyes hard. Challenging. The Lord raised his brows at the holy man.

Sandor felt his fires stoke. He felt purpose, where there used to be hate. The Hound was dead, but he was still a Dog of war deep down. A dog with but one master.

“So it seems the legends are true then,” Crestwaves chuckled as he entered the ring again. “I have not had the joy of seeing a Clegane fight, but I have heard quite many a story.” He smiled through his helm at Sandor. “Mind if I take you on then?”

Sandor spit. For a moment he pictured spearing Crestwaves through, ending his life and ending his chances at marrying Sansa. But it was a brief dream, and one Sandor felt immediate guilt for.

“It would be an honor, ser.” Sandor replied with a bow, voice low, but not from misuse this time, but from planning. How could he bring down Crestwaves? The old fish was light and agile, he had full use of his legs. Sandor could barely use his one, thigh threatening to ache as he stood there.

Crestwaves did not need to marry Sansa for any reason. He had earned political standing during the war. He had gold, more than enough to spare. He had ships, fleets and fleets of ships. He was a fish, just like Sansa’s lady mother. It was a good match, for Sansa. But for Crestwaves? Well, he earned the Blood of Winterfell, he could hold Sansa when the nights were cold.

Sandor bowed his head at this thought.

Crestwaves had his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Ready, my good Ser?”

Sandor lifted his head again, lowering his helm back over his head.

 

That's when Sansa heard the shouting and roaring cheers from the courtyard, swords singing louder than before. She made a mad dash, rushing out to see what had happened now. The courtyard was crowded, everyone pushed out and around to the edges, a great battle going on in the center of it.

Sandor and Crestwaves sparred. Two Masters at arms. It started as training, an explanation, but evolved to an all out swordfight. Sandor’s blood roared with his flame, ignited by the spark of his sword, the fire of her hair.

Sansa stared in awe, watching the two men spare, angry and heated. She wrung her fingers through her hair and pushed to the front of the crowd, stepping out a few steps from the crowd.

Sandor swung, nearly taking his head off, followed by another low swing, a fearsome spiral. Lord Crestwaves flung himself back, sustaining a long gash across his shins.

He stumbled, parrying as he goes down, bending the knee. "I yield!" He howled, panting, bleeding freely.

Sansa rushed out. "What are you thinking?" She shouted, a wolf's howl at Sandor.

Sandor spit, stabbing his sword to the ground, ignoring the hollers of praise from the northmen.

Sansa went to Lord Crestwaves side, her hand placed gently against the back of his neck. She looked up, Sandor standing before them, darkening them in his shadow.

"Oh, I’ve damaged your precious beloved." He snarled, pushing past Sansa, helping Lord Crestwaves to his feet. Sandor slapped his back, then dismissed himself with a curt bow at Sansa, moving to the barracks.

Sansa steeled herself, shaking with fury. She looked to Crestwaves, hot angry tears prickling her eyes he mistook for worry. “Excuse me, ser. I need to-” She pushed back through the crowd, making her way back to the palace, shoving Jon hard when he tried to stop her.

"Its a scratch, my lady!" Lord Crestwaves called after her "Just a scratch," He murmured quietly, his men taking him to be tended to.

Sansa was too angry to hear him. She felt awful for running away, but she could not take it anymore.

She would marry Crestwaves, if only to just escape it all.

"Sansa!' Jon called , following her. "Sansa! That was rather unlike you!" He said, catching her stride at a jog.

"Leave me be, Jon!" Sansa barked. "I am not in the sorts..."

"Bloody right!" He cussed "What sorts do you find yourself in?!"

She turned away, threatening to walk away again.

"Sansa!" He snapped , wolf and dragon in him showing. "I am lord of the north! Donna make me command your ear!"

Jon was kind, and he never ordered her without extreme reason. When did she become such a wild wolf?

Sansa turned and looked at him, fists balled up tight at her sides, arms stiff and aching. "I am sick of everything, Jon. I need to be alone please.” Jaw steel, eyes liquid. “You can command me all you like tomorrow. I will see Lord Crestwave, in a moment. But please, give me a moment to calm myself before I do."

He frowned at her, in his runt puppy way. "You can talk to me, yonnow?"

She tried to smile. "I know." She said with a nod, a sniffling laugh. "But not right now."

He touched her shoulder, rubbing "You’re Lady of Winterfell. My sister. I worry." He dropped his arm and left.

Sansa felt near tears, heading back on to her room. Once she calmed, cooled her fiery little head, she would visit Lord Crestwaves.

She could not believe what she had seen, what had finally come to her. She did not know Sandor at all, well at least, not anymore.

She tried to shake away the thought, but she had found there was nothing but memories. Too many years between them now. They were different people, different creatures.

Sansa went to her room, barring the door then sitting on her bed. She held her face in her hands, letting her heart break. The man she searched for truly was dead. And so was the girl that he knew. Sandor was right, she was no longer a little bird. She was a wolf.

She let few tears fall, grieving her memories, the years she had not counted.

Sansa caught her breath again, heart still aching from her revelation. She did not deserve the man Sandor had become. If she wanted him at all, she'd have to earn him again. And poor Lord Crestwaves, he was a good man, a man deserving of a better creature than the wolf she was.

Sandor’s voice could be heard barking up the hallway, stopping only outside her door.

Sansa scowled, he could break down the door if he intended to come in.

He slumped against the door, sitting in the hall outside.

Sansa went to the door, placing her ear against the wall. She sighed, opening her door.

He looked up at her, head dripping wet, eyes doleful.

"I dinna mean to snap at you. My blood was high." He looked like a man defeated, a scolded child , a dangerous animal, all at once

"Sandor, come in." Sansa murmured. "I think we need to talk."

He rose, standing in her doorway. He grabbed her shoulder, pinning her to his chest in a quick movement.

Sansa struggled. "No, don't."

"I dunna want to talk to you, bird," he growled. His voice was pained. "I dunna want to hear any more chirping," he sighed, "or your growls." He held her to him until she slackened.

Sansa shook her head. "No." She whimpered. She reached up, gripping onto his arms. "Please, I have to say something. I need to say it."

He growled. "Words are wind," he spat , eyes meeting hers , fire roaring behind them. So much for cooling his head.

Sansa exhaled. "What do you want?"

"I think it plain!" He roared , jaw set.

Sansa's eyes steeled. "Come to take the little bird away again?" She tossed her head. "She's doesn't exists. Her and the Hound. They don't exist." Her eyes searched his face, finding nothing but his resolve. "I don't know you." She whispered, eyes lowering.

He snarled, grasping her by the back of the neck, forcing her to meet his eyes, his breath close and mingled with hers - his voice was low, and dangerous, thrumming between her legs , sinking into her ribs. "I know you."

He let her loose, storming off, burning brighter than before. His blood thrummed in his ears, blocking everything out. He left on a guards-route that night.

She held her tears. She had said what she needed to say. Heard what he’d wanted her to hear. Her heart was breaking. Oh gods, he loved her. And she so wished she deserved it.

 

Sansa went to Lord Crestwaves’s chambers, paying him a visit, bringing him one of her handkerchief as a token. "I hope you take my forgiveness my lord." She said softly.

He smiled at her, dismissing the maester "Aye, come here sweet lady. I may not make it through the night." He said dramatically. His legs were bootless, deep gash well mended.

Sansa laughed, sitting on the edge of his bed. "You look a ghost right now."

"Remind me not to cross your shield," he laughed. He pulled her next to him, leaning his head on her shoulder.

Sansa stroked his hand. "Not many have survived him, remember." She said, feeling ever more guilty. Her heart drowning in it. She rolled his hand over, finger tracing shapes in his palm.

"I’m a free bleeder," he admitted. "It really was just a scratch"

Sansa stroked his hair, kissing his temple. "I am so sorry. I can not explain what made me run away."

He smelled her hair, pausing at her neck, sensing something and dismissing it. "It was a fearsome battle. The likes not suited for a fair maid."

She looked at Lord Crestwaves, she genuinely cared for the man, and if she were to marry him she could be happy.

"You remind me of someone from when I was a girl." She said.

"Oh aye?" He said. "Tell me a tale, then."

"He was a great knight, and yet he wasn't." Sansa began. "He terrified me so, caused me some great grief." She continued caressing her fingertip around his palm, going up his bare wrist. "But actually, he was protecting me. Making me see I was a silly girl, a wolf thrust into the lion's den. He was telling me the truth to save me."

"He saved my life on several occasions." She swallowed. "I never appreciated him until he was gone."

His ocean eyes held a storm, stroking her hair as she spoke. "First love is always bitter." He smiled, golden tooth flickering. "Always."

Sansa lowered her eyes. "I never realized that was what it was till years later."

"If only I could free you from its grasp, sweet lady," he whispered. "I’ll do my best."

It is burned too deep, Sansa thought. Horrible scars that run down through me. "Thank you, my lord." She murmured, lacing her fingers with his.

He kissed her, softly, freeing her from his hold.

"You’re so much more than beautiful, Sweet lady." He said, pure truth. Painful almost to hear.

Sansa kissed back, a gentle, warm reply. "Thank you my lord." She whispered. "I wish that I was."

Sansa left, shooed away by the maesters who insisted that Lord Crestwave rest. She wandered sluggishly through the halls, heart heavy, stomach in knots.

It would be a fortnight before Sandor’s guardswatch returned.

Jon called a meeting with Sansa in the late evening, torches roaring in the halls, snow falling freely outside in the dark.

Her stomach still in knots, she had not eaten that morning for fear of losing it later. She looked at Jon, knowing what he was going to say.

"I’m to return to the wall," he said , quietly. "I am still lord commander of the nights watch." He continued, Sansa‘s eyes widening. "It is time you take your role as warden of the north."

He spoke not of husbands or marriage. He spoke not of duty. Of family and honor.

"I leave on the morrow."

Sansa's mouth hung opened slightly. "I will pray your safe return." She swallowed the lump in her throat down. His stay had seemed so short. "How long will you be away?"

"Until my watch is over," he said, resolute.

Sansa nodded, neck stiff. "You know I will do Winterfell, and you, proud." She said, giving him a smile.

"I wished to find you one to rule with." He said , eyes soft and brown, purple flecks between. "Dunna let your line die out."

Sansa smirked. "Your line is my line."

He smiled sadly. "You’ve loyal northmen, and a stronghold with Lord Crestwaves." He frowned, pulling her for a hug.

Sansa squeezed him tight, she had not been away from him since his first time at the Nights Watch, back when she was a fool and did not know how she would need him. "I know all that Jon. You worry about me too much.”

"I hope you are happy, Sansa. You’re not a prize to be had. I just-” He shook his head. She knew her duty. To wed and breed

Sansa kissed his cheek. "Aye, you're no prize yourself Jon Snow." She teased with a grin. "Stop being so dour all the time." She playfully pinched his nose.

He pouted , puppy look not lost on him with age.

The same that rarely graced Sandor’s.

Sansa smiled, looping her arms with his. "You think with that face we’d be having to barricade ourselves in from the ladies of Westeros."

He laughed and swirled her in his arms. He sighed "I need to tell you a truth."

"Oh?" Sansa perked up. "You have my full attention, ser!"

"I thought of wedding you myself." He frowned, petting her hair. "To spare you from this...game."

Sansa laughed, head back.

"Dunna think me touched!" He yelped, flustered. "I donna see you that way-"

He blushed and continued "I was told of my mother," he said softly. "We aren’t brother and sister by blood."

Sansa squeezed his arm. "I know Jon. But I love you all the same as one. I could not see you as a husband towards me." She smiled. "It would have basically been Tyrion and I all over again." She shrugged. "Awkward as seven hells."

“My blood is Targaryan." He shook his head. "But my father will always be yours.”

“He would be glad to hear that.” Sansa murmured with a soft nod.

“I must go to the wall as to not be called to serve as hand." He wiped his eyes. "I wouldn’t be a good hand. Castle black needs me."

Sansa thought of Daenerys, seeing no issue with being hand for her. Tyrion was certainly doing well as her hand, It was probably much easier to work for such a gracious beauty as her than it was for Joffery. But all the same, she could see him giving the title to Jon just was easily too.

"I will miss you,” she said, changing the subject in her own mind. She wiped his face, kissing his cheek for luck.

He held her close. "You may love whom you choose, Sansa. No one is above the warden of the north, save the queen." He smiled in his pup way and dismissed her.

Sansa smiled happily after him, bidding him goodbye and watching him and the others ride away, further north, towards the wall and the cold. She wondered if they'd ever let her visit and then just laughed.

Chapter Text

Sandor and Crestwaves ordered the men and managed the army as Sansa fit herself as warden. Sansa would sit with the maesters, perform jobs she had seen her father do so many times before. She had wit and wisdom, and even the maesters were impressed with how she handled the affairs of Winterfell.

But the times were quiet, and Sansa found she was able to spend most of her time over-seeing other projects. She returned to her needlework. She planned on rebuilding the glass garden finally since Jon never seemed to pay much mind to it.

If she were to raise children in Winterfell, she wanted it to be like the Winterfell of her childhood.

Crestwaves courted her as often as he could, flirting with her and treating her they way she had always dreamed handsome knights would. He brought her fine wines and delicacies from her home in the South. Feeding her candied lemons and figs. He told he stories of his many adventures at sea, legends and ballads of mermaids and other sirens hidden in the deadly waves.

He was a welcome distraction. Since the last time he had come to her, Sandor had seemed to be avoiding her when he could. He still served as her personal guard when she needed him. But if he could help it he was in the courtyard or when the men.

Sansa had also noticed he had started drinking again. Not like he used to, but he would drink wine with the rest of them, drinking the men under the table most nights.

Sansa wished she had someone to talk to. Someone who would be unbiased between Crestwaves and Sandor. She could not talk to Sandor about Crestwaves, less he mock her more and turn away. And she feared speaking of Sandor to Crestwaves. She cared for him and did not want to hurt him by speaking of Sandor how she wished.

“I am going back home,” Crestwaves said one evening over supper.

Sansa tensed, saddened to hear the news. She would be alone without him, but then again, perhaps Sandor would make more attempts to be around her now.

“Oh, I will miss you, my lord.”

Crestwaves smiled at her, gold tooth glinting. “It won’t be forever, no more than a month.” He reached out, taking her hand under the table, rubbing her knuckles. “Being the lord of a house is so ever boring. Paperwork and gold coins.” He chuckled. “But when I return I will have gifts to shower upon you.”

Sansa’s cheeks darkened. “That isn’t necessary, my lord. Having you back in Winterfell will be like summer again.”

He kissed her fingers. “You’re too kind.” He then turned, facing Sandor. “I need to take special care of our lady.” He said. “Don’t leave her alone for a moment.”
Sandor nodded. “Yes, ser.”
Sansa wondered if Sandor would follow his request. She prayed that he would.

That evening, Sandor walked Sansa to her quarters rather than Crestwaves who was busy seeing to his men and preparing the leave the next day.

“Your love is leaving tomorrow. Are you sad?” Sandor teased, the wine in him making him brave. Making him cruel too.

Sansa didn’t glance up at him. “Of course I am sad. I will miss his company.”

He scoffed, rubbing his stubble covered chin. “Don’t like the company of dogs anymore, do ya?”

Sansa wanted to give him a swift kick to the shins. “Oh no, I still like talk to dogs. I prefer them over knights.” She wondered if that would get to him.

She stopped at her door, waiting on him to open it for her.

Instead, his heavy hand laid on her shoulder. She waited, wondering if he intended to kiss her, to hold her. Her heart thrummed at rabbit’s pace, rattling her bones, blood singing in her cheeks and to the tips of her ears.

She turned slightly, looking over her shoulder and up at him. “Sandor?” She murmured quietly. Her fingers slid up, touching his.

He pulled away, growling something under his breath before turning and leaving her.

Sansa went into her room, barring the door and trying to figure out what it was he had grumbled so low under his breath. She dressed and braided her hair, snuggling under the furs of her bed. And as sleep came, she realized what he had said.

Why did you even bring me here?

 

Crestwaves left early the next morning, leaving before Sansa had even rose from bed. Winterfell was achingly quiet and empty. Crestwaves and his men had brought so much warmth and life to the walls. The castle was as quiet and still as the snow now.

Aside from their leaving, though, business went along the same as it always did. During her meals though there was no one to talk to, and Sandor still seemed to be avoiding her.

I will only be able to survive a few day of this, Sansa thought to herself, exasperated by the quiet and the dourness of it all.

A few days later, during the evening as the torches were lit, she decided to find Sandor and try to talk to him. If he was angry about Crestwaves, she would explain. She cared for him, but, her heart belonged elsewhere. If he wanted to break her heart, he had it! He could do what he willed to it.

He was in the barracks, drinking with the men.

She stood in the doorway, having herself steeled and ironed.

He noticed her before she spoke. "Aye, my lady?" He murmured, voice low and melting like his meaded wine.

"Ser Clegane, I need to speak with you.” She commanded with a gentle but stern voice.

A few men whooped , their bloods high with drink. Pretty wenches around, smiling at her. Sandor shot a look, grabbing his skin and coming to her. His scruff grown out, hair to his shoulders.

"Oh no, its much worse." She said, playing with the men.

He leaned against the door frame, following her out, flipping an ugly sign behind them.

"What is it then, Mistress?" He liked that title on her, the way it rolled off his tongue.

Sansa went down the hall, hands folded on her skirt. "I want to know why you have been so hateful towards me." Chin held high, body stiff.

"You’ve not seen me hateful," he said, matter of fact. He drank from his skin, throat rolling, thick with muscle. He discarded it aside, stepping forward.

"Then why do you look at me as though I was one of the men you've slain?" Sansa's voice was calm, eyes full of fire.

He rolled his eyes. "If you need company, any man in the bloody north will warm you, and willingly too." He said, bitter at himself, blocking her against a tree.

"You going to slap me, then?" He said, sensing her motions. "Its the truth." He spat.

"You know that isn't what I mean!" Sansa barked. "You deserved to be slapped, and often. I do not like what you are turning back into!"

"I’ve not reverted to anything‘," he growled, turning his body to her "You’ve not known me - not once." He stumbled, pressing her to him, to the tree, breathing ragged , his musky scent surrounding her.

Sansa clinched her fists. "I will strike you." Her voice shuddered.

"Strike me," he growled, knee between her thighs.

"If I had a knife I'd stab you." She snarled, pushing at him as hard as she could.

He laughed, scooping her hands in one of his, kissing her fingertips. "You think your fangs scare me, maiden?"

"Do not laugh at me! I know titles mean nothing to you, but I am the Lady of Winterfell! The Warden of the North!" She struggled, trying to rip her hands away from his gentle, possessive kisses. "Do you know what a wolf does to a dog?"

He knelt to her ear, voice low and rasping "Don’t you know what dogs do with wolves?" He nipped her earlobe, chest raising.

He grumbled, letting her free, turning to leave. "I’m pissed, milady. Go to bed.” He said, waving his arm at her.

"Do not walk away from me!" She commanded.

He stopped, looking over his shoulder at her "Would you have me piss here, then?" He motioned to the tree. “Would that be something you’d like to watch?”

Sansa's face blotched, red and pink. She remained silent for a moment.

She looked away quickly as she spoke again. "You will come back when you're relieved."

He barked a laugh, walking to the trees. "Aye."

Sansa waited, arms crossed, not from her irritation, but the cold. Her breathing was shallow, white clouds exiting her nose.

He was gone for moments, but returned, gentle snow falling as he did.

Sansa looked up at him, mouth pressed in a hard line. "Are you ready to tell me why you won't look at me?"

"I’ve not stopped looking at you." He leaned on the tree nearest.

She turned, facing him. "Then why do you look away like I've spit on you?"

"Its not polite to stare," he mocked softly, tipping her chin up.

Sansa rolled her head away.

"Please answer me straight." She bored holes into him, her eyes cold blue steel.

He leaned, kissing her, suckling her lips to his teeth.

She wanted to fight, wanted to claw out his eyes. Instead, she leaned into him, taking his kiss and giving it back. She grabbed at him, hungry and begging.

She then pushed away slowly, trying to catch her breath.

He was still, still as their first night reunited. "It was an answer. Not a question." He moved, heading back to the barracks.

"Please don't go away." Sansa cried. "You said you'd never leave me."

He stopped, standing. "As you wish.”

"Do you want me?" Sansa quivered.

He was upon her in a blaze, pressing her to the wall nearest "I want naught," he said, snarling and dangerous.

Sansa's breath came in ragged. "You're a liar if you say that." Her teeth chattered.

"I don’t want you," he whispered, strangled with pain. Why would she not see the truth?

He stole one last kiss, breathing against her own hot breath. "I need you," he whispered. Afraid for the first time to speak the truth, as this one stabbed him tenderly.

"Sandor," she put her hands around his waist. "Oh my poor Sandor." She kissed him tenderly. "You cut me so deeply."

He growled, spreading her thighs over his waist, kissing her angrily, snarling. "Don’t pity me," he howled, between suckling her lips to his mouth, tonguing her. "I‘m not your broken project to be pitied." He tugged her hair from the root, lips finding her throat.

Sansa moaned, having wanted this moment for so long. She shivered. "Sandor, I'm cold." She whispered, biting his ear, fingers tangled in his hair. “Take me to my bed.”

He groaned, punching the wall near her head, sliding her down "I can‘t," he panted softly, moving off of her.

Sansa took hold of him again, shaking him. “Please. I want you to.”

He laughed, a horrible sound of steel on stone. His eyes flashed. "I can’t do this with you. I will love you and shield you- don’t ask me to ruin you." He shook, with restraint more than anything. “What of your lord? Have him hear this from you!" He barked.

"Stop bringing him into this!” Sansa snapped. "Do you think I meant for it to be like this?” She gripped him tight. "I am tired of you pushing me away because you think....I don't know what you think." She pulled him into her arms.

"He isn't my lord." She whispered.

He slumped, head hung over her shoulder. "Aye, he is," he whispered , painful truth.

"Shut up will you?" Sansa sniffled. "I will choose whomever I want." She hissed. "I will fight for the one I love."

"Why?" He exasperated. "Women are not to woo, but be wooed." He quoted softly to her, neck. Poetry, an old one at that. He wasn’t a knight, he wasn’t a fair man. But he protected her, and now gave her poetry.

"You are a fool." She whispered.

"Aye," he replied solemnly.

"My love," she whispered to his ruined ear, kissing softly. "I want you. I need you."

"Be still, mistress," he growled dangerously.

"I will not." She growled back.

"Then make your bed and lie in it." He kissed her softly. "Alone.”

"Do not say that." She whispered, jaw clenched.

"It is said, can’t take it back."

Sansa's breath shuddered, snow had coated them now, flakes hung from her lashes, fluttering. "Then say something else."

He kissed her ear "You’re perfect in the snow" he breathed

Sansa smiled, her cheeks aching. She lifted her hands, trembling. She cupped his cheeks between her palms. "I don't know what you think I want. But what I want, what I need, is you...and a reason to continue fighting."

"If you think you must fight for me you’ve forgotten who wields the sword." He bore into her eyes. "You have me."

Sansa kissed him, warm and sweet. "Mine." She whispered, fingers trailing down his scared cheek. "Mine."

He smiled. "You want to piss on me too?" He joked, dirty, softly groping her ass, pressing her hips to his.

"Shut up," she laughed softly. She pressed her forehead to his. Lacing her fingers with his she kissed him again, long and soft.

He rubbed her arms warmly. "You should go," he smiled. "I’ve got to get back to my whores and drink." He smirked.

She scowled and kissed him again. "You best not make fun of me, ser." She stood, smoothing her skirts and hair.

"Oh, I’m serious." He smiled "Got a sweet old mare waiting for me." He watched her. "Broke silence, poverty. Non violence." He sighed, rife with burden. "Gotta work on celibacy.”

Sansa bore holes into his skull. "Then I'll leave you to it." She sniffed, lifting her head and turning away.

"I’ll make sure to spend my whole stipend," he called out, waving her off.

He laughed, watching her huff off angrily.

Sansa went to her chambers, barring her door and sitting at her vanity. She felt sick again, worrying over poor Lord Crestwaves. She knew she'd have to break his heart.

She sighed, disrobing and going to bed, tossing and turning in her sleep.

 

Lord Crestwaves returned just as he had promised, before the end of the month, bringing spring warmth with him. He climbed the tower, bursting in as Sansa dressed. He laughed, chasing her about her room.

“Ser, please!” Sansa gasped, becoming trapped in his embrace.

He laughed victoriously kissing her neck. The crushing wave of his love’s warm waters rippling through her body. He hoisted her, holding her frame to his.

"Every moment away tortured me," he caught his breath.

Sansa smiled, her heart breaking and filling all at once as she looked at him, the love just bursting forth from him only hurt her more. If only she could return it, if only she could replace herself with someone more deserving.

She bent her neck, kissing him warmly. "What have I done to earn such loyalty?"

"I know not, milady. What have you?" He smiled dashingly, pressing her to the bed.

He kissed down her stomach, nipping her bellybutton.

"Ser," she wriggled. "Ser please I don't..."

He rubbed his cheek to her stomach. "Don’t what?" He said, mock innocence "Nothing off kilter about your sweet torso." He continued his play. "Nothing .. lascivious" He said, biting his lower lip slightly.

Sansa bit her lip, sitting up right, pulling away from him. "It isn't proper, ser." She said, trying to cover herself.

"I’m not very proper," he weighed, tackling her, spooning her to him "Seven gods I’ve missed you," he said, voice gently wilting.

Sansa held her hands to her face, wanting to cry, wanting to scream, wanting to make him hate her. His warmth was too much, too sweet and true. Why did it have to be him she’d have to hurt?

He kissed her shoulder. "I’ve brought you gifts. Dress and accept them?" He asked, not ordering.

He dismissed himself. To her horror he gave a proper greeting, a guards greeting as he left. Sandor stood guard at her door.

Sansa buried her face in her palms again, praying she had some sort of answer. Oh gods, she had not the strength. She would break, she knew it. She was so close now. Pulling her dress back up, fumbling with the buttons.

She ran through her head the previous evening. Her and Sandor fighting, kissing, confessing they had never stopped loving one another. She threw her hands down in aggravation, dress half buttoned. She wrung her hands through her hair. Oh, if only Jon were here. If only she had taken the chance to tell him everything. She fell frustrated and exhausted already onto the bed.

"Have you fallen ill, milady" Sandor’s voice rasped at the door.

"You know well what is wrong with me." She groaned. "I love you."

"Aye." He barked a laugh in reply.

She rolled over onto her side, facing the door. “Do you not see what I must do? How I must hurt him. Or would you rather I hurt you?"

"You don’t hurt me by being happy," he said simply.

Sansa stood, going to the door and opening it, glaring at him. "And what would you do if I chose him?" Her dress half way open.

"Lick you clean the next morning," he murmured, licking his lips, pupils black upon her.

Sansa's chest heaved, breasts just barely covered. Her cheeks turned red and she pinched her thighs together.

"Oh stop." She turned back into her room, trying to finish buttoning her gown.

He closed the door, kneeling, bringing her thighs to him.

Sansa put her hands on his shoulders. "Don't you dare. He's waiting on me..." Her voice wavering, looking into his eyes.

"You’re not in a state to be presented, my mistress" he growled, disappearing under her skirts, hot tongue slipping between her folded lips.

Sansa nearly heaved over. "You're..." She gasped, her hands braced down hard on his shoulders. "You're a liar, you are. Gods...you are going to torture me aren't you?" She pant.

His lips clamped around her clit, humming, lathing her with his tongue.

Sansa rasp, breathing heavy. "You liar." She gasped. "You fool." She whimpered, feeling pleasure ripple through her. She was beginning to loose things to call him. He was making her loose her mind altogether.

His hands held her thighs still, supporting her trembling weight. He lapped faster, with purpose, relentless.

Sansa's knees quivered, her hands now balancing on his head. She moaned softly, stress melting away, flowing down to him.

He groaned in his throat, drinking her sweetness, tongue greedily dipping into her slit, nose grinding her throbbing nub.

Was this what she could expect with Sandor? Greed and hunger feeding them. Years apart had made them desperate for each other. Oh yes, she loved him, but was it a dark love?

Ser Crestwave's love for her seemed pure, genuine. So different for her love for Sandor.

He flicked over her lips, grinding till she came, suckling and lapping her clean.

Sansa fell back, sitting on her bed, panting and flushed. She looked at him, eyes watered from her orgasm.

He grinned wolfishly, licking her from his stubble. "Well then. Can’t keep him waiting," he chuckled, leaving her a flustered heap.

She finished buttoning her dress, and left in a flourished huff. When she went to find Ser Crestwaves, she had managed to put on a warm smile, happy to see him and his cheerful face. Her skin aglow from Sandor’s attentions.

He embraced her, smelling her deeply. He blushed slightly, mostly on his temples. "You’re ravishing, sweet lady." He purred.

She blushed, guilt mostly. "Thank you, ser." Her voice soft.

He brought in casks of wine and spices, offering her a gilded set of scissors for her needlework. He kissed her present, handing it over in the silken cloth.

Sansa took, holding it gently in her hands. "I thank you ser, but you have done so much for me already."

"Have I?" He grinned, assuming her pleasurable glow his fault. "I’ll have to do more, then."

Sansa smiled, heart breaking. "You do more than I deserve."

“Impossible." He said.

Sandor snorted in concurrence.
Sansa wanted to give him a dirty look, but she just smiled back at Crestwaves.

That evening, Sansa decided she would invite him to a private dinner, and with any luck, she could screw up the courage to tell him the truth.

She paced in her room, running scenarios through her head. She hoped he was mad, she deserved to be yelled at, blamed. She brushed her hair over and over, trying to busy herself as she waited. She fell onto her bed, running words and speeches through her head. But she had to, no matter what, she had to.

Sansa went to meet him for their private dinner. She sat at the table, taking sips of wine between deep breaths. When he arrived she stood to greet him, knowing it may be the last time she saw him smile around her.

She took his hands, kissing his cheek.

He smiled and sat near her. "I didn’t know you set this up." He smiled. "I already ate...but I’ll drink to your health," he murmured, sitting on her couch beside her.

He smelled of the sea, of salt and steel. He stroked her cheek, drinking deeply, always in time with her.

Sansa took on a somber expression. "Drinking may be better then."

She cleared her throat, taking a deep breath. "I am afraid that I have some bad news for you ser..." She voice cracking.

"What news have you?" he said, meeting her eyes with concern.

Sansa looked away. "You are a wonderful man. So full of life, so full of love. And...and I am not deserving." She said.

He raised a brow "That is most certainly a lie." He said , matter of fact.

"What do you wish, Sansa?" He said, gentle, a keeled beast. "I would hang the moon, but you’ve beat me to the task."

Sansa smiled sadly. "I am an awful, awful person," She shook her head. "I am so furious at myself that this has happened. That you feel so strongly for me, when I do not feel the same." She felt the tears, the lump in her throat.

"Do you not?" He smiled , pulling her to him, comforting arms around her.

Sansa choked, hiccupping. “I do care for you, ser. Deeply.” She regained herself, his arm a surprising comfort. She put her hand to his chest, squeezing slightly. "But I love someone else." She admitted.

He kissed her hair. "Aye. I’ve known."

She looked at him, breathless and awed. "My god...and still you stayed?"

He pet her back gently. "Ser Jon told me so before I asked for your hand." His hand cupped around her long neck. "I do not mind you love him, the man who was the Hound."

Sansa let a sob escape. "Jon he..." And here she thought Jon was clueless, that he knew nothing. "I do not understand." She gasped, looking into Ser Crestwaves’s eyes.

"If only you would allow me to love you as well, in time you may grow to fondness. We make a handsome couple." He said softly, kindly. "Clegane is no lord. He has no keep left, no life for you as a lady. No support but his own shield for the north."

Sansa held his hand, squeezing tightly, realization resting on her shoulders.

"I’ve an army, bannermen, gold," he said. "And in good fortune, I love you. Even if I did not, my word is my bond."

"You are such a wonderful man, and know I do care for you deeply, I am very fond…" Sansa sniffled, shaking her head. "I know he has nothing now and I know what I should do but I cannot..." Tears fell down her cheeks.

He wiped her tears. "My sweet lady," he cooed softly. He kissed her temple. "You do not have to choose overnight. But we are not alone in your affections. Perhaps Clegane deserves a say."

"You would have him brought in on all this? Your competition?" Sansa murmured, awed by this man's mind.

"Is he competition?" He smiled. "Is a man with the same interests and ...taste... an enemy?"

Sansa let out a chocking laugh. "You are a surprising man, Ser Crestwaves."

"Aye, and you’ve not even undressed me" Eyebrow arched, grin mischievous.

Sansa hid her smile in the palm of her hand, taking a deep breath. "I have been tearing myself up inside, worrying so much I was going to hurt you."

He drank deeper "We could both have you. Very popular activity in Dorne, sharing." He chuckled darkly.

Sansa's mouth opened and closed, wordlessly. Her eyes wide, face splotched red. She took a deep drink to busy herself. "Full of surprises." She gasped.

"Though I don’t find his face so pleasing as you do. You get rather hot for him, you know?" He said, inching closer and closer, bodies pressed tightly together.

Sansa slapped his arm. "You fiend!" She laughed.

"It’s true. You come down reeking of him often, for such a proper lady."

"I do not!" Sansa said, pushing him. "Do not tease me so!" She cupped his cheeks in her hands.

"It’s not teasing," he murmured, licking her neck, kissing softly. "You blush like that for him," he said, smiling.

Sansa moaned, putting her hands gently on his shoulders. "You're making me blush now, ser."

"Oh aye?" He asked, propping her in his lap, the length of his hardness against her thighs.

Sansa swallowed, trying to avoid his eyes, feeling her face grow hot, all the way up to the tips of her ears. "Do not tease me, ser." She voice hitching as she tried to sound strong.

"Perhaps it is you who teases," he purred against her neck.

Sansa tangled his fingers in his golden hair. "You shouldn't." He was intoxicating to say the least.

"Oh shouldn’t I?" He kissed her, claiming her mouth, hands rubbing her lower stomach, long strong fingers massaging her through her smallclothes, easing the ache.

"I shouldn't," Sansa whimpered., breath hitching, voice stuck somewhere lost.

"It is not a sin to desire," he breathed. "Especially your to-be wedded." His teeth dragging down, lips kissing the hollow at the base of her throat. "Or your shield, your champion…" He rubbed her sweetly, relaxing her against him.

"I need..." She swallowed. "I need to know how he feels." Limbs weak, voice fading.

"I think he made it clear this morn.”

Sansa pulled back, looking at him. "What do you mean?"

He gripped her cunny, squeezing deliciously "He presented to his men with your lovestains in his beard."

Sansa reddened. "That is not what I meant." She placed her hands against his neck. He was like sweet wine, slowly drowning her senses. "How he feels...about...about this, you...all of it."

"Oh I’m sure he wants me buggered with his sword." His ministrations continued without pause. "He would only turn on me at your command." He smiled "Or if I abuse you. Which I would never do." He added quickly with a smile.

Sansa pressed her forehead to his. "I still don't want to betray him." She wanted to kiss him, to be kissed, but she restrained herself.

He cupped her waist, rubbing up to her ribcage and back down. “I must confess something, my darling.” His voice smooth but sad. “If you want children…it will not be through me.”

She stared into his eyes. “Ser?”

Her lord laughed softly "Aye. They’ll not be my little fish if you have children," he smirked. "I had the mumps as a boy." He kissed her. "Bloody useless save for fun downstairs."

Sansa pet her hair, running her fingers through the gold. “I…I understand.” She said with a nod.

He kissed her still, withdrawing his hands. "It is past this old fish’s bed hour.”

Sansa caught her breath. "Oh, yes, I suppose so." She pushed her hair behind her ear. She stood to see him off. “Goodnight, my lord.”

Without a word, he kissed her again, groping her ass. He left, closing the door behind himself, leaving her ache stoked and ready.

Sansa sighed loudly, skin alive, burning. She waited for the staff to take away the meal that had gone uneaten. Once they were gone she began undressing, mind swimming, body aching. She remained naked, crawling under the furs, hoping the cold would reach her and soothe the burn.

Chapter Text

Sandor’s growl met her in the dark "You should bar your door. Keep the dogs out." He murmured.

Sansa's eyes snapped open, breath hitching. "Dogs should know better." She murmured.

"Punishments only work when sweetened by reward." His weight dipped her bed, inching closer slowly, dangerously.

She smirked in the darkness. “Then I should punish you now.”

His dark laugh came to her ears, unmoving from his position at the edge of her featherbed. “I’d like to see this punishment of yours.”

Sansa reached out in the darkness, seeking him out, wanting to bring him close, press against his hardened form. His cheek pressed into her palm, a low moan escaping his throat at her touch. Her fingers explored, grazing against the harsh stubble on his chin and neck. Pressing against his lips that kissed. She felt the grooves of his burn, lingering on his melted ear.

“Sandor,” she whimpered softly. “My lord…Crestwaves, he told me something tonight.” She braced up on her elbows.

He moved his head so her fingers slipped to his lips. He nipped and kissed, suckling a finger between his lips. “Oh? And what did your Lord Husband say?”

Sansa frowned at that. “He isn't that yet,” she scolded, pulling her hand away and pinching his cheek. “So stop teasing me.” She swallowed. “Listen.”

“Aye,” he inched a bit closer. “I am.”

Sansa waited, wanting him to come lay beside her and hold her. It would feel so nice, she thought, to be held and cradled. She reached to him again, her hand cupping the side of his neck. She could feel his muscles there flex and tense as he swallowed.

“Crestwaves said…he doesn’t mind if…” she bit her lip. “Well, he said that in Dorne sharing is very popular. And, I am so fond of him, and you know I love you.” She mumbled and fumbled, going roundabout, afraid to say outright what Crestwaves had suggested.

Sandor was suddenly on top of her, quick and silent as a cat. His figure above her a dark, ominous canopy. "Do you want us both?" He asked bluntly.

Sansa felt her gut fall out. "You are horrible." She spoke of herself as her hands reached out, fingers petting through the dark pelt on his chest.

"I mean it," he murmured. "Tell me all the truth, Sansa"

Sansa's hand dropped. "And if I said I did? You'd hate me wouldn't you?"

"You think I could?" He whispered, licking her lips softly.

Sansa opened her mouth for him. "Sometimes I don't know."

"I.." he began, nipping her lip softly. "I desire you happy over all else."

"Even if you were my whore?" She kicked the furs off herself, her fingers clawing down his bare chest, legs looping around his waist.

He softly palmed her chest, moving between her legs with a large hand. "Oh no, have a powerful perfect woman only want me for my pretty face. What a fate," he mocked softly.

Sansa tried not to laugh but failed. "Have you two been plotting against me all this time?"
"Not in so many words." His finger dipped inside her wetness.

Sansa moaned loudly, his finger a welcome treat. She was still drunk from Crestwaves‘s affections, Sandor‘s own dark wine was slowly intoxicating her further into a delicious madness.

"Have you?" She rolled her hips to match his ministrations.

"He knew me the first moment he arrived.” Sandor growled gently, finger moving against her ache. “Sought me out.” His large hand pet her belly. “Begged me to let him have a chance to continue the noble north."

She looked up through the darkness, wishing she could see his face, see his eyes and read him. "Why didn't you say anything?" Sansa wrapped her hands around his neck. "You let me suffer like this!" She moaned, his finger moving inside her faster.

He pressed in deeper, rubbing her loving ache. "You seem to fancy him." He smiled. “We’re both dirty bastard cuckolds." He snarled, biting her neck softly. "He’s watching now, I’d assume."

Sansa gasped. "What?" She hissed, struggling, but not able to escape.

"You didn’t bar your door." He kissed her, holding her to him. "Anything could come in." His thumb found her nub, caressing away her worry.

"Are you teasing me?" She bit down hard on his shoulder.

He moaned out, slipping another finger in. "Perhaps. Methinks not." He kissed her, moving between her thighs, hands working her over. "Do you desire to be deflowered, Mistress?" He asked , trembling with restraint.

Sansa searched in the darkness, trying to find a pair of blue eyes staring them. She moaned, his hands too good for her to stray too long. "I don't appreciate being made of show of."

"You’re warden of the north," her betrothed’s slithering voice chimed in. "All eyes on you, my lady." His weight joined them on the bed, one knee tucked under his sinewy frame.

Sansa shuddered. "I do not know what this is." She whispered.

Sandor nipped her lip.

"Answer him, Sansa." Crestwaves chuckled, lips rubbing against her ear.

“My lord, please,” she pant.

He fingers combed through her hair. “Call me Laen,” he whispered, teeth on her shoulder.

“Laen,” Sansa murmured towards him.

She shuddered, feeling the length of Sandor go up against her thigh. Yes, she wanted to be taken, to be deflowered. Married to both Sandor and Crestwaves in one night. But her manners betrayed her, making her shy and demure.

“I can’t say I…” Her voice cut off despite her efforts to explain how she wanted them desperately, even if the Seven frowned upon them.

Sandor and Crestwaves weight both moved away from her and then off the bed entirely.

"We’ll leave you to sleep, then, sweet maid.” Crestwaves replied coolly.

Sandor replied with a cruel chuckle.

Sansa sat up abruptly, panicked. "No! Oh no please don’t!” She caught her breath, recomposed herself as best she could. "I don't know what's happening but...you can't leave me now." She out stretched her arms. “Both of you. I want both of you.”

Their weight returned, Sandor above her, kissing her neck, lapping softly, rubbing her stomach.

Crestwater rubbed her legs, capturing a toe in his lips, golden tooth softly grazing.

They neglect her seeping ache, her chest.

Touching everywhere else, caressing, rubbing.

Sansa moaned, graciously accepting them, body shuddering from nervous anticipation. "What have you two done?"

"We live to serve," the two growled, meeting at her hot quim, two tongues writhing there, weight on either side of her, pinning her legs.

Sansa sighed, reaching down, one hand per head. "Dirty old men..." She panted, arching her back.

They both nipped her, in tune. Their warriors dance leading them to have harmony in other areas, bodies both trained , both learned. Sandor rolled her atop him, thickness against her thighs, spreading her cheeks and slit.

"Answer me, Sansa," he growled.

"Yes," Sansa said without hesitation. She no longer cared. If they were both willing, then she would gladly accept them both, in bed, in life, with love.

 

Her husband kissed her neck, withdrawing first, rolling to his back. Sandor bucked, thighs throbbing. He kissed her hair, panting, rubbing his spent head against the honeypot of her cunt.

"Have you moon tea?" He asked, rutting in the mess.

Sansa fell between them, her arms splayed out, laying over each of them. "I don't remember anything..." Sansa sighed, head lolling.

"You’re to have pups if you wish," he growled, licking her cheek.

Sansa groaned, slowly coming out of her sated delirium. "You speak of that now?"

Her lord laughed softly. “Perfect time is it not?” He asked. “They’ll be expecting an heir.”

Sandor smirked, kissing her forehead and rubbing her belly, picturing his children as the heirs of Winterfell.

Sansa shuddered, little aftershocks rocking her body. "I don't care. Why are you both going on like this?" She rubbed the back of her hand against her eyes, sighing and moaning intermittently as they moved and readjusted on the bed.

Laen‘s hand pressed up her thigh, smoothing up her full belly. "We must preserve the Stark line, my lady."

Sansa laughed, her hand touching down to her belly, both her men‘s hands there. "We'll have to keep trying until we do then."

"As I.. told you before.” Sandor murmured. “Your lord came to me and begged me to help him save the north." He said, hoping she would connect the dots.

Sansa propped up on her elbows, staring. "This...all this..." She wiped her hand down her face. "You fiends!" She threw a pillow into the shadows, hoping to hit one of them. "Planning all this time behind my back!"

"No plans were spoke," her lord chuckled.

"And this just happened because?" Sansa pouted. "I cannot believe you two."

"We could go," Sandor said, pup eyes on her from her lap.

"Don't you dare." She she said sternly, but smile. "Both of you, come to me. Its cold."

Sandor crawled over her, pinning her "You’ll need a bigger bed," he muttered, crawling around her, spooning protectively.

Her lord rose, heading to her chair to smoke a long silver pipe "Don’t mind me." He smiled. "I’ve a bit of a taste for cuckolding" he said, blowing smoke rings as sleep claimed over Sandor.

"If this is to be life, I would enjoy you both." Sansa replied, her rump curled against Sandor, his arm under her breasts. "I'll do what I can to please you both." She yawned.

"You are the surprising one, my sweet lady." He purred. “But I enjoy watching you, one way or another.” He grinned devilishly. “And, I do not sleep so well.” He motioned to Sandor, already snoring away. “He will have to keep you warm most nights. But when he cannot be here, I’ll be happy to lay beside you and warm you’re lovely bones.”

Sansa smiled, snuggling into her pillow. Sandor’s arm tightened possessively around her in sleep. “Will it be like this every night, Laen?”

Crestwaves chuckled, enjoying the sound of his name on her lips. “That is up to you, my darling.” Smoke exhaled from his nose. “You can have us one at a time, the same time, whatever your heart desires.”

Sansa closed her eyes, sleep claiming her slowly. “It will take a while…for me to get used to…”

Crestwaves smiled, watching her sink into a deep sleep.

 

When she woke in the morning, it was Crestwaves who’s arm around her. He was propped up, her head laying on his stomach. Sandor was long gone, having to perform his duties.

Sansa stretched and yawned, she felt sore and achy. Her legs still felt like pudding, weak and useless. Crestwaves stroked her back and hair as she lifted her chin, looking up at him.

“What time is it?” She purred sleepily.

He turned his head, looking to the curtained windows. “I cannot say. Not quite morning but still not quite afternoon.” He chuckled, bending down to kiss Sansa warmly on the lips. He tasted of smoke and herbs.

Sansa looped her arm around his waist, cuddling closer to him. “Will you ever take me to your home?” She asked, closing her eyes again. She was more than willing to waste away the morning. She didn’t want to try walking now, she knew she’d make an absolute fool of herself.

Crestwaves chuckled. “My home is your home. We can go visit whenever you desire.” He kissed the top of her head. “I can take you out on one of my ships, show you the oceans, the waves. The giant creatures that sometimes breech from the deep.”

Sansa sighed tranquilly, picturing herself on one of Crestwaves golden ships. Jon had told her stories of them, his fleet.

“My family used to be pirates,” Crestwaves told her, voice soft and quiet. “Horrible dreadful people.” He chuckled. “My father used to tell me stories. For generations my ancestors pillaged and plundered. Taking gold and jewels, building a fortune. A kingdom on the sea.” He smiled peacefully.

“Soon, my great-grandfather had enough ships for an empire.” He chuckled to himself. “He was very smart, of course. He researched, sought facts, made the right contacts. He made sure he had his fingers in a lot of pies, his nose in a lot of business.” He cleared his throat.

“Anyways, he had decided that he wanted a title. Something more worthwhile to pass along to his sons. A name.”

Sansa pet his chest, his chest covered with a smattering of golden curls. “It wasn’t always Crestwaves.”

He shook his head. “No. Something a little less savory.” He rubbed his chin. “So, he found a lord who was in some dire straights. He had looked all over, making sure he had the just the right desperate lord. Well, in so many words, my great-grandfather pulled the lord from the mud. And to thank him, the lord gave him lands by the sea, gave him a title. From there, well, my grandfather made a name for himself. Gold and blue, the Crestwaves colors. Undaunted by challenge,” he murmured his family’s words. He pet Sansa’s hair. “Want to know the lord my great-grandfather helped?”

Sana nodded, yawning.

“Twas your great-great-grandfather.” He smirked, playfully rubbing her hair. “That’s why we have a fish as our sigil.”

Sansa propped herself up, looking him in the eyes. “Did you know my mother?”

Crestwaves met her sad eyes with a gentle smile. He stroked her cheek, his thumb brushing against her bottom lip. “Your grandfather didn’t much care for my father.” He chuckled. “So I maybe met your mother once as a child. I can’t remember.”

Sansa nodded slowly. “I see.” She sat up, pulling the furs back and rubbing her legs.

Crestwaves chuckled. “Sore are you?”

“I don’t think my legs will work today,” Sana groaned as she stretched, her back popping pleasurably.

Crestwaves stood. “I’ll send for some hot water, get you a nice bath.” He dressed then kissed Sansa on the cheek. “Be back momentarily, darling.”

She turned, kissing him softly. “Thank you.” She purred, curling back into bed as he closed the door behind himself. In the twilight between waking and sleep, she had a dream. She saw a little girl, running and giggling loudly through snow. Pitch black hair down her back, crystal blue eyes looking up at her.

The sound of the warm water being poured into her tub woke her slowly. She rose, seeing someone whisk out of her door. Yawning, she stretched and began to rise. She stood, legs just as wobbly as she expected.

Will I ever get used to this? She thought to herself as she stumbled into the hot waters. She dunked her head under the water, soaking her hair. When she was a girl, she used to pretend she was a mermaid, like in the songs and stories. She wondered if her little dream girl would do the same.

Would she take after her mother, or her father? She pictured a little girl with a personality much like Arya’s, sitting on her father’s knee as he showed her how to sharpen a blade with a whetstone. She smiled peacefully to herself, leaning back against the tub to just soak for a while.

“Awake finally?” His laugh a dark but happy thing.

She opened her eyes, looking up as Sandor began removing his leather armor, stripping down before her. She smiled, drinking in the sight of his naked form. He was a big, hard man, muscles rippling as he dipped to kick away his britches. His arms were great things, thick from digging graves. His thigh, she saw for the first time the wound he had sustained there. The one he had received when Arya had left him for dead. His leg still looked bruised, the deep, dark gash had left a nasty scar. At least it was one he could easily cover, all he needed were more disfiguring scars.

He eased into the tub, slipping in behind her. One arm wrapped around her collarbone, pressing her back into him. His other hand rubbed soap all over her body and through her hair, working her into a rich lather that scented her in lavender.

She moaned gently at his touch. “How did you manage to come?”

He chuckled darkly, nipping her neck. “How could I not come?” Lips pressed hot and hard to her skin. “Your cunt was so pleasureable. So tight and wet, I couldn‘t help but come.”

Sansa slapped his arm. “That is not the come I meant.” She huffed. She pinched him then snuggled into him again. “I meant how were you able to leave your duties?”

“Your lord husband relieved me,” he growled against her ear. “Said I needed to cruelly wake you.”

Sansa giggled, her hands holding his one arm around her. “And what would a cruel wakening be like from you?”

He nibbled her ear. “Oh, you’ll know it.” His hand reached between her legs, palming her gently. “Sore?”

“Like something awful,” Sansa sighed. She laid her head back over his shoulder. “But I don’t mind. It reminds me of what we shared last night.” She smiled broadly.

He had a serious look to his face, dipping down to claim a kiss, long and hungry.

“You really don’t mind?” She whispered against his lips.

He grunted, not really answering.

“It is nice,” she murmured, pecking small kisses all along his chin and neck, “knowing I am surrounded by so much love.” She snuggled close to him. “I’m very happy.”

He nodded, rubbing his cheek to her wet hair. “Then so am I, little bird.”

She giggled, hugging his arm. “I thought you weren’t going to call me that anymore.”

“Only in private,” he gave her a hard squeeze, kissing her temple.

“I dreamt about a little baby girl,” Sansa said with a dreamy smile. “She had my eyes, and your hair.” She looked up at him expectantly.

He had a gruff look to him, a sour pout. But there was a gleam to his eye, a proud and happy look. He had not thought about a girl, but picturing it, a cute little wriggling thing who loved songs and lemon cakes like her mother, reaching up to him with chubby fingers. A smile broke on his face.

“A real princess,” he stroked her belly.

 

“Have you never been married before?” Sansa as Crestwaves over tea.

He nodded. “Four,” he then sipped his team quickly shaking his head. “No five.” He chuckled. “I have been married five times.”

Sansa blanched some. “Oh?”

He smirked. “Oh, believe me. They were not the happy unions I plan to have with you.” He tugged a little on her chin. “I cannot have children, but somehow, all five managed to have one.” He said with a shrug.

Sansa chuckled, covering her mouth. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh. That is horrible.”

He shrugged. “Not really. I had no real affection for some of them.” He cut into his cat, offering the first bite to Sansa. She took it, licking her lips and smiling pleasurably for him. He smiled back, gold tooth glinting.

“I married my first wife when I was fourteen,” he said with a grimace. “I was so young, and she was a few years older than me. It was doomed from the start.” He shuddered. “She liked to-” he made a whipping motion with his arms. “She terrified me shitless.”

Sansa nodded, understanding a young, unwanted marriage. Tyrion never touched her, was never cruel. Even still, she had not wanted him, and even if he was kind it didn’t mean she owed him anything.

“Second wife, turned out was pregnant when we married. Gave birth seven months in.” He laughed. “I did like her though. She was funny. We still talk, and he son is an amazing lad. He’s a knight now I believe.”

He continued on talking about his other wives. “The third one never even slept with me. Too religious. How she got pregnant I have no clue.” He poured some amber liquor into his tea and sipped it. He then stuffed and lit his pipe. “Fourth wife I thought I loved, but it was only because her eyes were so bewitching. She could charm any man or woman she wanted. And did.” He grinned. “We had fun together.”

Sansa blushed prettily.

Crestwaves leaned to her, kissing her sweetly then hungrily. “I love it when you blush,” he hissed seductively into her ear.

“My last wife, she was a bit too weird for me.” He shook his head. “Had a thing for horses.”

Sansa’s mouth dropped open and she laughed a bit.

“Never saw anything from it but,” he made a squeamish grimace. “It was more than enough to have me ship her back home.”

Sansa sat her teacup down. “And what makes me so special?”

His smiled turned up at the corners, catlike and satisfied. “You? Hmm, good question.” He slipped his fingers under her chin. “You have captivating eyes, fire for hair, and lovely smile and bewitching laugh.” He slipped his other hand around her waist. “And you have a heart, a big one too despite the hell you suffered.” He pulled her close. “And your taste is addictive.” He pressed his lips to hers, tongue lathing over her own.

Sansa moaned gently, gripping tightly onto him. She did so enjoy kissing, and Crestwaves was a master at it. He had her hot and hungry in a matter of moments with his lips and tongue and fingers.

He smirked as he pulled back. “Do I intoxicate you so?”

Sansa rubbed her knuckles against her cheek, feeling her warmth seep out. “I am still quite new to it all.”

He kissed the tip of her nose, looking up as Sandor came into the room. “Keep that fire stoked, milady.”

“Why?” Sansa mewed.

Sandor came up behind her, pulling her hair away from her neck and licking the curve of her throat. “Mm, for tonight.” He growled.

Chapter Text

Sansa sent Jon a crow, alerting him of her decision and of her gratitude. He had known all along that she loved Sandor. But he must of also known how she would come to loves Crestwaves as well. It was such a shame he would not marry, he would be a remarkable husband and father. Well, he had the chance to be a father. But it was still a shame none the less.

The days went on smoothly. Pleased with her decision, Sansa was able to relax more. Her natural beauty glowing brightly from the loving affections she received from her two men. She enjoyed the stolen moments with Sandor, heavy petting and moaning in dark alcoves. The taste of his hard-worked sweat, his hands rough from sword-use rubbing up her skirts tantalizing before he pulled away, grinning wolfishly at her.

She was able to have the sweet, public romance with Crestwaves she had always dreamed of as a child. He treated her like a goddess, holding her hand, hugging her, giving her nibbling little kisses for no reason. But he too was as just a hungry beast as Sandor. Sometimes, under the table, his hand would roam her lap, rubbing her and petting her secretly, causing her to turn red like he liked.

In the nights she was able to share them both at once, tasting both their love simultaneously as they worshipped her body. Their shared bedroom a temple where they prayed in whispered cries, growls and pants.

Most nights, Sandor and Sansa would make love as Crestwaves looked on, either just above Sansa, his hands petting her lovingly. Or sometimes just sitting in his chair, watching from afar as he smoked his pipe.

Although, Crestwaves was always more than willing to join if she begged. His lean, sensual frame joining the bed. His tongue slithering about her body. He was smooth and lean compared to Sandor’s rough and hard. His cock long and curved while Sandor’s was thick and veined.

Most nights Sandor fell asleep curled around Sansa as she talked until she fell asleep to Crestwaves. His insomnia kept him up most nights, he took small naps throughout the day when he was able. Sansa enjoyed their little talks while being possessively held by Sandor. It was not the dream romance she had as a girl. No. It was far better than that.

“Brother,” Crestwaves said to Sandor one night, “I am not much longer for this world.” He smoked on his pipe, clam and serene.

Sandor looked up at him, Sansa passed out in his lap, one of the few times she had gone before him. “What the hell are you going on about?”

Crestwaves chuckled. “I am no young buck.” He replied, smoke whisping from his nostrils. “I am older than I look. Not to mention my insomnia and free bleeding.” He shrugged, scoffing at himself. “I will be an old feeble man by the time the children are old enough to understand the world and see things. I will not be a good father to them, and I will not be a good husband to Sansa then either.”

Sandor frowned, listening silently to him prattle on about his worries.

“You will have to be father and husband when I am gone.” Crestwaves murmured. He rolled his neck, looking over at Sandor. “Brother, these are true concerns to me.”

Sandor scoffed. “Are you saying I will not be a father and husband?”

Crestwaves beamed, gold tooth glinting in the firelight. “Oh! I do not mean to offend. I think age will do you well. I think children will make a right decent man out of you.” He sighed quietly. “I am simply afraid is all.”

“Age is something that comes to all of us.” Sandor rasped low. “It is nothing really. I have seen great men age and still fight.”

Crestwaves smiled solemnly. “I suppose so.” He shrugged. “Since we left the sea, Crestwave men have never aged well on the land. I just know…children are so wonderful, willful creatures. I want them to want for naught. I want them to know love as true as the sea.”

“They will. Sansa…” Sandor licked his lips. “She has more than enough love to give. And she will spoil those brats until she dies.”

Crestwaves smiled. “I know. I’m just cautious is all.”

“And so will I.” Sandor continued. “I will love my pups. And I will love Sansa until the seven hells have to burn me alive.”

Crestwaves laughed softly. “Alright, alright,” he nodded. “I understand, Brother. Thank you for listening to me worries.”

Sansa moaned softly, nuzzling against Sandor’s stomach.

“You’ve been watching over her for a long time, haven’t you?” Crestwaves purred.

Sandor pet Sansa’s hair lovingly. His thick fingers combing through the auburn waves delicately. “Always kind, even to those who didn’t deserve it. She’s always been loving. Always wanting to be loved. She deserved that.” He frowned some, remembering the days back at King’s Landing. “Smart,” he said with a nod. “She was always so smart.”

“I believe it.” Crestwaves murmured, face a little serious.

 

Sansa had ordered a new mattress, one much bigger than the old. After the bed frame was assembled and the featherbed laid upon it she set about rearranging her room. New furs and a down blanket and pillows laid out smooth and beautifully. She had gotten the down blanket special, since Crestwaves had complained about the startling lack of them in Winterfell.

“I have always had a down blanket.” He said. “It is silly to complain about, but it is what I am used to. Why, my first night here I woke up and was afraid a wolf was eating me.” He then looked at Sansa and winked. “Oh, I would not complain if that happened mind you.”

Sansa rolled her eyes at him. “Keep your tongue, husband.”

“I shall keep yours,” he chuckled warmly, pulling her close beside him, feeding her a hunk of salted ham.

When the bedroom was to her liking she sent for her two betrothed. She made sure the fire was roaring so the room was warm and cozy. She dotted herself with scented oils and undid her hair from the tight braid, her long hair falling in ringlets and waves around her shoulders and breast.

When the two men came in, she was laid out on the bed, hair splayed about the pillows. She smiled coyly at them as they looked over her, barely sheathed in a thin nightgown.

“Ah!” Crestwaves clapped his hand. “You got the new bed.”

Sandor came into the room, not having noticed the bed for Sansa laid out upon it like an offering. “It seems our lady wishes to break it in.”

Sansa giggled, cheeks darkening. “I thought you’d like it better if I showed you how it was used.” She teased gently, propping herself up. “But I do see a twinkle of something sinister in your eyes.” She bit her lip.

“Not quite sinister,” Sandor growled as he began removing his sword and his armor. “More like, sinful.” He said with a grin.

Sansa squirmed excitedly, watching as Sandor stripped down to his underclothes. Above her Crestwaves was easing onto the bed, propping her head in his lap. His hand rubbed langoriously down her shoulders and arms. One hand cupped under her chin, holding her head up as his other hand smoothed down her chest and under her nightgown.

No matter what they always tended to her first. Petting and stroking and licking. Sandor crawled on top of her, kissing hungrily, his tongue swirling around inside her mouth. His knee between her thighs, rubbing her deliciously.

 

Sansa woke sometime later. Crestwaves was at a tray, pouring himself a cup of tea. Sandor was still wrapped around her possessively, snoring like a bear against her shoulder. She moaned softly, stretching where she could.

“That is a very nice bed,” Crestwaves chuckled, hushed. “I do believe we will enjoy it.”

Sansa smiled sleepily at him. “I’m glad I can make you both happy.”

 

A few days later, Sansa received a crow from Jon. She read over it smiling, him explaining his workings and thinkings. Apologizing for not being forefront with her, but happy nonetheless for the circumstances his actions wrought.

“A letter from Jon?” Crestwaves asked, bringing her tea.

Sandor poured himself a glass of dark wine, gnawing on hard cheese and bread silently.

She nodded, folding the letter back up. “Yes, he sends his love and congratulations.” She beamed up at him.

Crestwaves chuckled, rubbing his chin. “When should we have the wedding?”

Sansa halted for a moment. “Wedding?”

“Yes,” he nodded, flourishing his hands out dramatically. “A ceremony. A huge event for all of Winterfell to revel in. A great and wondrous celebration that would rival the the Queen and her dragon brood.”

“I don’t want a ceremony.” Sansa answered simply.

Sandor snorted audibly, covering his mouth so he didn’t spew his food.

Crestwaves seemed as if he‘d been slapped. “Don’t want-”

“I do not wish to waste our coin on such a thing.” Sansa shrugged. “There are more important things here we can spend that gold on.”

“I can pay for that!” Crestwaves laughed.

“I do not wish you to.” She shook her head. “If you wish to please me with your coin, then use what you would on the ceremony to buy food for the people of Winterfell. Buy them livestock and grain.” She smiled sweetly at him. “That is what will please my heart most.”

Sandor reached out, holding her hand and squeezing lovingly. “Are you sure, Sansa?” He asked quietly. “Nothing at all to celebrate our union?”

Sansa smirked coyly. “Do we not celebrate that every night?”

Sandor laughed at that, kissing her sloppily on the cheek.

Crestwaves still looked abashed. “This won’t do for me.”

“Best not argue with her.” Sandor growled warningly to him.

Crestwaves pouted some. “At least let me hold a feast.” He replied. “Let me fashion you a dress, and new cloaks for the two of us.” He placed his hand over his heart. “It means a great deal to me for the North to know that I am yours.”

Sansa sighed. “It means so much does it?” She looked at Sandor and smiled, chuckling. “I leave it to your devices.” He stood. “But, I will make your cloaks.” She explained. “And alone I will lay them on your shoulders.”

Crestwaves tilted his head. “You will lay the cloaks?”

Sansa nodded. “Sandor has laid his cloak upon me twice before,” her voice soft, heavy with nostalgia.

Sandor shifted in his seat, embarrassed. “Those two times were not…Sansa, please forget those times. They were not blessed things.”

“For me they were.” Sansa replied to him, frowning. “I wish to bestow the same gift upon my loves.” She smiled at Crestwaves. “You may take care of the feast and my gown. But I will make the cloaks.”

Crestwaves sighed then smiled. “I see this is all I will be able to squeeze from you.” He came forward, kissing her. “Thank you. And I will make sure all of Winterfell is fed that night.”

Sansa giggled. “I cannot wait.”

Chapter Text

Sansa had been fairly busy for a few weeks. Her men as well. Though her world had entirely blossomed into something new, the rest of Winterfell and Westeros continued its own business. She wondered of love, of happiness, of how many women and men felt how she did. Her hands were raw with her work, but her body was never more maintained.

“You have been busy,” Sandor growled at her one afternoon as they walked to supper.

“I’ve been trying to get ready,” she smiled up at him, lacing her fingers with his. “Are you mad at me?”

He avoided her eyes, pouting in his own offish way.

She squeezed his hand tight. “Are you starved for affection, my big, strong knight?” She giggled, lifting his hand and kissing his knuckles affectionately. “If we were not expected for supper, I’d say take what affections you wanted here.”

At that, Sandor ripped her away, lifting her high off the floor and pressing her into a dark corner. His teeth raked over her exposed flesh. Her neck, and chest, and her shoulder. He snarled hungrily, kissing and licking.

Sansa pressed her palms against his chest sighing in honest. Her fingers were raw, smooth pads covered with bandages.

“I come to bed and find you asleep,” he growled. “I runaway from my duties and find you bent over your fucking needlework.”

Sansa tilted her head, exposing her long neck to him. “All the work…it is for you, my love.” He pet her up neck, her fingers rubbing behind his ear. “I cannot spare a second.”

He chuckled hoarsely. “You’ll spare a second for me.” His hand slid up her skirts. “It’s been about a week now.” He rubbed at her underclothes. “A man does feel neglected…pent up.”

Sansa whimpered, pinching his ear hard. “You speak as if you’re the ruler here.”

He grinned at her, pressing a hard kiss to her mouth, biting as he set her on the ground. “You make my blood sing so.”

Her face red and glowing, Sansa reached out to him, wrapping her arms around his waist. “Mine sings for you,” she pant. “After supper?” She asked. “Tend to me, my shield?” She mewled sweetly.

He scoffed, a sound like stone on steel. “Aye,” he kissed the top of her head. “I knew that would get you.” He snarled teasingly.

She swung at him. “Dirty old pervert.” She hissed at him,

He laughed at her, grabbing her arm. “To supper now. No fighting me, mistress.” He hissed.

Crestwaves was away, had been for about three nights. Gone to see to the preparations of the feast he was throwing for all of Winterfell. He was also having a dress specially crafted for Sansa, silks and gems of the finest kind to me woven into a dress beautiful enough to match her.

This would be there first time making love without Crestwaves somewhere near. Sandor was a mixture of nervous energy and desperate lust. He’d have Sansa all to himself, not that he didn’t hog her when Crestwaves was there anyways. But now, she was all his. All her attention and affections focused in on him entirely.

Once in their room, Sansa stripped off her furs, standing before him in a sheer gown. “Strip, darling.” She commaned with a coo.

He did so, eagerly. But when he was down to his pants Sansa stopped him. “Hold still please.” She said gently. He felt something cool and smooth against his bare shoulders.

“What the hell are you doing?” He growled.

“I’m making sure my measurements are correct.” Sansa answered simply. “I don’t want you cloak to turn out to be too big.”

He grumbled, aggravated. “This is not what I was wanting.”

Sansa smiled, kissing his bare back. “I know. I’m almost done you big baby.” She scribbled down in her notes then set her work aside. “Now sit still. Let me have a good look at my husband.”

He hands rubbed up his taut back. All hard muscle. “You’re like a mountain bear,” she purred against his ear. “Big, strong, and hairy.” She giggled, pressing her naked form to his back. Her hands clawed down his front then scraped back up, combing through his dark pelt, over his scars and muscled. Her nails catching against his dark nipples.

He moaned, a husky purr.

“Why would they call you a dog, when you are something so much more than that.” Her tongue traced along his ear. She rubbed against his back, breasts pressing to him. “Tell me, my great creature, what you want.”

Sandor turned, tilting his head and kissing her, suckling her lips to his teeth, her tongue darting over the roof of his mouth.

“I want what my queen offers.” He whispered.

Sansa smiled, walking around him and kneel between his legs. She quickly undid the laces of his pants, tugging them off and them sitting in his lap. “I am offering everything.” She smiled, leaning in and kissing him.

He adjusted himself, moving his hips and positioning his cock. She responded in turn, slowly easing down on him, spearing herself over his thick cock.

“You still stretch me so,” she pant and she began to bounce. “It is my favorite sensation.”

Sandor growled happily, his hands pressed into her hips. He’d not have her any other way.

Sansa cupped his face between her palms. “Give me children, Sandor.” She pleaded. “Please…fill me. I want to give you a baby.”

Sandor kissed her, a desperate one. How he longed for that too. “I am trying, silly girl.”

Sansa panted, laughing as she worked herself over him. “I can feel you so deep inside me. So hard…”

Sandor could feel her tighten and grip at him, suckling him in deeper.

He did as she commanded, filling her warmly. She laid on the bed, legs in the air to keep his seed inside. He teased her, saying she looked like a dead bird, and she just laughed back at him.

They made love again just as they went to bed. And after he came he nuzzled against her breast, rubbing his fingers up and down her ribs.

“That was so good,” Sansa sighed, stretching.

“Sansa…I know this is selfish of me.” He started, swallowing. “But I want you more…just to myself.”

Sansa pet his back, running his fingers through his pitch hair. “I know you do.” She coaxed him. “I will try, my love. Because I want you to myself sometimes too. But I feel bad for Laen.”

Sandor nodded, he rolled off of her, pulling her into the crook of his body. “He will understand.”

Sansa cuddled against him, petting down his chest. “When you dream of children,” she mewled softly, “what do you see?”

Sandor sighed, his arm tightening around her. “The little girl you told me about last time.” He chuckled. “Short, pudgy little thing like I was as a babe.”

Sansa snorted. “You were short?”

He chuckled with her. “I was. Didn’t really start growing until I was six.” He swallowed, his childhood a bitter pill. “I also want a redhead. Another girl.” He chuckled.

“We should have a son, just in case.”

“Hmm, a boy.” Sandor took a deep shuddering breath. “A son.”

Sansa propped up, hovering over him. She kissed the tears from his cheeks. She then guided his hand to her belly. “Send your love to them Sandor, tell them to hurry.”

 

Crestwaves returned home on the full moon. Sansa and Sandor greeted him at the front gate and when he saw her, he ran and grabbed her up, collapsing into her arms.

He kissed her hair and cheeks, kissing her hungrily. “I feel like I have been through hell and back to get to this point.” He sighed.

Sandor scoffed. “It has only been three weeks.”

“Three weeks too many, Brother.” Crestwaves sighed, leaning against Sansa as they walked.

He had brought with him what looked like an endless line of cargo being carried, a herd of cattle, pigs, several cages of chickens. He had lived to his promise, he’d brought more than enough for a feast for all of Winterfell. There was one box being hauled to their room, a tall narrow thing..

“I will show you your dress tomorrow.” He said weakly. “For once, I actually feel like sleeping in my bed.”

Sansa held him fast, nuzzling her cheek to his long arm.

“We have missed you, Brother,” Sandor replied. “Your wife especially. I do not think I am enough for her.” He laughed, teasing.

Sansa gave him a scolding look. “I think he missed you just as much as I did. You two have become such good friends.”

Crestwaves chuckled. “Lucky me. I am so loved.”

“Do you want anything to eat?” Sansa asked. “A drink?”

He shook his head. “I am barely strong enough to go to sleep.” He kissed her lovingly. “I will do all of that and more tomorrow.” He yawned.

It was a rare event when Crestwaves fell asleep with them, let alone sleep a whole night. Sansa knew this was a dire situation for him. She crawled into bed with him, his head resting on her breast, nuzzling close to his beloved. She pet his hair and kissed him. Sandor sat by the bed, drinking and sharpening his sword. The tall, narrow box Crestwaves had sent to their room sat in the corner. It smelled of cedar and the ocean.

“Must be the dress,” Sandor grunted.

“Must be.” Sansa murmured quietly.

Sandor motioned ti Crestwaves. “I don’t think I have ever seen him sleep. It’s an odd sight.”

Sansa chuckled lightly. “I hold him like this when he naps.” She said. “Longest he has slept at once, I think, was twenty minuets.” He nuzzled her cheek to the top of Crestwaves hair. “He must be exhausted. I wonder if he slept at all while he was gone.”

“From the haul be had following him, I’d say not much.” Sandor muttered. “He must of gone to ten castles to get all that.”

Sansa nodded. Crestwaves always smelled of the ocean. Of steel and leather and waves. But right now, he smelled of dirt and leather, of horses and fire. He’d been on the road for so long.

In the morning, Sandor left them to see to his duties. The Crestwaves bannermen were back and needed tending to. Sansa sent for a hot bath, preparing it as well as Crestwaves breakfast to be ready when he woke.

He stirred at the sound of the water being poured. Waking to see Sansa mixing a bowl of fruit with fresh cream. He moaned pleasurably, stretching languorously on the bed.

“I have not slept so well, in a century.”

Sansa went to his side, kissing his cheek. “Good morning, darling.”

“Mnh,” he smiled sleepily. He cupped her cheek, bringing her closer and kissing her long. “Darling.” He whispered.

Sansa giggled. “Breakfast is ready. As well as a piping hot bath.” He kissed his neck. “Which would you like first.”

“You,” he laughed, palming her bottom. “I ache for you.”

Sansa pulled back the blankets. “If you want me, then you’ll have your bath first.”

He whined in protest but stood otherwise. “Oh fine,” he pouted playfully. “Just make me ache.”

Sansa looked down, seeing his cock standing erect for her. She smirked back up into his eyes, laughing. “You stink, darling.” She led him to the steaming bath.

“I bet you’ve never said that about your shield.” He stepped into the water, easing in slowly. “Oh…” He groaned. “That’s it.”

Sansa wet a cloth, rubbing it with scented soap and bathing him. Her hand roaming all over his lean body.

He moaned pleasantly. “I trust you and Sandor have been keeping busy without me?”

Sansa smiled. “I think Sandor was bored without you.”

He laughed. “Who knew I was the fun one,” he looked up at Sansa, kissing her exposed neck as she washed him.

He hand slid down his chest, under the water. She wrapped her long fingers around his cock, rubbing it slowly. He bit back a moan, mouth hanging open for a moment ten shutting closed as her pace picked up.

“Careful,” he pant. “It…it has been a while and I am…”

She jerked hard then stilled. “You’re clean now.” She murmured against his ear.

He chuckled darkly as he rose from the tub. She smirked, taking his hands and dragging him to the bed. He laid out, reaching up to her as she knelt down beside him.

There was a knock at the door.

Crestwaves growled low. “Tell them to bugger off.” He groaned.

Sansa smirked, kissing him.

They knocked again.

“Go away!” Crestwaves laughed, cupping Sansa’s cheeks between his warm, smooth palms.

“You have visitors.” Sandor’s low growl came in muffled by the door. “They come from King’s Landing.”

Sansa sat up abruptly. “King’s Landing?” She gasped. She rose and shuffled quickly to the door, unbarring it and looking up at Sandor with wide, frightened eyes. “Who is it?”

Sandor swallowed. His brow was pinched and tense, and he had a slight look of sick on his face. “Lord of the coin, my lady.”

Sansa’s jaw dropped some, eyes widening. “What?” She whispered, reaching out and grabbing Sandor’s hand. “Tyrion is here?”

Chapter Text

She sat with her hands in her lap, watching as Tyrion downed a goblet of wine. He’d not changed much. He seemed less exhausted though, less stressed.

“That’s better,” Tyrion sighed, setting down his goblet with a clatter. He leaned back, stubby fingers combing through his hair, now more platinum than blonde.

“It is good to see you, ser.” Sansa started.

Tyrion laughed. “No need to lie to me, sweetling.” He rubbed his bearded chin. “You looked as pale as a ghost when I arrived.”

Sansa smiled. “Do you not blame me?” She chuckled. “You could have warned me you were arriving. I am not prepared to serve the lord of coin, let alone my prior husband.”

Tyrion smiled nostalgically at her, nodding slightly. “I do not require much. I don’t plan on staying long.” He swirled his goblet around, staring into the dark tincture. “I heard about your new marriage.”

Sansa stiffened some.

“Her majesty sent me down to bestow her blessing,” he sat the goblet aside. “As well as my own.” He replied. “The Dragon Queen has sent gifts for you.

“That is not necessary,” Sansa shook her head slowly. “It will be a small ceremony. And the only celebration will be for the people of Winterfell, and it is my betrothed who is doing that.”

Tyrion smiled. “So shy of weddings are you?” He chuckled. “I don’t blame you one bit, dear.” His eyes flicked up, looking behind her in the shadows at the great figure standing behind her. He pointed at it. “Tell me, where did you find such a specimen as this for the captain of your guard?” He smiled knowingly. “He looks…awfully familiar, if I may say so. Do tell me, is that who I believe it is?”

Sansa shook her head. “No.” She answered truthfully. “Who you believe it to be is dead and long gone.”

Behind her, Sandor shifted, standing taller, chin jutted proudly.

“This man behind me is also my betrothed.” Sansa’s voice as sharp and quick as Valryian steele.

Tyrion arched an eyebrow. “Is he now?” He looked over Sandor, nodding slightly. Vague memories of King’s Landing coming to him, of how the Hound had yelled ‘enough’ and laid his cloak upon Sansa. Tyrion recalled the stolen glances Sandor paid the girl back when she was still such.

He nodded. “I see.” He took a long drink. “I simply wasn;t enough for you? I am half a man, and you require two?”

Sandor snarled, taking this as an insult.

Sansa smiled gently, laughing some. “Tyrion, you are more man than most. Do not be hateful towards yourself.”

Tyrion grinned pleasantly at her words. “Always so good with words.” He tipped his cup towards her. “I knew you’d make it.”

Sansa smiled back. “It took me some time but…I realized long ago you were right. I was no stupid girl, I was a survivor.”

Sandor bowed his head, smiling to himself.

Tyrion cleared his throat as Crestwaves came strutting into the room. “So sorry I took my time,” he dipped beside Sansa and kissed her cheek. He then took a seat at the table, pouring more wine. “I feel I must do my lady justice.”

Conversation from there on was light and easy. They laughed and traded old war stories, Crestwaves and Tyrion especially. The two of them left together, having found a mutual interest in man a topic.

Sansa let them alone and went to Sandor, resting her head upon his great chest. Her hand fisted in his cloak. “You are not ill with me, are you?”

“What have I to be ill about?” He grunted, his hand coming up the small of her back. “I am quite proud of you.” He pulled her close, looking over his shoulder briefly before leading her away. “The look in his eye,” his chuckle crackled like firewood. “When you told him what was true, I thought he’d even turn red.”

Sansa smiled, nuzzling close to him. “Once we are wed,” she started. “You’ll not be wearing these armors and stiff leathers.” She frowned some, knocking her knuckles against the plated armor on his chest. “I want you dressed finely, in warm furs and linens.” She pressed her hand flat against the plate. “So that it is not unpleasant when I hold you.”

Sandor rasped a laugh. “How the hell am I to protect myself from you when I am in fur then?” He smirked, nipping the tip of her ear.

She swatted at him, missing his chin but a breath. But he dipped down, capturing her chin in his thick fingers and plunging into a delectable kiss. She tasted of wine, her lips stained with it. He thought of how easy it would be to drink her in and he smirked.

“Ow,” Sansa moaned lowly as they pulled away. She dabbed at her bottom lip. “Your teeth are sharp, my love.”

“All the better to eat you with.” He patted her bottom as she went into her room.

She looked over her shoulder upon him, pressing her arms against her full chest. “You aren’t coming in too?”

He shook his head. “Duties to see to, my mistress,” hissing softly. “I’ll come fetch you when it is time for sup.” He nodded towards her. “Refresh yourself, rest some.”

Sansa pouted.

“We are not animals,” Sandor laughed. “You can hold your urges.” He chided as he shut the door behind himself.

 

Sansa returned to hemming the cloaks, well into the night when Sandor came, dragging a stumbling and humming Crestwaves with him.

“Drank too much with the Imp,” Sandor grunted, tossing the fair man onto the bed a little carelessly.

Sansa shook her head, rolling her eyes a bit. “Did you think you could beat him?” She asked, going to the bed. She sat beside her betrothed, lancing his boots and tugging them away.

“I was but following his lead,” Crestwaves gurgled. “Is my wife angry with me?”

Sansa sighed. “Perhaps you will sleep through the night again.”

“No,” he argued. “I will drink more! And I will be drunk through the night!”

Sansa undid his britches. “You will lie here and pray that in the morning your head does not split open.”

“I fear no pain!” He laughed.

Sansa fixed him in the bed, tucking a pillow under his head. She stood, going to her work to fold it back up and set it aside neatly so she could return to it.

Sandor was sitting before the fire. Sansa had set a large iron grate before the flames so that he felt somewhat at ease if he needed to warm himself. She came up behind him, her hand sliding along his neck and collar, up along his jaw. “Did Tyrion find his way to a room?”

Sandor growled, easing into her warm palm. His skin was cold, frost clinging to his beard and hair. “I’m sure he’ll find many tonight.”

Sansa chuckled, walking around to his front. She kneeled down before him, unlacing his boots as she had Crestwaves’. They were damp, almost frozen. She was glad she had gotten him new boots for the winter, water-proofed leather, heavy and durable. Inside lined with thick fur. She tugged the boots off, setting them by the fire to defrost and dry. She massaged his cold toes, helping the blood flow back to the digits.

Sandor groaned low in his throat. “To think,” he chuckled, “the Warden of the North, rubbing my feet like some common whore.”

She clawed at the arch of his sole and he spasmed as if greatly pained. “What was that my love?” She snarled.

He swallowed, glaring down at her. “Nothing, mistress.”

She climbed up into his lap, claws scarping along the back of his neck and up his scalp. “Does it give you pleasure being so mean to me?”

His great arms coiled around her, fingers cold against her skin. “It gives me pleasure to do many things to you.”

Sansa smiled to herself, petting his molten cheek, warming the damaged flesh with silken fingers. “You are so cold,” she whispered to him, warm breath against his neck. “Let me warm you. She snaked her hand up under his tunic, pressing her palm to his chest.

He growled at her, breath hitching at her touch. It stung, the heat from her. “Sansa…” he pant.

Sansa sat up, spreading her thighs over his, hitching up her nightgown to show him she was bare beneath. Sandor undid his pants quickly, deft removing his belt and taking out his cock for her. Sansa pulled up his tunic, kissing his broad chest. Her fingers spread out across his ribs.

Sandor pet her hips, slowly easing her down. He speared her over himself, she was so wet, so ready. She had probably been wanting since Tyrion had arrived. She clinched tight around him, soft gasp puffing against his ear.

“Sometimes,” he smirked, teeth against her flesh, “waiting makes it better.”

Sansa rocked herself gently against him, feeling him filling her to the brim. His cock prodding against her womb in a pleasurable way. “You had to cold to keep you from aching so.”

Sandor thumbed her wanton clit, sweeping circles around the sensitive bud to bring her to pleasure quicker. “You could always take care of it yourself.”

“It feels so much better when it is you,” Sansa pressed her forehead to his, bouncing now. She reached behind herself, feeling Sandor’s cock as she rode him. “When I try to touch myself, all I can think is how I would prefer it be you and your big fingers.”

Sandor grinned wickedly, hearing his beloved little bird confess so naughtily to him. She would never of spoken thusly before. He and Crestwaves had had a horrible effect on her.

“Tell me more, my wolf.”

Sansa kissed him, suckling his bottom lip. “Your fat cock,” she pant. “I love how it feels inside.” She sat upon his lap, his cock stuffed in to the base. “When it first enters me…it is the most delicious sensation.”

Sandor grabbed the scruff of her neck, pressing her close and kissing her roughly. He bounced beneath her, stuffing her, fucking her raw.

Sansa’s fingers gently brushed against his sack, her mouth wide open against his, moaning loudly and longly. She pant his name, sighing delighted praises. She bit his neck as she came to her peak, milking him as he insides twitched. Her cum flowing around his cock.

“Cum inside me Sandor,” she mewled. “Cum-”

“As my mistress commands,” he growled, continuing to bounce her in his lap. It was not long when he fulfilled her desire, his cock twitching, his hot load stuffing her full.

“Warm,” Sansa sighed, pressing her fingers against her belly. She smiled contentedly, wishing for a baby to come from this union. She kissed his neck, he’d have bruises where she bit. She twirled her finger in hiss chest hair. “Are you warm again, love?”

He nodded, pressing her close again. His wide palm pressed over her’s against her tummy. His wish the same and her’s.

 

Sansa woke in the night, feelings Crestwaves’ weight and heat leave her side. She smelled his herbs burning and as she opened her eyes saw the soft glow of his pipe in the distance. Sandor’s heavy arm enclosed her, his face buried in her hair and against her back.

She rubbed her eyes, blinking through sleep. “Laen,” she mewled blearily.

He groaned sickly. “Oh, even your soft voice causes me pain.”

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, laying her head back upon the pillow.

“You warned me, did you not?” He chuckled weakly.

“If you feel you are going to be sick, I will fetch you something.” Sansa wriggled free from Sandor’s death grip. She slipped from the blankets and furs, inching slowly towards her lord. She slipped her cooled fingers about his forehead.

He moaned pleasurably. “You have learned how to please your husbands, even with a touch.”

She kissed his temple. “Hush now. I do not like knowing my love is ill, even if it was by his own hand.” She smiled against the crown of his skull.

He nodded, breathing easier. “We got interrupted before.” He smirked. “Promise to finish what you started for me tomorrow when I do not feel like this?”

Sansa nuzzled against his neck. “Of course.”

Crestwaves took her hand, pulling it along his neck like threading a needle. He then slipped something cool and heavy around her finger. “I found this little trinket for you.” He studied the ring on her finger for a moment. “Was an heirloom of my mother’s. I didn’t like it being alone.”

Sansa pulled her hand up, studying the gold band, a great stone of citrine surrounded by aquamarine and opals. “Laen…” she gasped. “It’s beautiful.”

“It belonged to my Grandmother and her mother before that, all the way back when the Crestwaves first built on the shores.” He rubbed her hand delicately. “It became my mother’s when she married my father, when she wore his cloak and took on the Crestwave colors.” He leaned into Sansa’s shoulder, smelling her hair. She smelled like sex and Sandor. “Now, I give it to you. Even if I am to take your cloak and colors.”

Sansa kissed him longly and deeply. She loved him so, his tenderness and affections. She loved the beast that resided in him yes, but it was his kindness that she loved.

He groaned. “Oh…do not be offended my queen, but I feel ill.”

Sansa jumped. “Let me fetch you something, and I’ll send for something to ease your nausea.”

“Do hurry,” he retched.

Chapter Text

It happened in the early morning. The sun coming in blood red and fiery orange against the heart tree. There was a gentle snow falling and a mist low upon the earth that parted as they came towards her.

She was knelt before the tree praying, pale hands clasped as she spoke to her gods, to her mother, her father, to Robb, and to Bran and Rickon wherever they were. She turned, her fur hood dropping from her hair. Her hair was shining, glowing in the light of dawn. Her heart raced upon seeing her lord and her shield. Had she known this was how her happiness was to be fated when she was a girl, she would not have minded the wait.

She wore the gown Crestwaves had brought for her. It was pale silver, shimmering. Fur lined at the collar and sleeves. The buttons were ivory, and each had either a fish or hound engraved upon them. It was a gown more suited for her than her first wedding gown. This one was made for Sansa, not for the Lannisters.

They bend their knee before her, heads bowed low. Sandor’s sword placed in front of him, her lords’ at his back. For a moment, looking down upon them, Sansa was afraid. But much like the quiet snow that was falling upon them, Sansa felt peace again. She was sure, she told herself. This was what was right, for her, for Winterfell.

They are cold, she thought. They need their cloaks.

Sansa unburdened herself from her packages, unbolting the white and grey fabric. The great cloaks she had been working on from morning to night so that she could lay them upon their shoulders. She poured her love and heart into those cloaks. They would wear them from now and until they were laid in their graves.

Upon both their backs she fastened the Stark sigil of white direwolves. Her own fastened at her collar. Crestwaves cloak was made with a material to resemble scales, Sandor‘s to look like the pelt of a shaggy dog.

"Rise, good men", she said, taking their hands. “My men.”

They kissed her cheeks in turn, and stood together. Her pack, for the lone wolf dies while the pack survives, and winter is coming.

No words need be spoken, their sigils flew themselves. Sandor Clegane, of house Stark. Lord Laen Crestwaves, of house Stark

Their titles and houses hers, as hers theirs.

She was Warden of the North. None above her save the queen. She could do as she please, the final gift her pack had left her.

They returned to Winterfell, preparations already under way for the celebration for their people. Sansa smiled warmly at the faces and people she saw. Mostly, she and her husbands were quiet until they were in private.

Sansa felt as nervous as a young virgin. She was a wife now, she had husbands now. It was her duty to make them happy. She blushed prettily, nervously. Tears came to her eyes as she looked upon them. Crestwaves stoking the fire, Sandor pulling up the tray with their breakfast upon it.

“Our lady wife is teary eyed,” Crestwaves said with a smile. He knocked Sandor’s calf with a log. “Tend to her you giant ass.” His laugh making Sansa shudder happily.

Sandor licked grease from his fingers and went to his wife’s side. Wife, he chuckled at the thought. He pulled her into his arms. Wiped the tears from her cheeks.

“I am happy,” she sniffled, batting his hand away. “I do not know why I am crying.”

“Because you are happy,” Sandor whispered into her ear. She had let her hair alone, free and in beautiful waves. He pushed it aside, kissing her ear, her long neck. He hadn’t meant to fall in love with the little bird. He had only meant to protect her, keep her safe, and show her the truth of the world. He’d never imagined in a thousand years a girl, no, a woman like Sansa could ever love him and wed him.

Sansa looked up at him, her lips partly slightly. “Oh Sandor,” she reached up, touching the dampness on his cheeks. Her lips spread into a smile and she giggled, standing on her toes to kiss his stone mouth.

“It is heartwarming isn’t it?” Crestwaves came up behind her, slipping his arms about her waist. He buried his face into her neck and shoulder. For him, he had never been in a family he could truly be proud of. He’d never expected to have a wife so true and loving towards him, someone he considered friend and passion. And Sandor was a good man, a great brother to have, to share with. And with them, he could have a family of his own. Children he wanted. Children he would spoil and love as if they were his blood.

Sansa turned, kissing him as she had kissed Sandor. Their first wedded kisses.

Sandor pressed his hand to her stomach and she looked up, expectant and ready. She bit her lip, waiting for his embrace.

“Your stomach is growling,” he answered her. “Best we eat before the food chills.”

Crestwaves released her. “Agreed.”

Sansa stood a bit flabbergasted. She’d been expecting to consummate the marriage. But here they were worried about breakfast!

Sandor pulled out her chair for her, removing her cloak as she sat down. Crestwaves fed her a strawberry dipped in cream. He missed purposefully, licking the cream from her cheeks, her lips. His tongue slithered into her mouth.

Oh! So this is how they’ll play it? Sansa thought happily as she accepted her husband’s sweetly flavored kiss.

Sandor sat on the other side of her. He dipped his finger into a lemony, sparkling sweet syrup and had her lick his finger clean. She suckled his finger, tongue wrapping around and teasing him. He pulled his finger out with a pop and grinned darkly at her.

Sansa patted her mouth with a napkin. “You boys need to stop playing with your food,” she tittered, cutting into her sausage.

“Not the food we’re interested in,” Sandor smirked.

Sansa rolled her eyes at him. “Oh no,” she tutted. “You had your chance to take me to the marriage bed. But you’ve resigned yourself to breakfast. Now eat it before it goes cold.” She smirked to herself, teasing them right back.

“Now that we’re married, I see our lady wife will be strict.” Crestwaves sighed. “Marriage always changes a person.” He winked to Sandor, drinking his brew.

“Oh most certainly!” Sansa flourished her hands dramatically. “I will not suffer you two fools. I am the Warden of the North!” She laughed, cheeks blushing.

“Then command us, my Queen of the North,” Crestwaves stood, bowing low before her. “Order me about, for I am but your humble servant.”

Sansa bit her lip. She slipped her foot from her slipper and slid it up Crestwaves leg.

He smirked devilishly at her. The delicious sensation of her rubbing, mixed with the sight of her cream skin becoming exposed was quite enough to set his mind in stone.

“If someone knocks at that bloody door,” he started, breath hitching, “Sandor, bash their skulls.”

Sandor grunted, still eating. He watched them from the corner of his eye. Crestwaves gave Sansa the romance she wanted as a girl. Giggling an playing with her, sweet cooings of adoration. Crestwaves was what she thought she wanted, Sandor told himself, I am what she needs.

Sansa’s fingers slipped against Sandor’s cheek. She prodded at the side of his nose. “You are ignoring me over your meal, why not join Laen and I on the bed?” Her hand moved to cover his mouth as he went to take a bite, but Sandor swatted it away.

“Let him eat,” Crestwaves tugged Sansa to her feet, whisking her away from the trolly and to their oversized bed. “He’ll need that energy later.” He snarled against her ear as he tossed her onto the bed.

“Be careful!” Sansa laughed, chest fit to burst. “You’ll wrinkle the lovely dress you bought me.”

Crestwaves bared down upon her, his hand sliding down the frontof her. “And it does look so marvelous upon you, my darling.” With deft fingers her popped the buttons off one by one, watching as her skin became exposed. He smirked, seeing she was not wearing a corset or bodice. “All natural for us today,” he licked his lips. “I thought you looked wonderfully pliant.”

Sansa swallowed, fingers covering her breasts teasingly. “I was too nervous.” She murmured sweetly. “I thought I would pass out if I wore them.”

Crestwaves kissed her belly, dragging his lips across her soft, supple flesh.

Sansa moaned longingly, the tips of her fingers pressing to her mouth.
Crestwaves smirked, kissing down her stomach and then pulling her skirts up. He rubbed his hands up and down her thighs, kissing their peachy plumpness. He then touched Sansa through her underclothes, teasing her.

“You’re so wet already.” He tugged at her them with both hands and ripped them in two. Sansa moaned in excitement, giggling at the sensation of actually having them ripped apart.

Crestwaves nuzzled between her legs, opening her up for his inspection. He breathed. “You’re as pink as a virgin down here.” He stuck a finger inside her. “You’re tight.” He then began licking her and Sansa couldn’t help but let out a squeal.

He pumped his finger in and out of her, causing juices to flow and moans to erupt. His rough tongue felt so good on her clit it didn’t take long for him to make her cum.

She threw her head back, heaving and panting, thrusting her tits in the air as she rolled with the exquisite pleasure her new husband was delivering her.

“You’ll ruin your pretty dress like that,” Sandor snarled. He lufted her from the bed, pulling the dress up over her. He laid the gown aside, his rough palms going over her body.

“She’s ready,” Crestwaves chuckled, eager.

Sandor eased her gently down onto the bed, both he and Crestwaves filling her vision.