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Sandor awakes to agony, sharp and hot, enough to steal his breath and his senses before he slips back into blessed darkness. Time passes strangely after that, his brief moments of consciousness far from lucid, the pain, his constant companion, only broken by the occasional relief brought by something cool pressed against his head, or water being poured into his parched mouth.
Months pass before Sandor has enough sense of mind to understand that he’s alive and not in the fiery hell pits that fill his dreams. It’s nearly a year after the battle at King’s Landing that Sandor finally deems himself well enough to make the journey north. He still aches, probably always will now, his limp even more pronounced, but he’s alive, something he’d certainly never planned for. He’d gone south expecting his demise, but death had rejected him.
Winter has well and truly set in, the land white, the snow thick as Sandor treks further north, cursing himself the fool the whole way as the two week journey stretches to nearly a month before the stone walls of Winterfell finally come into view with the setting of the sun. He stops at the top of a rise, breath misting the air as he wonders for the umpteenth time what the fuck he’s doing coming here. It’s far too late to turn back now though, his supplies nearly gone. And truly where else is there for him to go?
The little bird’s done good for herself, he’d learned as he’d recovered, now the Queen of the North. The title doesn’t mean shit to him though; Sandor knows that he’d have returned even had she remained only the Lady of Winterfell.
The guards don’t stop him as he walks through the gates, but hushed murmurs of “Clegane” and “Hound” follow in his wake.
Sandor leaves Stranger in the stables, and even the ill-tempered horse is too exhausted to put up much of a fuss when the stable boys immediately get to work removing his tack and rubbing him down. Sandor wants nothing more than a warm bath and a soft bed, but the first might have to wait as he sways suddenly, the world starting to spin.
Strong hands catch Sandor as his knees give out, his eyes barely able to focus on Podrick fucking Payne, the snarl to get the fuck off him failing as the world goes black.
Sandor awakes to humming, to a light touch on his face, soft fingers delicately tracing across his brow, his nose, his lips. “A man might lose his hand for daring such a thing,” Sandor murmurs, opening his eyes and mourning the sudden loss of Sansa’s touch as her hands jerks back suddenly. The fire has burn down low, casting the room in flickering shadows, but it’s enough that he can make out that she’s wearing nothing more than a thin shift, the cut of it low and sleeveless.
It’s not the startling amount of skin exposed or even the way Sansa’s hard nipples clearly press against the fabric that draws the majority of Sandor’s attention. It’s the pattern of silvery scars that mar her skin that makes his rage rise. It’s a pity that there aren’t any of those fire worshipping fucks around to bring Ramsay back to life so he could kill him myself.
“Well, it’s a good thing that I’m not a man then, isn’t it?” Sansa replies after a moment, not commenting on his anger, raising a brow in mock challenge, before a wide smile suddenly stretches across her face, her hands wrapping around his. “I never thought to see you again, thought you long dead. When I was told of your arrival, I thought my heart would burst with joy.”
Sitting up, Sandor is surprised to find himself bare beneath the blankets as they slip to his waist, and smirks as Sansa’s eyes suddenly drop, sliding over the expanse of exposed skin, the new angry scars that crisscross his form, before she licks her lips and raises heated eyes to his. This is a dream, Sandor is certain of it as he reaches out and cups her cheek. If it wasn’t, he has no business doing what he’s about to do.
Leaning forward, Sandor urges her to lean closer as he slides his lips over Sansa’s, the slightest brush, and when she opens to him, he groans and moves to deepen the kiss.
The door suddenly opens, and Podrick fucking Payne steps into the room, closing the door behind him. “Sansa, it’s late, perhaps, you should—oh,” he breaks off as turns to face them for the first time, his eyes suddenly darting back and forth between Sansa and Sandor. They’ll pulled back slightly by only just, and there’s no mistaking what’s been interrupted.
Sansa stands suddenly, smoothing down her shift. She presses a soft kiss against the corner of Sandor’s startled mouth. Closing the distance between herself and Podrick, she places a similar kiss against his lips, drawing a goofy grin across his face before she says, “I’ll leave you two alone then. I’m sure you have much to discuss.”
“Now what kind of game do you think—” Sandor breaks off when the damned girl makes her exit, leaving him alone with a clearly ill at ease Podrick. “What the fuck is going on?”
Podrick’s face is red, and he can’t quite meet Sandor’s eyes as he says, “My wife—”
“Your wife?” Sandor repeats incredulously, his voice taking on a dangerous edge. “You married her then? Playing at being King in the North?”
Podrick’s eyes snap to his then, shaking his head, “No, Ser—Clegane—Sandor. I’m merely Lord Consort.”
Sandor snorts. “Well good for you, kid.” No, Podrick is clearly no longer the youth Sandor had known at King’s Landings. He’s grown into himself. “You hurt her, and I’ll string you up by your—”
“By my intestines. Yes. I imagine you would, and it would be no less than I’d deserve if I hurt her. I want nothing more than to see her happy.”
Dammit all, but Sandor can’t help but believe him, can’t believe that he’s not dreaming, that he’s not misinterpreting what’s happening here, what’s potentially on offer. “And that includes letting another fuck her?”
Podrick wheezes, somehow going redder, but he doesn’t look away, not even when Sandor stands, letting the bedding fall away completely, revealing Sandor in all his naked glory. Eyes slipping down, taking Sandor’s muscled form, the massive size of him, his scars, his thick body hair, his soft yet impressive cock, Podrick doesn’t back down, doesn’t flinch away, or step back even when Sandor crowds him.
Podrick’s gaze is heated as he pauses for a moment on Sandor’s lips before he tilts his head back further to meet Sandor’s eyes. “Yes.”
Sandor’s snorts. “You’ve got balls. I’ll give you that. How do you imagine this going? Think that the people will still respect her, respect you, when word of this gets out? This isn’t Dorne.”
“This also isn’t King’s Landing. The North loves its Queen.”
“Enough to turn a blind eye on her acting a whore?” Sandor doesn’t expect the sudden fist that comes with enough force to turn his head to the side, teeth loose from the impact as he suddenly spits out a mouthful of blood.
“Take care how you speak of my wife, Clegane. I was trained by Brienne of Tarth. I survived the Long Night. I may not have your experience or size, Ser, but if you hurt her, they’ll never find your body.”
Sandor can’t help but find himself impressed by his spirit and gives him a bloody smile. “Is that a threat?”
“It’s a promise.”
“Heh. The North’s been good to you. All grown up now. Found your purpose.” Sandor nods. “I’ll hold you to that.”
“You will swear to her.”
Sandor snorts and shakes his head. “Like fuck I will,” Sandor denies. “I don’t swear vows.”
“You’ll swear to her, or you’ll not touch her again.”
Fingers curling into a fist, Sandor can’t imagine not feeling her soft skin again. He’d always been a simple man, driven by the need to kill his brother, was good at killing, loved the money it brought him to fill his belly and ease his cock. He’d never thought beyond that, knowing that such things were out of his reach. Sansa was too good for the likes of him, always had been, always would be, and if he was a better man, maybe he’d walk away. “Aye, I’ll swear to her. Any vow she wants until she tires of me.”
“And if it’s a wedding vow, she asks of you?”
“What the fuck kind of nonsense are you sprouting? Already tired of married life?”
Podrick smiles widely. “No, I am quite happily married. It’s more frequently practiced amongst the lowborn, but here in the North it’s quite common for women to marry more than one man. It seems to have evolved as a manner of survival during the long winter, and probably as a way to settle inheritance—”
“You can lay off on the history lesson. And how would you expect this to work? Going to write a schedule? Every other day? Or do you expect all of us to share a happy marriage bed?” Sandor grabs Podrick’s chin suddenly and looks at him, really looks at him. Some men might find him attractive, and his lips were pretty enough he supposed, would probably look good wrapped around a cock. “Going to suck my cock?”
Podrick makes a startled sound. “N-now?”
Sandor lets out a startled bark of a laugh. “So you’re a cock sucker than.”
“On occasion,” Podrick replies with a small, unashamed smile. “I can’t say how this will work, not without talking to Sansa as well, but I’d like to try.”
“You’re not jealous that your wife would lay with another?” Sandor isn’t sure he could stand the thought of Sansa welcoming another to her bed, into her body, not after she was his.
Podrick’s eyes drop from Sandor’s again. “No, not jealous. We’ve talked, pretended even, and I’m certainly amendable.”
“Talked about me? Thought about sex with me?” Sandor snorts, amused at Sansa’s boldness. “And if I hadn’t returned, if I’d actually been dead? No shame in thinking about a dead man?”
Podrick shrugs, clearly not ashamed. “It probably would have stayed fantasy, unless another caught her eyes and gained her trust.”
“I won’t suck your cock.”
“Of course not,” Podrick says, clearly amused. “Are we done talking?”
“Fuck yes,” Sandor hisses as he pulls on a tunic and trousers before he follows Podrick down the cool hallways to what must be Sansa and his chambers.
Sansa is sitting in a chair by the fire, stitching something when they enter but sets it aside and stands abruptly upon seeing them. The fire plays across her hair, making it seem like living flame, and for the first time in his life, Sandor doesn’t fear being burned by it.
Sansa’s eyes dart between them. “Pod. Sandor,” she greets.
“Tell me, little bird, what you want. I will have it from your lips.”
Sansa smiles at him, and it’s anything sweet. She’s grown into a confident woman who clearly know what she wants. “I’ve wanted you since I was but a child at King’s Landing. I was too scared then to recognize it for what it was. After the Long Night, I wanted nothing more than to invite you back to my room, but I hadn’t the courage then.” Reaching up, Sansa pushes her gown from her shoulders were slowly it slides down her body, catching on her peaked nipples for a moment before it finally pools on the ground around her feet.
Sandor’s mouth goes dry as he takes in the sight of her, his eyes slides over the curve of her breasts down to the swell of her hips, finally settling on the patch of dark red curls that crown her thighs. Some men might think that her scars detract from her beauty, but Sandor is certain that if ever there was a goddess, she is standing before him.
Sandor goes to his knee before her, and her mouth falls open into a startled O as his hand fists over his heart, and he says the words he’d swore would never cross his lips, “I offer my services to Queen Sansa Stark. I will shield your back, and keep your counsel, and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the old gods and the new. Never will I swear a vow to another.”
“And I vow, that you shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table, and I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. I swear it by the old gods and the new. Arise, Sandor,” Sansa says as she offers him one pale hand.
Sandor’s heart is racing as he takes it, marveling at how small and soft it is, at the trust that she has in him. When he pulls her forward against him, her tight nipples scarping across the rough material of his top, they both moan. She makes a startled sound, when his hands curl around her waist and lift her easily, urging her to wrap her legs around his hips, throwing her arms around him as his hands palm her bare ass, and she presses her mouth against his.
When Sandor hisses suddenly in pain, Sansa pulls back abruptly, worry on her face as she’s clearly tasted the blood. She looks over his shoulder and laughs suddenly.
“He deserved it,” Podrick says without a hint of guilt.
Sansa’s lips are on his again, gentler this time, but Sandor is having none of that, and kisses her roughly, years of passion unleashed, the pain unimportant. He starts when a hand tugs at his shirt, the material sliding up his back, cursing as he’s forced to break the kiss as it’s pulled up over his head. The same hands tug at the lacings of his pants, pushing them down his thighs, off his legs until he can step out of them.
Drunk on Sansa’s kisses, the wetness of her cunt now dripping down his stomach, he goes where those strong hands direct him. Even the shove that sees them falling onto the bed with a bounce that pulls a delighted giggle from Sansa isn’t enough to bring him down for his high. When calloused fingers close around his cock and guide it to Sansa’s welcoming cunt, all he can do is groan as she sinks down on him, groaning at the stretch. She’s panting slightly when she pulls from his mouth, straightening as she eases herself down the last few inches of his cock until she’s fully seated on his lap.
And fuck, if Sansa isn’t the most gorgeous things he’s ever seen, her mouth swollen and red from their kisses. She begins to ride him them, experimentally rolling her hips, clenching around him. A now naked Podrick presses against her back, mouthing at her neck as he reaches around her to cup her breasts, rolling her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. The sight of it doesn’t bring with it the surge of jealousy Sandor expects.
“Touch her here,” Podrick says as he guides one of Sandor’s hands between Sansa’s thighs. “Feel that little pearl of flesh at the top of her folds?”
“Not a greenboy, Podrick,” Sandor barks as he finds her clit. Sansa giggle turns into a moan as her movement falters.
It’s certainly no hardship, not with the needy little whimpers that begin to fall from Sansa’s mouth as Sandor’s fingers circle her clit. She comes once with a shout that Podrick muffles with a hand over her mouth, then twice, and a third time in quick succession, body quaking between them, clenching around Sandor’s cock.
With a groan, Sandor’s coming, balls drawn up, cock twitching as he fills her with his seed. Later he’ll worry about pregnancy, but for now, he’s having the best orgasm of his life. It’s not his habit to fall asleep after sex, whores not exactly keen on keeping their clients around once the sex was finished, but as Sansa lays panting and warm on top of him, her twitching cunt still massaging his softening cock, Sandor can’t help but drift away, happier than he’s been in a long time, dreaming of impossibilities.