Archive of Our Own

“Get up--” the sharp command reached his ears over the chaos of the surprise attack. “Get up and die like men or I’ll cut you down myself! We’re almost through, we’ve almost won!” the voice came again and this time it had him searching the maelstrom for the owner of it. There was something about the voice...something wrong--no, something off. His eyes burned as he looked through smoke filled air, rapidly searching, scanning--there!

His trained eyes locked on the tall yet surprisingly thin form of a knight clad in gleaming silver and rich leather armor. A helm--one shaped like a Direwolf concealed his face and the Direwolf rondels over each breast and the billowing cloak attached at his shoulders gave him away as a sworn Stark man. A rather bold one at that--only a complete madman would openly wear Stark colors in this age. This, of course, was odd in itself since Northmen were notorious for being as wide as they were tall--’Stark Lockboxes’ they called them in Lannisport. All squared up and wrapped in metal--just like treasure trunks.

This man, however, was not only lean to the point of being willowy, but was also completely surrounded by red cloaks. ’Buggering Hells,’ he mentally cursed. He broke away long enough to cut down another Targaryen man, then began to make his way across the makeshift field of battle that the Kingsroad had become. His large frame ate up the distance with ease, swiftly dealing with any who tried to stop him. He did not stop until he had reached the Lockbox. The lean man spared him only a glance--and a glance for his gold cloak emblazoned with the Clegane sigil there before they fell into step, side by side, facing those around them with cold indifference and even colder steel. He had no concept of time, his life being measured only in the enemies that they sent to the Gods--Old or New it did not matter, their lives were at an end.

He had been sent up the Kingsroad at Lannister command and instead found himself meeting up with a Stark convoy that was clearly under attack. He realized, just as he dove into the fray, that his master’s orders must have been desperate indeed if he was sent to help the Starks.

He was so focused on the task at hand that when the shrill whistles of retreat and the bone-shaking shriek of a dragon flying overhead had his body jumping in surprise. A shadow descended on the road, plunging them into temporary darkness until the moment the massive form of Queen Daenerys Targaryen’s pitch black mount--Drogon settled onto the road ahead of them. That great dark beast was the reason that the Targaryen rule had gone unquestioned these past years, everyone lived in fear of the dragon’s wrath.

“Buggering Hells,” he muttered in the same instant the lean knight’s body collided with his, sending them both tumbling backwards into the mud. “Bugger--”

“Dracarys!” the Queen’s voice filled the eerily silent woods and then chaos erupted.

“Fuck!” the knight cursed and Sandor’s much larger body rolled with the knight’s to the roadside, hiding behind the body of a newly deceased horse as flames erupted all around them. The heat that surrounded them made him feel as if he were baking in his maille, sweat pouring down his face and soaking his clothing. Buggering dragon’s fire.

“Seven hells--” Sandor choked on the smoke.

“I forgot how much I hated that,” the Knight hissed, turning to spit into the dirt, likely cleansing his mouth of the acrid sulfur that permeated the air. Who in the Seven Hells was this knight--and how long had they been fighting the dragon queen?

“I know you’re here!” the Queen yelled from atop her mount, and the knight beside him let out a soft groan. “They might have thought you were just another Stark Lockbox, but I know it's you!”

“End of the road,” the knight sighed in resignation. A brief pause and then the lean man was pushing to his feet and facing the dragon rider. Sandor stood as well, instinctively moving to stay at the knight’s side. There would be no mistaking that he was a Clegane in both frame and colors, there was no use in hiding. Not now. He would die on his feet like the warrior he was, he would not cower like a dog. Not now, not ever. Cleganes did not tuck their tail between their legs--or their cocks as the case may be.

“There you are,” the Queen’s voice could only be described as ‘smug’. “You certainly are bold, aren’t you. Not afraid to fly your colors--your forbidden colors in my kingdom.”

“It’s not your kingdom--!”

“Take it off!” Queen Daenerys interrupted, leaning forward in the make-shift saddle she had atop her dragon. “Your helm, remove it now. I refuse to speak to the face of a wolf.”

“Then it is too bad,” the knight sheathed his sword and reached up to untie his helm and tug it away. “That I am a wolf all the same.”

As the helm came away, a long thick braid of fiery red hair fell down to her waist, burning bright in the morning sun. No…the lean knight was no man. Sandor stood frozen, eyes wide and slack-jawed, staring at not only the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, but the unmistakably scarred visage of once-Princess Sansa Stark.

Rumors said that she had died, that the Dragon Queen had cut her down in a fit of rage before sending her men to kill the remaining royal family. It was how the Targaryens had taken the Iron Throne, how the era of peaceful Stark rule had come to a violent and abrupt end. That had truly been a shame, King Eddard and Queen Catelyn had been fair and honorable ruler that orchestrated decades of peace and prosperity.

Legends also told that Sansa had died protecting not only her sister but also Lady Cersei Lannister who had been in King’s Landing to campaign for royal favor at court. It was a sad fate to be sure, but one that met them all. No woman in the realm ever found the Dragon Queen’s favor, in truth they were hunted to extinction, their beauty and titles both a threat to the usurper Queen. It went without saying that Sandor's own liege lord, Lord Tywin Lannister, had been furious at the loss of his precious daughter. With Sansa and Cersei now presumed dead, soon others began to vanish--one by one, until only ghost stories remained.

And yet here she stood, Princess Sansa Stark: legend, warrior, dead woman walking.

As he looked on, she let her helmet fall to the blood-soaked earth at her booted feet, the snarling visage of a Direwolf landing facing the Queen in a chilling omen. Here stood a single woman but she carried the fury of her pack--a pack wronged so deeply.

“I see that your face has healed,” Daenerys’ haunting lavender eyes raked over the scar that started at the corner of Sansa Stark’s left eye before it cut across her nose, cheek, chin, jaw, and neck, before disappearing into her armor at the opposite shoulder. “Such a pity, you were pretty once.”

“Once. I see you’re still a wicked cunt,” Sansa stepped forward, cloak trailing behind her, occasionally snagging on the grass and mud. Sandor wanted to reach out and stop her, to put a halt to her advance but the words of protest were dead on his tongue. Shock had consumed him and rendered him useless, all he could do was stand and watch.

“The words of a lady, hmm?” the Queen did not seem to take much offense.

“The words of a Princess, true born within the walls of the palace,” Sansa challenged. "It is Winterfell that makes us Starks strong, and Winterfell that makes its enemies weak."

“Speaking of, where is your sister?” Daenerys inquired, tilting her head as if to ascertain the truth.

“Dead.”

“You lie!” Daenerys screamed in protest, eyes flashing with something akin to madness.

“She is where you’ll never find her,” Sansa replied confidently. “To you, she is dead.”

“And the Lady Lannister?”

“Lady Joanna is long since dead--”

“You know very well that I meant Cersei,” Daenerys’ hissed. “You are quite bold for one standing before a dragon.”

’Cersei? Was Cersei alive?’ Sandor immediately wondered, trying to think back if his liege lord had ever hinted at her being alive. He’d assumed she was dead...

“By all means, kill me,” Sansa scoffed. “Then you truly will never find them.”

“You think I will not kill you?” the Queen’s eyes then landed on him. “You stand here, defiant and disrespectful with a Lannister man at your side, and you expect mercy?”

“No,” Sansa shifted on her feet, hip cocking so that she could rest an elbow on the hilt of her sword as if she hadn’t a care in the world. “And I never asked you for mercy, if memory serves you well.”

“No,” Daenerys laughed softly. “You never did beg, perhaps that is why I admire you.”

“Admire,” Sansa grimaced, the scar along her face--one clearly meant to take her life, twitching in response. Sandor could not pretend to understand what had passed between these two women before today, but whatever it was it was apparent that there was nothing but bad blood.

“You think I do not admire you?” Daenerys looked almost offended. A huff later she was dismounting from the dragon’s back to land on the brush-covered berm beside the road. Sandor watched her approach, her gait cocky and regal--as a queen should be, he conceded. She wore a lush gown in a deep red with black trim, both colors a contrast to her white hair that seemed to float around her in an ethereal way. She was too clean, too pristine to be in these woods, a woman untouched by true war; unlike Sansa who was covered in armor, blood, muck, and charred fabric.

“I cannot rightly say,” Sansa too was watching the small woman’s approach. “I’ve never tried to take the head of someone I claimed to ‘admire’,” she paused before continuing. “How is Ser Jorah Mormont, by the way? Have you taken him to your bed yet--as he so desperately wishes? Did you reward him for cutting my throat?”

“Hardly--”

“He betrayed the North and my family for you,” Sansa laughed, clearly now openly taunting her enemy. “The very least you could give him is a pity fuck for his troubles.” Sandor did a double take at the vitriol dripping from the unexpected words. Beside him stood the woman who was once royalty, cursing and spewing threats without a care for her well-being. Or his. It was…arousing. He shifted on his feet, desperate to alleviate the sudden pressure he felt in his groin at watching her. Admiring her, wanting her.

“I am the Queen,” Daenerys reasoned, though not smoothly. Sansa had struck a nerve. “I do not have to give myself to---”

“Anyone who has to say ‘I am the Queen’, is no Queen,” Sansa echoed words that Sandor had heard a dozen times before, but usually they came from the words of King Eddard Stark’s hand, Tywin Lannister.

“I am--”

“You’re a nothing but a huntress,” Sansa interjected. “How long has it been? A year? Two? You’ve been hunting them and me to the point of draining your resources, but I will never let you find them.”

“You will give me your secrets in time and with proper incentive.”

“Torture, how very like your father,” Sansa stepped closer, her greater height looming over the white-haired woman, forcing her to look up at her. Classic power move, another of Tywin Lannister's signatures. “All of the noble women in this realm, each and every one of them are lost to you forever.”

“And yet you are here,” Daenerys countered. “Lady Sansa Stark herself, at my mercy.”

“I am,” Sansa tilted her head, bright blue eyes gleaming in amusement. “Because I am here to deliver you a gift, Your Majesty.”

“And what is that? Your unconditional surrender, I hope.”

“Hardly,” Sansa stood tall and her arms flexed--if fractionally. She then turned to her left where he stood, sparing him a smug glance before she twisted her lips and let loose a loud, sharp whistle. Sandor barely had time to breathe let alone react, his body stumbling back as the sharp explosion of arrows filled the air--no, not arrows. Something larger...deadlier!

Spears! Dozens of fucking spears!!

“No!” the Queen screamed as the body of her cherished beast twisted and screamed in pain, massive spears protruding from both sides of its scaled body. The action was to its detriment, however, because several more spears appeared now buried in its chest. Its great wings lashed out, scraping against the trees and road, sending debris flying around them.

It was a trap…all of this was a trap. A damned good one set with the perfect bait: Sansa.

By the time his brain caught up to the present, Sansa had stepped forward and produced a Valyrian dagger, spinning it deftly in her palm before gripping it tightly. Her eyes burned with determination as she moved, as deadly as a viper and just as silent. The ‘Dragon Queen’ turned back to Sansa in fury and met her fate head-on.

“You--” her accusation died in her throat as Sansa simultaneously wrapped an arm around the back of the smaller woman’s neck and buried the dagger to the hilt in the Queen’s chest. Haunting lavender eyes went wide, terrified even as they stared up at Sansa in disbelief. As if the great beast felt it’s mistress' pain, another of its cries cut through the forest--sharp and agonizing before it began to sway and stumble, falling to the dirt with such force that it shook the very earth.

“The Lannisters send their regards,” Sansa hissed, not looking away from her enemy as blood began to pour from the dying woman’s mouth. “And the pack survives, you fucking bitch.”

“You…” Daenerys choked on the words, her hands coming up to desperately grasp at Sansa’s shoulders and neck, strength rapidly waning which ensured that her hands were unable to find purchase.

“Shh,” Sansa carefully lowered them both to the dirt of the road, laying Daenerys’ body supine on the muck and blood of fallen soldiers, kneeling beside her. “Shh, now. I warned you, did I not? That night in the palace when you ordered Mormont to end me; I warned you that if you did not kill me then, that I would not rest, I would not stop until you were dead at my hand. You should have known, the Starks always keep their word,” Sansa cupped the dying queen’s cheek with an armor clad hand, her thumb tracing a cheek bone. The gesture was peaceful, almost loving, and a very odd juxtaposition to the dagger in Daenerys’ chest. “Rest now, it’s over. I’ve won.”

Several moments of silence passed and when the Dragon Queen exhaled her final breath, the forest around them came alive. Soldier after soldier, man after man, and villager after villager appeared all around them, all of them clad in Stark, Lannister, and Tyrell colors--or that of their Bannermen.

“The Queen is dead!” Sansa declared to them all, her eyes looking to each and every one as they began to cheer. “Your ‘scorpions’ worked well. Thank you, old friend,” she paused to smile at an older man with greying hair and a thick beard. The two exchanged a nod and then Sansa withdrew her dagger from the Queen’s breast and stood, grabbing her Stark's cloak to wipe the blood from the blade before sheathing it. “Bleed and butcher the beast, we’ve plenty of starving bellies that will be grateful for the food,” she motioned to the dragon as she barked the orders.

“Buggering hells,” Sandor exhaled, unintentionally drawing Sansa’s attention to his person.

“Clegane, yes?” she turned to him as she returned to her full height. “Which one?”

“Sandor,” he replied gruffly. It was a question he was used to, both he and Gregor were large, dark, and vicious, though Gregor’s eyes were a sinister black where Sandor’s were grey. It was impossible to tell who was who when they were apart.

“Lord Tywin told me that he’d be sending a Clegane, he did not tell me which one,” she glanced around. “It seems he made the right choice in sending the one he calls ‘Hound’.”

“He knew,” Sandor began, looking at the battlefield around them. “He knew that all of this waited for me but did not tell me.”

“That was my instruction, I’m afraid,” she stepped closer, motioning to her men with a hand and they all fell in around her, working to move their fallen and strip the others of anything that could prove useless. Dead men had no use for armor, weapons, or coins. “No one touches her,” Sansa belatedly added, pointing to the body of Daenerys. “She remains as she is until the Queen arrives.”

“Aye,” they replied in acknowledgement.

“Aye,” the massive form of Lord Gendry Baratheon nodded to Sansa, slinging his war hammer over his shoulder.

“I did not know if you could be trusted,” Sansa turned back to Sandor. “Our work depends--depended on being able to move and plan in secret, in being hidden. It was imperative that Daenerys come herself. Once she knew that I was here, she took the bait like a starving--well, hound.”

“And you killed her for it,” Sandor noted.

“Do not pretend to be aghast,” Sansa laughed as the sound of horses came from the North. “This was war, Clegane, a war that I fully intended to win.”

“Why?” he couldn’t stop himself from asking, wishing he could take back the word the moment it passed his lips.

“For the good of the realm. For the noblewomen hunted like vermin. But mostly...for her...” Sansa turned as a carriage crested the hill, thoroughly surrounded by gleaming Lannister men. Sandor recognized the familiar forms of Lord Tywin Lannister, Ser Jaime Lannister, and his own brother Lord Gregor Clegane at the front, all of them staying close as the carriage reined to a halt and the doors opened.

“Gods,” Sandor exhaled as the petite, delicate form of Princess Arya Stark emerged, holding to Ser Jaime’s hand for a brief moment before more women filed out behind her: Lady Cersei Lannister, Lady Margaery Tyrell, Lady Meera Reed, Lady Lyanna Mormont, and Lady Brienne Tarth. All women who were rumored to be long dead at the Dragon Queen’s hand. They were alive, each and every one…alive. But how? The answer was simple really, Sansa had stolen them before the Dragon Queen could, she had hidden them all away.

“The Queen is dead,” Sansa said proudly facing her younger sister as she approached, the beautiful Stark woman’s bejeweled gown glittering in the sunlight. While they she as different from her sister as the moon was the sun, Arya’s hair being a rich, chocolate brown styled impeccably in the Northern way; there was an obvious affection between them. Sansa produced the dagger that had taken Daenerys’ life and fell to one knee, placing the blade at her sister’s feet beside her Direwolf helmet. “Long live the Queen,” Sansa said reverently, looking up at her sister with suspiciously bright eyes.

“Sister,” Arya whispered, staring at her elder sister with wide eyes, silent tears streaking down her cheeks. Clearly she was shaken by the sights around her, from the dead dragon to the dead former Queen, the ground had been soaked with blood this day.

“I promised you,” Sansa explained quietly. “I promised that I would always protect you, that you would be the Queen of the Seven someday, as you were always meant to be.”

“Sansa--” Arya protested but Sansa shook her head.

“I might have been born first, but you were born to be Queen, Arya,” she met her sister’s eyes. “I was born to protect you, Your Majesty.”

“And you have,” Arya nodded, a soft, broken sob escaping her chest. “You have kept us all alive.”

“Long live the Queen,” Sansa repeated, her head falling forward in a reverent bow. Arya reached out and placed a hand on her sister’s armor-clad shoulder in silent acceptance of her pledge of fealty. Like the ripples in a pond, the others around them fell to their knees as well, all bowing their heads to the new Queen of the Seven. The rightful Queen of the Seven.

"Long live the Queen!" the forest echoed.

Sandor too sank to a knee, body burning with exhaustion from the day, but in its wake a bone-deep relief consumed him.

Peace had come at last.

Fucking finally, peace had come at last.

Sansa had just finished washing her hair and was relaxed into the steaming hot water when footsteps sounded near the entry. Perfect, the guards had listened to her explicit instructions...for once. She turned her head just in time to see the large form of Sandor Clegane step into the stone baths. With his armor now discarded, she had the great privilege of seeing his body in only a linen shirt and leather pants. He was every inch The Warrior and more, she decided in the moment his silver eyes lifted from her person to meet hers.

“Clegane,” she greeted with a smile, gesturing to the hot water. “Please, come and join me.”

“I would hardly think it appropriate to join you in such informal activities,” he replied, but did not retreat. That boded well.

“You need not perch there and chirp such courtesies at me,” she countered. “I gave you an explicit invitation. Today we unmade a queen together, I am hardly concerned if you see my breasts.”

“You are a princess--”

“I am a knight first,” Sansa interjected. “My father saw to my training and Ser Jaime saw to my title years ago,” they watched each other for several seconds before Sandor toed off his boots and divested himself of his remaining clothing. Sansa did not look away but instead indulged herself in the opportunity to see his man laid bare--and oh the sight was worth the exhaustion of the day. It was almost as if he was her reward for a duty well fulfilled; a reward she would gladly enjoy.

Large, broad, muscled, and coated with inky black hair, The Gods had been kind when they created Sandor Clegane. Even the hook of his nose was absolutely fascinating. She only had a brief glimpse of his cock as he entered the water and she felt deprived at not being able to take all of him in. While she did not have much--any experience with them, his cock seemed very impressive. He sank beneath the warm water’s surface for a brief moment, then reemerged, smoothing shoulder-length hair back as he did so. Wiping the water from his face and sharp jaw, he swam to sit on the stone bench opposite her. Massive arms came up to rest on the pool’s edge at his sides, momentarily stealing her ability to think. It was fortunate that she had not spotted him before the battle began, she might have been too distracted to fight.

“‘A knight’ she says,” Sandor took to watching her closely.

“A ‘knight’ she is,” Sansa countered with a laugh. “Ser Jaime sought to garner favor I suspect; not long after he knighted me he asked that I put in a good word for him with Lady Brienne,” she added, Sandor’s laughter echoing in the room.

“Only a truly daft man would bypass you in favor of Lady buggering Brienne,” Sandor shocked her by saying and she knew that her brows had raised in surprise.

“Is that so?”

“Aye,” he chuckled, running a hand over his perfectly formed face. “But I suppose it takes a certain sort of man to handle a woman such as you.”

“And I am curious, Sandor, what about me thinks that I can be tamed?”

“I said ‘handle’, not ‘tamed’,” he replied, eyes dark as they watched her. “Fire like yours should never be ‘tamed’ but it does require a careful hand, lest a man be burned.”

“Handled then,” she corrected.

“I suspect that most men’s cocks shoot straight into their buggering bodies when they see you--both in fear that you’ll cut their cocks right off or in resignation that you would never deign to have them in your bed in the first place,” he explained, arms falling from the pool’s side so that his hands could rake through his wet hair.

“And you? What does your cock do, I wonder?” she asked and a split second later a large hand had closed around her wrist, hauling her through the water to press against him and settle astride his lap. It was quite obvious then, as their bodies melded against each others’, that Sandor’s cock was most certainly not afraid or resigned, and was instead rock hard and reaching out to her.

“I’m not afraid of you,” he whispered darkly, pulling her close enough so that his lips brushed her shoulder. His lips and tongue found the end of her scar just beside her collarbone and traced its entire length: up her neck to her chin, jaw, and cheek, growling against her flesh. “You’d never hurt me,” he growled and she felt his smile against her cheek as his hands wandered her back and sides.

“No, Little Bird,” she sighed, arching into his touch. “I won’t hurt you.”

“Little Bird,” he laughed, the warmth of his breath tickling her lips as he pulled back to meet her eyes. “‘Suppose one of us has to have propriety in mind.” Her hands found purchase on the solid wall of his chest, tangling in the thick, dark hair there that allowed her to anchor herself to him.

“Chirp, chirp,” she teased, bumping the tip of his nose with hers. His hands fell to her hips, holding her tightly to him and trapping his cock between them. She ached for him, burned in a way that had nothing to do with dragon’s fire, and her heart fluttered with something akin to ‘hope’ for the future--her future, in Westeros. Besides, she’d killed and burned a queen today, she’d earned a bit of pleasure.

“Tell me girl...” he started, his words momentarily pausing as she leaned back, arching in his grasp to rewet her hair and remove it from her face. The action, of course, gave him a bold, unfettered view of her breasts and--much to her pleasure, he took the offered bait. As she began to right herself he leaned in and pulled one of her nipples into the wet warmth of his mouth with a broken growl, suckling deeply.

“Yes,” the word was drawn out on a gasp as pleasure shot through her. She carefully sat up, cradling the back of his head now as he worshipped her breasts. Carding her fingers into his hair, she pulled his mouth from her breast and angled his head so that she could close the distance and kiss him. A gentle press of lips, then two, and then she couldn’t resist nibbling on his lower lip, one that was much fuller that its upper counterpart---

“If you two are quite finished,” the soft, annoyed voice of her sister-- the Queen, echoed in the room. Sansa went still, Sandor’s lip still trapped between her teeth. “There is a celebration feast awaiting you both,” she added and Sansa released Sandor’s lip to meet her sister’s eyes over his shoulder. From their position, there would be no mistaking what was taking place or was about to, there was no hiding it. Though, in truth, Sansa felt no shame in it.

“Of course,” Sansa cleared her throat and nodded. “Yes, of course…Your Majesty,” she repeated. Arya turned away in a huff, her skirts swirling behind her as she disappeared into the hallway.

“Suppose the Queen will come for my head now,” Sandor said softly, amusement lacing his words.

“No, Little Bird,” Sansa shook her head, watching the desire swirl in his eyes. “You’re safe. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

“No?”

“Never,” she promised. “I’d kill them first.”

“Clegane,” the voice of Tywin Lannister greeted him as he entered the Great Hall and the celebration within.

“Lord Tywin,” Sandor gave a small bow of his head in acknowledgement.

“You did well, I am told,” Tywin continued. “Things fell into place as planned and we have come out victorious. The Queen is quite pleased with today’s events.”

“Is she?” Sandor couldn’t help but chuckle, wondering just how much the Queen had told Tywin of the day’s events. Had his liege lord been informed that Sandor'd had his face buried in Princess Sansa's delicious tits not an hour ago? Likely not, which was for the best. Sandor's eyes fell to the golden hand pin over Tywin’s heart. “Lord Hand once more, I see. I offer sincere congratulations.”

“I once swore fealty to King Eddard and served him loyally to his death, I merely seek to serve the Starks once more,” Tywin reasoned, a smug smile playing at his lips. “I have had substantial time to talk with Queen Arya and I am certain that we will be able to rebuild the realm with ease.” The Lannisters had always had the favor of the Starks, they were well kept during Stark reign, it only made sense they wished to continue that. In truth, had Lord Tywin not been at The Rock during the attacks, he might have fallen beside King Eddard; it was grimly fortunate that problems in Lannisport had pulled him away.

“Substantial time?” Sandor paused, brow furrowing at his liege lord’s words. Then it dawned on him. “They were at The Rock,” he mused. “All this time they were all hidden at Casterly Rock.”

“Indeed,” Tywin gave a small nod. “When Princess Sansa--or Ser Sansa if it pleases you, came to me with the gaggle of terrified noblewomen--my believed-dead daughter included, I was more than happy to open The Rock’s gates and offer sanctuary.”

“It was there Ser Jaime knighted the princess, I take it?”

“You are much more intelligent than I gave you credit for, I must admit,” Tywin chuckled. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have kept the Cleganes in the dark so long. You are correct, much to my chagrin. Alas, I had hoped that Jaime would marry one of the Stark daughters.”

“I see,” Sandor nodded.

“Instead it will likely be a Baratheon son that sits at the Queen’s side,” Tywin nodded to where Queen Arya was speaking with the grey haired man from the forest and the large figure of Gendry Baratheon, the heir to Storm’s End. “Though he is not a bad choice.”

“You’re still Hand,” Sandor reasoned as the doors across the room opened and he was struck dumb once again at the sight of Sansa Stark’s beauty. Though it was a pity to cover such porcelain perfection with clothing, the stunning grey dress she wore suited her perfectly. The neckline was modest but wide, the sleeves perched at the curve of each shoulder, leaving her entire scar bare for the world to see. Her hair fell in perfect ringlets to her hips, a simple pewter circlet atop her head, woven into her hair as a symbol of her status in the Stark family.

Knight and savior, princess and beauty, Sansa Stark was unlike anyone he’d ever encountered in his life. Even now he couldn’t help but wonder if she had a knife strapped to those creamy thighs of hers. He couldn't ache to delve beneath the fabric and find out...

“You’d do well to shield your interest,” Tywin’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Lest you face the competition for her attention,” he nodded to several other knights and lords that were also watching Sansa--Sansa who was making her way towards them.

“Lord Hand,” Sansa greeted Tywin with a perfect curtsey.

“My Dear Princess,” Tywin replied, gently taking her hand to bow over it.

“Did you ever think that we would make it back here, Lord Hand?” Sansa smiled, glancing around the Great Hall. While some dragon décor still remained, nearly all evidence of Targaryen rule had been erased in the mere hours since their arrival.

“I had every faith in you,” Tywin assured her. “I knew it was only a matter of time before we were back within the ancestral Stark home, and here we are--thanks to you.”

“Thanks to us indeed,” Sansa smiled, her eyes flickering with something that he could not identify before she concealed her emotions. “Guide my sister well, Lord Hand,” she continued. “And I will handle the rest.”

“The rest?” Sandor asked, drawing both emerald and sapphire eyes to himself.

“Yes, Ser Clegane. I intend to leave at dawn with my men. I mean to hunt down Ser Jorah Mormont,” Sansa replied simply. “And Lord Petyr Baelish, both of whom were instrumental in helping Daenerys betray my family. I will hunt down them and their followers, I will not stop until they are as dead as the Dragon Queen they supported," she said confidently. There it was again, Sandor painfully noted, his cock hard and ready to sink into the willing heat of this powerful, dangerous woman. Thank the Gods that his gambeson would hide his body’s reaction well enough. “What do you say, Clegane?” Sansa asked.

“About?” he clearly had missed something in his fog of lust, Sansa’s soft laughter sending his cheeks heating. At some point Lord Tywin had stepped across the room to the Queen’s side, leaving them alone in their conversation.

“We fought well together today. You would be a valuable...asset to me. Ride with me and my men?” Sansa asked him. “Help me end this once and for all?”

“Aye,” he nodded, not needing more than a second to find his answer. “Aye, I’ll ride with you.”

“Perfect,” Sansa’s voice was quiet now, husky. “I look forward to the days--and nights of riding with you.”

’Buggering Hells,’ he inwardly groaned, swallowing thickly. So did he.

Sansa was standing near the small fireplace in her room, a weary sort of exhaustion tugging at her limbs as she watched the flames move in their wicked dance. This had been her room long ago, back in what felt like an entirely different life. Back when her parents slept just across the hall. She’d been fighting and running for so long now, she had forgotten what peace felt like. In truth, it was almost unsettling. Her fight was not over, however, tomorrow she’d return to the road with her most trusted men, beginning their hunt for the last of their enemies. The last of the men responsible for her family’s murder.

She had already rid herself of the cumbersome and tight formal gown she’d worn for her sister’s benefit, now she was clad only in her night robe. The rich silk fabric felt lovely against her skin; it made her feel feminine, beautiful even. Not to mention it was freeing to have set aside her armor for the evening. After spending night and day in it for so long, she’d forgotten how heavy the metal truly was. The door to her chambers opened and she turned from the fire to watch the large form of Sandor Clegane step inside, shutting and barring the door behind him. He’d received her missive and was right on time. Perfect.

Sandor rounded the bed, closing the distance between them until he stood close enough that their bodies brushed as they inhaled. He was casually clad just as he had been upon his arrival at the baths earlier today, his linen undershirt untied and loose. His grey eyes raked over her like a bold caress, heat spreading like wildfire in her blood. To his credit his eyes never lingered on the scar on her cheek and neck as so many did. By all means it was not her only scar, but it was the most prominent. The scar that started the war…

“You could have anyone…” he whispered.

“And yet I want you,” she countered smoothly.

“Why?”

“You see me,” Sansa replied without pause. “Not the armor, not the title, just me.”

“I say now,” Sandor said softly, his voice deep and husky. “That I do not share.”

“Nor do I,” she agreed, inwardly pleased at his words. She reached out to run her hand over his shoulder, fingers eventually moving to delve into the thick hair on his chest bared by the ‘v’ of his tunic. “May I?” she asked and when he gave a small nod she helped to remove his shirt, the fabric falling forgotten to the floor.

“Ye tryin’ to seduce me, princess?” his Westerlands accent was much more noticeable now in this private, intimate moment.

“Is it working?”

“Aye,” he said with a deep chuckle. “Though it’s not exactly necessary,” he gently took one of her hands in his, pressing it over the hard length of his cock beneath his wool breeches.

“I see,” she idly stroked him, pulling a rumbling groan from his throat. With one hand on his thick cock, she untied her sash with the other, letting her robe fall open. She watched as his eyes dropped to her body, their silver going impossibly dark. She did not have the soft, supple curves of a noblewoman but only the lean muscle of a knight, though he did not seem to mind. Stepping closer, her breasts brushed against his chest as she turned her face to his in an unspoken question.

He did not make her wait long, lowering his lips to hers in an achingly gentle kiss. Strong arms wrapped around her, burrowing under her robe to cling to her bare flesh. While she towered over her sister and many men, in Sandor’s arms she felt petite, thoroughly surrounded by him. His tongue parted her lips, delving deeper as his kiss grew bolder. A large hand carded into her loose hair, cradling her head and completely enfolding her in his embrace. She whimpered into their kiss as he grabbed ahold of the curve of her arse, pulling her closer and kneading it in time with the rhythm of his kiss. By the time their kiss broke she was breathless, burning, feeling out of control as he watched her with wild eyes. An unfamiliar ache had settled low in her stomach, her craving for this man undeniable.

“Gods,” he groaned against her lips. She meant to reply but only a squeal of surprise escaped her as she found herself suddenly being carried towards the bed. Sandor laid her across the counterpane, gently tugging her robe away and letting it fall to the floor. “Look at you,” he ran his hands over her, lingering at her breasts to tease them for several moments before they were moving once more. This time to her inner thighs, parting her legs wide. She whimpered, unable to look away from his face as he took in her most intimate place. Holding her thighs, he leaned in to lap at her folds, fire consuming her. She’d heard of such intimacies--life on the war path had her learning of a great many unmentionable things, but she never could have imagined how incredible it felt.

“Oh,” her fingers clutched at his hair, the inky black of the shoulder length locks a stark contrast to her pale skin. She watched as Sandor devoured her, working her into a frenzy of whimpers and sobs. “I---” she swallowed back a scream as wave after wave of ecstasy washed over her, feeling as if she had shattered into a million pieces.

He pulled back, lips and chin glistening with her juices, a smug smile on his face. He placed a lingering kiss on her inner thigh before stepping back. A brief bubble of panic rose in her stomach but it was instantly quelled when he toed off his boots and untied his breeches. His cock bobbed free as he pushed his clothing away, long and thick where it stood proudly in a thatch of dark hair. The man was clearly built for war; broad and powerful, all hard angles and chiseled muscle, with a cock that was truly glorious.

“Come to me,” she scooted towards the middle of the bed and he moved in, crawling over her on the mattress. He lowered himself to the cradle of her thighs, his cock brushing against sensitive flesh. She wrapped her legs around him, anxious to keep his warmth close.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered, balancing on one elbow to cup her face. His thumb brushed her cheekbone, a soft, affectionate gesture that took her breath away.

“I was once,” she swallowed back a wave of emotions, doing her best not to look away.

“You still are,” he promised. “No blade could ever take that away.”

“Sandor,” she ran her hands through his hair, brushing the locks from his face. “Would you make me yours?”

“With pleasure,” he replied without pause, renewing their kiss. Sansa surrendered herself to the passion of it, following his lead as their tongues met and tangled. Her arms wrapped around his neck and shoulders, clinging to him as he reached between their bodies. Thick fingers circled her swollen bundle of nerves, fire rebuilding in her core. Her hips rocked against his hand unbidden, her body blindly chasing its pleasure. When his fingers moved away she whimpered into their kiss, but soon she felt the warmth of his cock as he deftly notched himself at her opening. A heartbeat later he was sliding home, filling her entirely and in a way that she never could have dreamed of.

“Fuck,” Sansa’s back arched as Sandor’s cock pushed through her maiden’s gift and stretched her wide.

“Gods,” Sandor’s forehead fell to rest against her jaw. “If I’d have known--”

“You would have stopped,” she reasoned.

“Bugger that,” he scoffed, the action echoing through their deeply joined bodies. “I’d have still taken you, but I’d have just been more gentle.” He wanted her--he’d still have wanted her if he knew, and that warmed her very core.

“Oh,” she smiled as he lifted his head, softly kissing her lips. 'But I don't want gentle' she thought to herself.

“This means you’re all mine,” he carefully rocked his hips, a whimpered mewl escaping her lips.

“Yes,” she sighed, holding tightly to his back.

“Only mine,” Sandor added, hitching her thigh higher on his waist as he slowly withdrew. Deep and steady, push and pull, he set a passionate rhythm as they shared a variety of kisses and whispered words.

He wasn’t lying when he said he wouldn’t have stopped if he had known she was a maiden--or had been a maiden as the case may be. He’d wanted her from their first meeting in the woods and by some miracle of the Gods she wanted him, nothing in the world was going to stop him. And while he didn’t want to hurt her, there was no denying the surge of pure possessiveness that consumed him at the realization that she would belong to him and only him. And Gods did she feel incredible, her perfect cunt gripping him like a velvet fist. It took everything in him to maintain control, to prevent himself from spilling into her like a green boy, and the way her hands tugged at his hair and her legs locked around him were not helping.

He used to think that killing was the sweetest thing there was, but now he knew the truth of it; her taste, her body and cunt wrapped around him--this was the sweetest thing there was.

“Please,” she pleaded against his lips. “More...please, I will not break.”

“Fuck,” he exhaled, hips snapping just a bit harder at her command.

“Yes,” her answering cry was immediate, her hips angling upwards towards him, cock slipping deep enough now to bottom out against her womb. He’d done his best to be gentle with her, but with each thrust her cries grew louder--almost too loud given that the young Queen was asleep across the hall, he simply couldn’t stop himself. Soon he was all-out fucking her, rutting into her with a chorus of growls and groans as he sought to impart some part of his very being onto hers.

“Sandor--” she sobbed as she came apart, nails scoring into his back as her core fluttered around him. Her heels dug into his ass, thighs strong from years of riding and combat locking around him. Holding him as a willing prisoner. That was all it took, that and the firm milking grip of her cunt pulled him cock-first into oblivion. He shoved deep, spurting into her in heated jets that seemed to last forever. At first he couldn't breathe, couldn’t think--everything had gone pitch black and bright white at the same time. He floated in the unknown for several moments before the world crashed back over him like a tidal wave.

“Buggering hells,” he exhaled, collapsing over her. A contented hum escaping her to vibrate through them both. He adjusted, mindful not to crush her as he leaned up on an elbow to admire her. Porcelain skin flushed, lips swollen from their kisses, and a blissful sheen in her bright blue eyes...Aye, she was perfection.

“You know, you’re quite handsome,” she said softly, mischief in her eyes. She reached up to trace her fingers over his profile, smiling as she bumped the hook of his nose that had always been there. His brother had the same profile; so like dark hair, a sharp jaw, and a surly demeanor, the nose must be a Clegane family trait.

“Could be you’re just saying that so I’ll take you again,” he chuckled. His cock slipped from her body and he rolled to lay beside her, his softening length laying replete against his thigh. For the moment.

“Could be,” she agreed, smiling across the counterpane at him. “Will you?”

“Rest assured, I mean to take you at any chance I get,” he promised, reaching out to tuck her hair behind her ear. “I don’t think I’ll ever have my fill of you, princess.”

“Chirping again, Little Bird,” she teased.

“Aye,” he chuckled. “Aye, I am. Go make water,” he nodded to the private corner of the room, playfully smacking her perfectly rounded ass. “Then come back to me.”

“Alright,” she nodded, not questioning the odd instruction though she was likely grateful to clean herself up, he’d surely made a mess of her, losing control as he had. She wasn’t gone long, returning to find him under the blankets, holding them up for her to easily slide in beside him.

“There now,” he pulled her close, kissing her forehead. “Rest, I mean to have you again before we leave in the morning.”

“Alright,” she sighed, pillowing her head on his bicep, making herself comfortable. Sandor listened to her breathing as it evened out, her body slipping into slumber, trusting in him to keep her safe.

“You will be safe?” Arya asked for the hundredth time as Sansa checked her saddle and bags.

“Of course,” Sansa turned back to her sister. "I always am."

“I do not mean in battle alone,” Arya’s eyes briefly darted to where Sandor was standing with Ser Jaime and Ser Edric. It was mid-morning now, all of them having been hard at work since just after dawn to prepare for their journey. They were to be on the hunt for some undefinable time, not stopping until they had succeeded.

“What--” Sansa’s words died on her lips when her sister handed her a sizable leather pouch. Untying the leather bind, Sansa’s breath escaped her on a ragged exhale. "Oh."

“Moon tea,” Arya said, though Sansa already knew that. “You’re not married...yet.”

“Thank you,” Sansa felt her cheeks heat. While she had already procured some for herself early this morning--and immediately brewed a cup, this would definitely be of use in the coming moons on the road.

“Given our history, I never imagined that you’d take a lover,” Arya teased softly. “But he suits you, compliments you I dare say.”

“He does,” she smiled, nodding at her sister’s words. This morning Sansa had woken in her lover’s arms, warm and content--if a bit sore, for the first time. That hadn’t stopped her from turning into his embrace and guiding him to his back so that she may ride him as the sun appeared on the horizon. "It would have been none but him...he's..."

“A Clegane,” Arya laughed.

“Aye, a Clegane,” Sansa repeated, tucking the moon tea into her saddle bag. “And so much more. As before, I will send word of any major developments, but I imagine we will be away some time. I do not mean to return until they’re dead.”

“I know,” Arya nodded. “I am used to you being off saving the world, worrying about you while you’re away.”

“You will be so busy rebuilding the realm that you will hardly notice I am gone,” Sansa leaned in to carefully hug her sister, mindful of her plate armor. “I love you, Your Majesty.”

“I love you too, Sister,” Arya replied as Sansa returned to her full height, surprised to see Sandor at her side.

“Ready?” Sandor asked, nodding to Arya. “Your Majesty.”

“Until you return,” Arya smiled at Sansa, she and Sandor looking on as Arya crossed to where Gendry Baratheon stood, coupling his war hammer to his saddle.

“Suppose they’ll marry when this is over,” Sansa said softly as they observed their young Queen as she wrapped a sewn favor around the large man’s wrist.

“Suppose they will,” Sandor agreed, turning to look down at her. “We’d better keep him alive then, eh? You’re well?”

“Aye,” she nodded.

“Going to be sore when you get up there,” he smirked, nodding to her horse--a pure white destrier clad in Stark livery.

“I’m strong,” she countered.

“I know it,” he agreed. “I’ve had those legs wrapped around me--”

“Sandor!” she whispered fiercely.

“Come, princess,” Sandor easily lifted her--armor and all, settling her on her mount before swimming himself onto his own pitch black destrier. He was right, she certainly felt the night’s passionate activities as she sank into the saddle. Her men took her unspoken command, all of them finding their own horses and mounting up in preparation to leave.

“May the Gods guide you and keep you safe,” Arya addressed them, standing now at Tywin Lannister’s side. “We’ve taken back the realm, now it is in your hands to finish this fight.”

“We will serve you well, Your Majesty,” Gendry nodded his head in reverence.

“Long live the Queen,” Sansa smiled, bowing her head briefly to Arya before turning her horse towards the gates. Her team followed, trotting their way out of the keeps great walls, chasing down their destiny. The time for reckoning had come, Jorah Mormont and Petyr Baelish would know the cost of their deeds, and they would pay for their sins in blood.

Princess-Ser Sansa Stark and her riders became known as ‘The Wolf Pack’, each one of them a legend in their own right as they rode the expanse of Westeros to purge it of Targaryen supporters. A cloak of red, a cloak of black, they were all cut down without mercy.

Lord Gendry Baratheon with his war hammer, Ser Edric Storm with his duel flails, Ser Jaime Lannister with his sword, Lord Gregor with his unbridled fury, and Ser Bronn Black with his crossbow; their names all struck fear into those who dared speak out in support of the fallen Dragon Queen. Sandor did not mind those rumors.

Sandor was also well aware that his own name had become one that was whispered only in the darkness of alleys and hidden corners of crowded inns; Ser Sandor Clegane, the She Wolf’s right hand and lover. Rumor said that she held his chain leash and when she tugged it, men died horribly. He did, however, mind the tales that spoke of the way he made the She Wolf howl in the dead of night. What happened in their shared bed was their business alone and any who dared mention it in his presence earned a blackened eye at the very least.

While Queen Arya and Lord Hand Tywin Lannister worked hard to right all of the wrongs that had been set into motion by the Targaryen Rebellion, The Wolf Pack worked hard to bring the last factions of dissent to heel. Sandor did so with pleasure--great pleasure and at his Princess’ side. Night or day.

“Clegane,” his attention was pulled back to the present as Jaime handed him a large chunk of chicken from the spit.

“Thanks,” he grumbled, his eyes returning to where Sansa was speaking with several small children from the village across the road. The little ones were hanging on her every word, listening intently to whatever tale she was weaving. She had a way with smallfolk, he’d learned. Old and young alike adored her and did all they could to help her in her crusade. From providing supplies and food--like this chicken dinner they were currently enjoying, as well as secrets and information, they’d become instrumental in their work. Should she have chosen the mantle, she would have been a formidable queen in her own right.

“If I could only read your thoughts,” Gregor said softly, chuckling under his breath.

“What marvels would they reveal--” Gendry added.

“Bugger off,” Sandor quipped, though the words held no malice. It was clear now that Gendry would be the Queen’s husband when this was sorted and he did not want to disrespect his future Prince Consort.

“Perhaps we will be good brothers soon, eh?” Gendry smirked, taking a bite of chicken. There on his right wrist--his hammer arm, sat the carefully embroidered favor that Queen Arya had placed there the morning of their departure. Sandor felt an odd pang in his chest at the sight; it wasn’t jealousy, not quite, but perhaps a distant longing for some claiming mark of his own...however, he smiled and took a bite of his own dinner, the scratches on his back and the bruises on his neck and shoulders were fine marks of their own. Not to mention the bruise he knew currently resided on the upper swell of Sansa’s left breast—

“Did you save me anything to eat?” Sansa asked as she sank onto Sandor’s lap without pause. He dared to say that her arse hadn’t touched a seat that wasn’t his thigh or her horse in many moons. Sandor responded as he always did, leaning back to give her just enough space as his arm banded around her lower back to hold onto her hip, keeping her snug and close.

“Aye,” Jaime handed her a plate with chicken and herbed potatoes which she took gratefully.

“Where now?” Gendry asked as she began to eat.

“Ruins at Harrenhal,” Sansa replied, lifting a potato to Sandor’s mouth. Of course he ate it, chewing the spiced vegetable with a crooked smile. “Word is that Baelish has taken up residence there with an unknown blonde man.”

“Mormont?” Gendry ventured. “Would they be stupid enough to be seen together?”

“I like to hope so,” Sansa popped a chunk of potato into her mouth before feeding him another. They continued on like this, all of them eating in companionable silence and the others never commenting on Sansa’s habit of feeding him; it struck him in these moments that they had, by some great miracle, become a family of their own. A band of misfits on the road: a princess, a few knights, and the Hound she’d taken as her own and turned him into a ‘Little Bird’.

“Eat,” Sansa instructed as she fed him another bite before feeding herself. "Cleganes need their food."

“Now who’s perched and chirping, hmm?” he teased as she chewed, her soft laughter a balm to his very soul.

They rode through the fire-marred and rotten gates of Harrenhal at dusk without pause, pouring into the empty courtyard with eyes scanning every piece of their surroundings. The keep was nothing more than a barely-standing ruin, all of the stone and mortar crumbling under the harsh tests of time. It was clear that dragon’s fire had taken its toll on the keep during the Targaryen rebellion, and now all that remained was a shadow of what it once was. Still, there was an occupiable portion of this keep that demanded it be properly searched. She would leave no stone unturned in this mission to avenge her family’s murder.

Sansa turned back to Ser Bronn, motioning to her eyes and then the surrounding tattered parapets, he confirmed her orders with a nod, bolding guiding his horse of the parapet steps so that his dark gaze could better rake over the horizon and remaining walls. She motioned to Edric, Jaime, and Gregor, all of whom spread themselves about to cover all possible courtyard entrances.

A sharp whistle rent the air and she turned back to Ser Bronn, his hand motions telling her that he had spotted chimney smoke in the north end of the Great Keep. They all nodded in understanding, their attention now focused on where it seemed most likely that someone had taken refuge in the keep.

Smoothly dismounting, Sansa quickly tied her destrier off to a hitching post before moving towards the stone doorway. Gendry and Sandor were instantly at her sides, following her movements into the keep and through the halls. While both men were much larger than herself, they all moved with a deadly silence that was required by their mission; they were here to end the Targaryen supporters once and for all, and these two men were pivotal in that regard.

Lord Petyr Baelish: whoremonger, politician, once master of coin under King Eddard Stark. Now he was nothing more than a weasel, a betrayer, and a liar.

Ser Jorah Mormont: convicted slave trader, sell-sword, and once respected man of the north. Now he was nothing more than a turncoat, a murderer, and a cunt.

Sansa was determined to stop them both--no, to kill them both. Ser Jorah had been the man to try to slit her throat, cutting her open without pause at the Dragon Queen’s command, and Lord Baelish had been there to watch. Both men would feel her wrath, her justice. As they closed the distance down a stone hall, she felt a large hand wrap around her bicep, halting her progress. She turned to stare daggers at the man who had stopped her, Sandor’s eyes unflinching as he met her gaze.

“You, Mormont,” Sandor whispered tapping her breastplate. “Me, Baelish,” he tapped his own armor.

“No--” She wanted them both.

“You Mormont. Me Baelish,” he firmly cut off her protests, his words sinking into the fog surrounding her mind that had prevented her from remembering that the most important thing was killing both of these men. If she wanted them both, there was a chance that one could slip away and that was not acceptable. With a deep breath, she nodded, meeting his eyes. She trusted Sandor, with ever fiber of her being she knew she could always trust him.

“Me, Mormont,” she agreed, leaving Baelish in Sandor’s capable hands. They moved once more, reaching the great hall as the two men were talking. It was them, finally, after all this time she had found them. To her pleasure, they were discussing their next movements, wondering where they could go, where they would be safe and away from the wrath of the Stark monarchs.

“Essos, perhaps,” Jorah suggested.

“Nowhere is safe!” Petyr Baelish hissed, his Van Dyke twitching in anger.

“You could try the Seven Hells,” Sansa stepped into the candlelight, pulling her Valyrian blade free of its scabbard. Not just any blade but the Stark family blade 'Ice', one that King Eddard had used to defend his realm. One that had sat upon Sansa's back for years now, waiting for this moment of reckoning.

“You!” Baelish stood so abruptly that his chair tumbled backwards.

“Me, a ghost from your past,” Sansa taunted, both Sandor and Gendry stepping into the light behind her. “Gentlemen, it has been a while since we took each others’ council. I hope you haven’t missed me too terribly.”

“Princess,” Baelish backpedaled, clearing his throat. “You are most welcome--”

“Shut that cunt mouth of yours, Baelish, or I’ll remove its lips entirely,” Sandor’s words rumbled through the great hall, sending a shiver through her. She could feel Sandor’s presence at her back, feel the strength of him resonating through her. Empowering her. Uplifting her.

“I warned you not to trust me,” Sansa said in a sing-song voice, watching Baelish’s eyes go wide as she repeated the words he’d spoken to her father that fateful night. “Cutting my throat did not stop me from remembering, nor did it stop me from coming for you both,” she promised, reaching up to run a finger down the scar on her face and neck.

“Ser Jorah, you remember, do you not?” Gendry challenged, his war hammer dancing menacingly in the corner of her right eye. “What you did that night? The King? The Queen? The royal family?”

“I told you to kill me,” Sansa raised her chin in defiance. “Warned you that I would never stop,” she added.

"I thought I had," Jorah reasoned.

"Blade wasn't deep enough, Mormont," Sansa countered. "So here we stand."

“Aye,” the haunted blonde man steeled his shoulders as he pulled his sword free of its sheath. “And here we are.”

“Turns out that you’re as poor with a dagger as you are with your cock,” Sansa stalked towards him. “Neither murder nor pity fuck was accomplished at my death,” she scoffed. “Was it worth it?”

This seemed to stir Jorah’s ire, as he raised his sword and stepped closer. Sansa didn’t hesitate to meet him, both dagger and sword stopping his attack with ease. In the back of her mind she registered Sandor and Gendry descending on Petyr Baelish, but her focus was on the blond man who had once tried to slit her throat…instead he had left her with a twisted and scarred visage. While she cared not for her once reputed beauty, she did care deeply for her family and Ser Jorah had been pivotal in their downfall. That she could never forgive.

Their blades met, over and over, clashing and clanging in the ancient stone keep. The occasional spark fell from their blades, fizzling out on the stone floor that had been ravaged by dragon’s flame in the white-hot rebellion that had stolen her family from her. She met his strikes and blows with equal fury, unrelenting in her need for revenge.

Attack and perry, strike and block, she met Ser Jorah’s movements with her own, their path taking them across the great hall towards the fireplace. She lunged forward and Ser Jorah blocked, his blade finding a seam in her armor to rake across her bicep in attack. She hissed, stumbling only a few paces before recovering and renewing her attack; strike, strike, strike, she worked tirelessly to push him back, back, back, until Ser Jorah’s missteped and he fell back, shoulders meeting the mantle, hauling him up short.

“I’d call you a son-of-a-bitch,” she swore, her blade pressing to his throat. “But I knew your mother and she was a good woman,” she pressed the heavy weight of 'Ice' against his throat, holding the end of her blade with an armored hand. “You...you’re just a useless piece of flesh parading about as a man.”

“M’---”

“Fuck yourself,” she pushed forward, her razor sharp Valyrian blade cutting through his flesh like warm butter, his life’s blood spurting out to cover them both. She pulled her blade away, leaving him to cradle the throat she’d just slit. His blood ran down her Stark engraved breastplate and rondels, drip....drip...drip...to the stone floor. It looked as if the wolves at her shoulders wept blood, wept with happiness for the revenge she'd taken for her pack. In short order, the man who had destroyed her family collapsed to the stone floor of the hall. She hovered over him, watching with rapt attention as he breathed his last breaths, as he met the Gods to answer for the sins he had committed.

“The pack survives,” she whispered as she knelt beside him, observing his final demise as Sandor appeared with Gendry at his back. A flash of movement later and a severed head rolled into the growing puddle of blood on the stone floor beside Ser Jorah, the horrified visage of Lord Petyr Baelish looking back at her. She couldn’t help it, a chuckle escaped her as she took in the sight.

“A gift, Princess,” Sandor said flippantly, wiping his brow on the forearm of his brigandine.

“Thanks. It’s ugly,” she countered, sheathing her sword as she faced her lover. This man--so strong and terrifying in the face of his enemies, had become her anchor, her life’s blood.

“Well, it’s dead,” Sandor countered with a shrug, wiping his sword on his thigh before sheathing it.

“Good,” Sansa stood, tucking her own blade away and motioning to Ser Jorah. “As is this.”

“A present for me?” Sandor smiled as he approached.

“No,” she shook her head. “A present for me.”

“Ah,” he pulled her into his arms. “You, princess, deserve all of the finer things in life.”

“These are indeed fine,” she agreed, leaning back to look up into his dark silver eyes.

“Princess,” Sandor said softly, his arms holding her tight against him. It was not a trap, no--it was an embrace, a caring one at that. He noticed then that her arm was bleeding, the dark red of her blood marring her silver armor. “Hells--”

“I am well,” she assured him, turning to smile up at him. “It will heal. What is another scar amongst the others? But you Little Bird, you’re safe?”

“I am,” he assured her, leaning in to brush his lips across hers. “Here to chirp for your pleasure, princess.”

“You can see to my pleasure later,” she countered. “For now, we gather our trophies; Jorah’s steel and Baelish’s mockingbird signet ring, to deliver to our Queen. Then we ride like the Seven Hells are on our heels.”

“Aye,” Sandor agreed as Gendry got to work gathering the necessary trophy items. “We’ll ride for the palace to end this, once and for all.”

“Yes,” Sansa whispered. “Let us end this madness together.”

“Together,” he repeated, placing a lingering kiss on her forehead.

“Yes,” she exhaled, melting against him and his strength. She turned her lips up to his, their mouths meeting in a soft and promising kiss that spoke of so much more than this single moment. They were one, they were a joined force, they were a single being.

They were forever.

Men, women, and children alike lined the ramparts as they rode back into the courtyard of the Stark ancestral home and palace. The Queen and her Lord Hand descended the palace steps as the Pack filed in, relief clearly etched on her features as she saw that her sister was unharmed. Sansa was all that Arya had left of her family, it made sense that she worried so. Their familial love was one of Sansa’s largest driving forces.

Sandor observed as Sansa dismounted, dropping to booted feet on the cobblestones. Before reaching her sister, she dropped to one knee and bowed her head in a show of respect. Formal greeting given, Sansa pushed to her feet and embraced her sister tightly. From the moment Sansa had taken the life of Jorah Mormont, she seemed lighter. Happier. He could not blame her, the man that cut her throat and left her for dead before slaying her entire family--save her sister, had been ended. The last burdens of that terrible rebellion were gone. Permanently.

One might not have noticed the effect it had on Sansa, but Sandor was more than a casual observer of his She Wolf. He knew her expressions-- her actions as well as he knew his own, he could see the positive change in her. Now rather than worry about tracking down Baelish and Mormont, Sansa spoke of their future together. At night on their shared bedroll beneath the stars she whispered words of hope, of what they could do now, of the life they could build. Sandor found the words intoxicating, feeling hopeful for the first time in a very long time.

He never would have dared to dream of the future she painted for them, but now it was the only thing he wanted--desperately so. It only made sense for a man to wish to spend his life beside the woman he loved, and oh did he love her. With a strength and passion he’d never experienced, he loved Sansa of house Stark. His She Wolf. His Princess. His lover. He’d slain enemies with her, stood at her side while she’d unmade a queen and took revenge for her family. Now he wanted to spend his life with her, fighting beside her and making love to her each night.

Stable hands came forward as everyone else dismounted, handing over their reins so the horses could be unsaddled, fed, and watered. They’d been on the roads for many moons, the horses had earned a rest.

“I am grateful that you’re back,” the Queen addressed them all, her eyes lingering on Gendry for a brief moment. “And that you’re all safe.”

“We are glad to be back,” Sansa replied, stepping back to Sandor’s side. Gendry came forward then, handing the Queen a carefully wrapped bundle with Jorah’s blade and Baelish’s ring inside.

“To restore your family’s honor, Your Majesty,” Gendry said softly. Arya smiled, taking it from the large knight with a nod.

“There will be a large celebration tonight,” Arya replied. “It has been well earned.”

“Here, here!” The Wolf Pack agreed, everyone around them bursting into cheers and celebration. At that Tywin beckoned them all inside, Ser Jaime falling into step beside his father with a smile as the two Lannisters conversed. Sandor and Sansa exchanged a conspiratorial smile as Gendry boldly offered his arm to the Queen--who took it with a soft smile. They followed in their wake, more than ready to shed their armor and soak in a long, hot bath. Preferably together.

“Come,” Sansa gently took his hand, tugging him towards the large copper tub that had been filled with steaming oil-scented water. Locked away in the privacy of their rooms, she couldn’t wait to finally relax in his arms. Beside the tub, they helped each other from the last of their armor and clothing before slipping into the water together. Sandor first, of course, and then Sansa on his lap, reclining back against his chest. Sandor wrapped his arms around her, his chin coming to rest on her shoulder as a long breath escaped them both.

“It's odd to finally be home,” he whispered. “To be within stone walls after all those moons under the stars.” His words had her heart clenching in her chest, emotion nearly overcoming her.

“And are you…home?” she could barely give voice to the words over the lump in her throat.

“Aye, She Wolf,” he answered, lips brushing the column of her throat. “With you I’m home.”

“Oh,” her words waivered, unfamiliar tears threatening in her eyes. “I was worried that you would return to the West---”

“Bugger that,” Sandor interrupted, his arms squeezing gently. “Gregor’s the Lord, not me. I go where you go, for as long as you’ll have me.”

“Sandor,” she turned in his arms, coming to sit astride his lap. She cupped his cheeks, guiding his eyes to hers, her breath stolen at the depth of affection she saw in his silver orbs.

“If I had it my way, I’d never have to leave your side,” he said fiercely, determination in his tone. He held firmly to her hips, fingers digging into her flesh as if he was worried that she would be stolen away.

“Sandor,” she repeated, hardly able to think.

“I told you on our first night together, you’re mine,” he continued. “And all that I am, is yours.”

“Even your heart?” she whispered.

“Especially my heart,” he promised.

“Oh Gods,” the words escaped her on a broken sob, her body curling inwards into his. He wrapped his arms around her as she buried her face in his neck, unfamiliar emotions consuming her. She had no cried since the night she'd buried her parents. She had not even cried when a Maester has sewn her face and neck back together. But here, here she was overwrought...“I love you,” she said, her lips brushing his flesh as she spoke. “I was so scared that you would leave--”

“Never,” he promised. “Not even The Stranger could take me from your side.”

“I love you,” she repeated. Now that the words had been spoken, she couldn’t stop saying them. “I love you.”

“I love you,” he replied without pause, a strong hand carding into her hair to cradle her. “So buggering much…”

“You’ll stay,” she lifted her head, a few tears escaping her eyes.

“Aye.”

“With me?”

“Always.”

“Oh Gods,” she lowered her lips to his, taking them in a fierce, claiming kiss. Sandor, of course, met her tit-for-tat, lips parting so that eager tongues would work their magic. She felt his cock coming to life between them, unable to stop herself from rocking against it.

“I need you,” Sandor growled in between kisses, a strong hand coming to her ass, lifting her over his length.

“Yes,” she panted, angling her hips to catch the head of his cock, sinking onto him without preamble. She groaned into their kiss, a sigh of pleasure that she felt into her very bones. Her eyes fluttered open, meeting Sandor’s as they both savored this beautiful, affectionate moment.

“I love you,” he promised, thumb stroking her jaw, just over the scar.

“I love you too,” she moved her hands to his hair, tangling her fingers with the inky black locks. While considered overly long by most standards, she loved his hair just the way it was. Using his strength as an anchor, she slowly began to rock against him, riding him in languid movements.

Lightning shot through him as Sansa’s nails trailed across his scalp, teasing and tormenting him as she slowly rode his cock. As always she felt incredible, soaked and warm around him, desperate to find her pleasure. While he loved their wild passion and occasional all-out fucking, this, in this moment, they were making love. Love, Gods, his She Wolf loved him--she wanted him to stay with her…Whatever he was feeling it was the most amazing feeling of his life.

Oh, home, he was home.

She was his as he was hers, he never had to be parted from her and that is all that he could have asked for in this life and beyond. Holding her tightly in his arms, they clung to each other as she moved, slowly working them into a frenzy. During their moons on the road, Sansa had become quite adept at driving them both wild. Her maidenly shyness had long since melted away, their bed becoming one of constant warmth and pleasure. He felt her coming, even before she broke their kiss and threw her head back, he felt her core clenching and clamping around his cock. He watched in rapt fascination as she came apart, lost to her peak. The sheer beauty of it had him falling over the edge right behind her--in spite of his desire to hold back just a bit longer, pulsing and pouring into her in heated jets.

“Fucking beautiful,” he admired, tracing a hand across her shoulder and down between her breasts, gathering the water droplets on her skin.

“So good,” she whimpered, hips idly rocking while she still trembled.

“Always is,” he cupped her jaw, guiding her close enough so that he could kiss her.

“Mmmhmm,” she sighed against his mouth.

“Suppose I should wash you, princess,” he said softly. “We’re expected at the celebration feast tonight.”

“If we must,” she replied, eyes fluttering open to smile at him. “Arya has instructed me to wear a gown,” she pouted.

“Gods,” Sandor groaned. “I will spend the entire evening trying not to bend you over and push those skirts to your waist so that I can fuck you--”

“Oh,” she exhaled. “Tonight,” she nodded, her smile now positively lecherous. “Yes, we’ll do that tonight.”

“Gods do I love you,” he chuckled, mentally counting down the hours until he could do just as he promised.

“I love you too,” she shifted from his lap, his cock falling replete for the moment. She grabbed the soap and sponge, deftly working up a lather so that they could clean away the last of the dust and grime from the road. The Queen required the presence, the very least they could do was not look as if they’d just rolled in from the hog pens--or bed.

Sansa stood tall at Sandor’s side, her arm looped over his in a clear statement of their deep connection and affection. She wanted everyone in the room to be aware that she was his and he was hers. There was no parting them, not now. While she was well aware that there were rampant rumors regarding the nature of their physical relationship, she wanted there to be no mistaking that this was far and beyond just the physical. She fought beside him. She slept beside him. She would live beside him as well. There was no need to confine their relationship to clandestine darkness or hidden assignations.

Side-by-side they watched the celebration from the edges of the ballroom, both of them particularly aware of just how close Gendry and their Queen were sitting. It was so obvious that neither of them were surprised when Arya stood, calling the attention of the entire room to announce that she and Lord Gendry Baratheon would soon marry. Sansa smiled at her sister, overwhelmed by the happiness in her features. Arya had survived the nightmare of the Targaryen Rebellion and had come through with the poise and elegance that was her signature. She was born to be Queen, Sansa had known that since they were little girls, and it was her great honor to place her back on the throne and ensure she safely stayed there.

“And I ask that we all raise our glasses,” Arya continued, taking the silver goblet Gendry extended to her. “To the Wolf Pack who travelled the realm to bring justice and ensure everlasting peace. They have brought me the sword of Ser Jorah Mormont and the ring of Lord Petyr Baelish, both betrayers having been returned to the earth from which they came. We are all eternally grateful for the work and dedication of our valiant defenders.”

“Here here!” the room echoed.

“And to my Sister,” Arya met her eyes across the room and Sansa felt as if everyone were watching her now. “Our reluctant Princess. Daenerys called for your death, and yet not even The Stranger could pull you from the defense of your family and the noblewomen of this realm. You worked tirelessly to save us all and with Lord Tywin’s help you led us through the fiery darkness. At your guidance the pack has survived. You have fought, you have sacrificed, and you have bled deeply for our people. Without you, all would have been lost at the start. To you, Princess-Ser Sansa, who has led this Pack through its darkest winter.”

“To Sansa,” the room echoed, even Sandor raised his glass high in toast. She could only raise her own goblet in acknowledgment, unsure of what else to say to her sister’s emotional words. She felt Sandor’s arm leave hers, boldly wrapping around her lower back in a show of support that left no circumstance of their connection to mystery. They all drank in celebration, Sansa taking a sip of her wine before looking up into Sandor’s gleaming eyes. She watched as he reached out to trace her scar from just below her eye, nose, cheek, jaw, and throat to where it disappeared into the neckline of her gown. Her throat was tight with emotions--conflicting ones as the man she loved boldly touched her twisted visage.

“He wouldn’t dare take you,” Sandor whispered to her, those around him would be unable to hear what he said. “Because I would hunt the very Stranger to his end if he stole you away.”

“Sandor,” she swallowed thickly.

“Your life is with me, princess. No one--God or man alike, has the right to steal it away.”

Conversation and life carried on around them, but Sansa could only see him. The ferocity with which he spoke of their life together made her insides melt in such an unfamiliar way that it made her uneasy. Arya had always been the lover of poems and songs, the one who believed in unfailing courtly love, but here at his side was the promise of everything lovely. The promise of happiness, of a life together. Of love. And, Gods, did he love her. She could feel it as if it were a tangible thing, his love and care for her.

“Nothing could take me away from you,” she promised, raising her goblet between them. “To us.”

“To us,” Sandor agreed. They both drank from their wine, a shared smile and companionable silence between them before Sandor spoke once more. “Marry me?”

“What?” she was certain that her eyes were wide as saucers.

“I’d call you my wife proper, if you’ll let me,” his softly spoken words were laced with hope and promise, both of which tugged at her heart. In truth she had taken this man as her husband many moons ago, though the words hadn’t been spoken. They’d been man and wife for some time, something that she was incredibly pleased with.

“Yes,” she nodded, swallowing back another tidal wave of emotion. “I would be honored to call you my husband--in truth you already are.”

“Aye,” he took her hand in his, raising it to place a kiss across her knuckles. “My princess,” he gently squeezed her fingers.

“My knight,” she whispered back, holding to his hand as he looped her arm back over his forearm. “My knight…”

Some Time Later...

Sansa stood behind her Sister--her Queen, hand on the hilt of her sword as they listened to yet another ‘well-meaning’ Lord offer advice on how she should run her realm. Sansa could feel Arya’s mounting frustration as if it were her own, her fingers twitching around her blade.

“Your Majesty--”

“No,” Arya shook her head. “No, I’m sorry but I am done for today. We will table this discussion until tomorrow,” she looked at Sansa and that was all it took. In a flash Sansa was at her Sister’s side, helping her to her feet. At this late stage of her pregnancy it was absurd for Arya to be in the Small Council meetings at all, let alone dealing with the ridiculousness gossip regarding a Greyjoy Rebellion. Rebellion, Sansa laughed to herself. As if she and her husband would ever let that happen. While Sansa remained a loyal member of the royal family--ever the dutiful princess, her husband Ser Sandor Clegane had been appointed Lord Commander of the Military, much to his chagrin. He grumbled constantly at the title but she knew that his expertise lay firmly within that wheelhouse. There was no better choice for the title.

She escorted Arya through the palace and to the royal bedchambers where she situated Arya in the padded chair at her vanity. Arya heaved a sigh of relief as she sank into the plush chair, her hands coming to rest over her very swollen stomach.

“Mother never told us how exhausting it was,” Arya sighed.

“Ruling?”

“Carrying a babe,” Arya laughed.

“No, she did not,” Sansa admitted, lowering herself to a knee at her sister’s feet. “You are well?”

“I am fine,” Arya assured her. “No need to fret. I am sure that Gendry will be here at any moment.”

“He does love to worry over you,” Sansa noted.

“He tells me that he loves me,” Arya admitted quietly.

“I am sure that he does,” she assured her sister. “We all see it in the way that he cares for you.”

“Is a Queen capable of being loved?” Arya mused. “Truly loved.”

“If the Queen is you, then yes,” Sansa replied, patting her sister’s knee.

“And what of you and your husband, sister?” Arya countered.

“The husband that you titled much to his objections?” Sansa laughed.

“The husband you wed behind my back,” Arya teased. “You tease me for my love of songs and yet you are the one that married a knight for love.”

“Aye, I did,” Sansa laughed, placing a pillow under her sister's feet. “We are well.”

“Good,” Arya exhaled as the door to her room burst open and Gendry rushed to her, kneeling at the queen’s feet. Sansa’s eyes, however, were drawn to where Sandor lingered in the hall. Amusement was etched onto his features and she wondered what sort of panic he’d witnessed at the Prince Consort’s expense. Pushing to her feet she crossed to meet her husband as the royal couple talked in hushed tones behind them.

“Wife,” Sandor placed a soft kiss on her forehead.

“Husband,” Sansa smiled up at him. “Come, let us leave them to their privacy. Her time is so near it was absurd to have her in the Small Council meeting.”

“Aye,” Sandor nodded, looping his arm around her lower back as they walked down the hall. They must have been--as always, a sight; him in all black metal with black hair, her in gleaming silver armor with bright red hair. At the very least they were a recognizable couple. The Sers Clegane.

While the queen and her betrothed had married in a large, extravagant wedding, Sansa and Sandor had taken the quieter route of eloping. They’d married with only the officiant’s wife as witness, the two of them swearing their love over a forge.

“Princess Sansa--Ser Sansa, do you take this man?” the officiant asked and Sansa nodded.

“I take this man,” she replied, Sandor’s hand tightening around hers in response. A heartbeat later he stepped closer and wrapped his arms around her, lowering his lips to hers in an achingly gentle kiss. They were husband and wife now, forever bound in the eyes of the Gods--Old and New.

“Mine,” Sandor whispered against her mouth, a smile forming on her lips. “Always mine.”

“Mine,” she countered, looking up at him. His arm banded around her and hauled her impossibly close, pressing her dress-clad form to his armor. It was a rare moment where she was not equally armor clad. Instead in this moment, the first moment of their marriage, Sandor’s large frame wrapped around her and held her safe, protected--loved.

They’d been married nearly two years now, two wonderfully happy years together. And in those two years, they had served Queen Arya Stark to the best of their abilities, side-by-side. Sansa had never imagined that such happiness would find her in this life. It was, she felt, far more than she could have ever deserved but she wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Sandor was hers, as she was his; she wouldn’t trade him for the world.

Epilogue: A Glimpse of the Future…

“Keep your arm up,” Sandor reminded, tapping the younger man’s elbow. “Remember, the lower it hangs at your side, the longer your reaction timing,” he continued his instruction. Even to the most passing of gazes there was no mistaking there was a strong familial relation between the two men that stood within the sparring arena. While Sandor was still the taller of the two--at least for the moment, they were both dark of hair, grey of eye, and in possession of that sharp jaw and signature hooked nose that gave them both away as Cleganes. Even if Sandor’s temples held more than a hint of grey hair these days, they were still clearly related.

“Alright,” the boy nodded, giving him a brief smile that reminded Sandor so much of his beloved wife.

When Queen Arya gave birth to a daughter, aptly named Catelyn for her grandmother, it surprisingly awoke something within Sansa that she hadn’t realized slept so soundly, so deeply in her heart. Holding Little Cat’s tiny form had brought her to the realization that she would like a child--just one, a piece of each of them that they could care for and guide. The Clegane Strength, the Stark honor, their love come to physical fruition. Sandor was never one to deny her anything, so when she bluntly broached the subject he readily agreed that they would stop the use of moon tea.

From there, it didn’t take long for Sansa to be surrendering her breakfast into the chamber pot at all hours. In fact it happened so quickly--thanks to their mutual desire for each other, that he idly wondered how many children they’d have if they hadn’t used moon tea in the years previous. Though he constantly worried over her during her pregnancy, she was strong and healthy, bringing Brynden Clegane into the world in the early light of dawn in their third year of marriage. There was no battle she could not fight, his She Wolf, she was a warrior through and through.

Now, many years later, Brynden stood before him in the sands of the palace arena, Sandor’s duplicate in all aspects. He looked at his son and his chest filled with overwhelming love, heart aching with the force of it. The Clegane frame and the Stark honor, a dangerous combination he was, powerful and strong. A young man of four and ten, Brynden was quickly becoming one of the best swordsmen in the realm--which shouldn't be surprising given that he had both parents to teach him. Well, both parents and the Wolf Pack who had never quite disbanded in this time of peace. Brynden was determined to follow in his parents’ footsteps and serve the crown, they couldn’t be prouder of his choice.

Someone had to keep Crown Princess Catelyn safe when they were all gone, after all.

Ready?” Sandor asked, his son nodded and they resumed their sparring once more. At some point during their fighting, Sansa had taken up residence on the wooden fence of the arena, because when they paused again, he saw that she was happily eating from a large plate piled high with chicken and potatoes as she looked on. His She Wolf, stunning as always in her gleaming armor and Stark cloak that danced behind her on the breeze. He could clearly remember the day when he’d first laid eyes on her--screaming at her men to fight. The same day he’d watched her end the Dragon Queen’s reign of terror.

He loved her even more today than he did then.

Both father and son sheathed their practice blades and crossed to where she sat, her smile a perfect balm to the tiring day.

“My boys,” she smiled, dropping to her feet in the arena to give them each a bite of chicken. “Having fun?”

“He’ll be better than me before long,” Sandor nodded, popping a bit of potato into his mouth.

“Then I suppose it will be my turn to teach him,” she winked.

“Aye, suppose so,” Sandor chuckled in agreement.

“Father says that you once unhorsed a man at two-hundred paces with a bow,” Brynden smiled. “I should like to learn that!”

“Does he?” Sansa smiled, glancing at Sandor with a smirk.

“Reins in her mouth and all, aye. Once upon a time your mother shot down everything in a red cloak, mounted or not,” Sandor ruffled Brynden’s hair. “I had to ride like the Seven Hells just to keep up with her.”

“Those are my favorite stories, listening to others talk about ‘The Wolf Pack’,” Brynden laughed, his smile a near duplicate of Sansa’s. While Sandor and his bride had been forged in the smoke of rebellion and war, Brynden was a soul that knew peace, true peace, and it shone in his being. Still, peace or not, he was prepared for war, both of his parents seeing to that. They knew more than any how quickly peace could come to an end and wanted their son to be prepared for anything. Hells, the boy had grown up clinging to his father’s armor and his mother’s cloak, he was a born knight if there ever was one.

“Eat,” she prompted, her maternal heart shining through. “Cleganes need their food,” she added. Brynden obeyed, taking several bites from her plate; Gods help them if he was hitting another growth spurt, they’d be out of food in a matter of days. Sandor inwardly chuckled, there was no denying their boy was a Clegane, that was for certain. They ate until the plate was empty, the three Cleganes enjoying the quick snack.

“Alright, Bryn,” Sandor nodded to his son once the plate was emptied. “Back to work.”

"Ah-ah,” Sansa stopped them both. “First things first,” she motioned to them both. Brynden leaned down to indulgently kiss his mother’s cheek. “That’s my boy,” Sansa smiled as he turned back towards the middle of the arena.

“You,” Sandor, pulled his wife into his arms, the contrast of her silver and his black breastplate making him smile. “I love you, She Wolf.”

“I love you, my Little Bird,” she went on her toes to kiss him; he could feel her smile against his lips.

“Gods you still get more beautiful every day.”

“All these years and you’re still chirping,” she smirked up at him, her scarred cheek pulling tight.

“Aye,” he replied. “I’ll always chirp for you, princess.”

“Wife,” she corrected. “Not a princess, a wife.”

“Wife,” he repeated with a smile, holding her tight. She was his wife, his woman, as she always would be. Just as he would always be hers. “A wife and knight, she says.”

“A wife and knight she is,” Sansa beamed.

“Aye,” he agreed, stealing another soft kiss. Only a few hours left and he could carry her back to their chambers; there the two of them could soak in the tub or collapse into bed together and spend hours lost in each other.

“Go and train our son,” she went back on her toes to kiss the tip of his nose. “And then tonight you’re all mine.”

“Alright, She Wolf,” he chuckled, reluctantly releasing her.

She stepped back, her cloak dancing around her legs as she moved through the sand. He watched her go, deftly hopping the fence and making her way back to the palace proper. She paused at the castle’s door as she always did, looking back to him with a smile, a smile that he returned without hesitation. This was their tradition, their unspoken ‘until later’ that they shared. A moment later she vanished into the palace and he turned back to their son, who was waiting with a knowing smile. By now Bryden was more than used to this behavior from his parents. It was probably why he loved the stories of the Wolf Pack so much; the others told tales and legends of warriors while all Bryn saw was his parents who were thoroughly besotted with each other.

“Ready?” Sandor asked his son.

“Ready.”

“Then show me what you’ve got, boy,” he grinned and Brynden returned the expression, deftly drawing his sword. Sandor felt pure paternal pride surge through him at the action; many years ago he’d unknowingly ridden into battle at Sansa’s side and that chaotic day had changed the entire realm--and his life, forever.

He’d loved every second of it.