Archive of Our Own

Late Summer 1810, Somewhere near The Summer Sea

”Letter for you, Commander,” Sandor heard the young voice as a folded piece of parchment appeared at the corner of his makeshift desk. Really it was a plank of wood set between two barrels, but at this point it was the best he could do.

”Leave it,” he replied tersely, his attention focused entirely upon the supply forms and injury lists. They’d been at war for so Gods be damned long that everything had now blurred into one monstrous beating. Between the unyielding Dornish sun and the Dothraki who seemed to darken every corner of the kingdom, he was bone tired. Bone tired and more frustrated than he had ever been before. If only he could do more…

”Sir,” the young man cleared his throat as he turned the letter over to reveal its wax seal. Sandor felt his blood run cold, every thought fleeing from his mind at the familiar sight of the ferocious hound howling into the moon.

”Leave,” he took the parchment as he stood from his rickety stool. He grimaced as he broke the seal, the action pulling at the freshly healed cuts across his cheek and brow. He hadn’t been a handsome man before the war, but nearly a decade of shrapnel and battle had ensured he would be no beauty.

Unfolding the letter he was surprised to see not the masculine scrawl of his brother Gregor, the Duke of Harrenhal, but of his younger sister Helene. He swallowed thickly, suddenly aware that while he had been away at war, the young girl of only ten years old had become a young woman. Gods, she could even had married and had children in the time since they last spoke. With a gruff clearing of his throat he read the letter, eyes running quickly over the news that she shared.

”Please brother, come home,” she pleaded. “Sansa–that is Lady Sansa is here helping, but now that Gregor has passed, you are the rightful Duke and your estates need you. Please come home.”

The weight of the world settled upon his shoulders as he finished reading, the letter falling from his fingers to the plank below. Gregor was dead, killed in a duel over some actress in King’s Landing and Helene was left to bear the burden alone. No, he reminded himself, not alone. Lady Sansa was there to help, he nearly chuckled. Though she would have grown by now, he could remember the vibrant little girl with red hair that was never far from his sister’s side. Too smart for her own good and with a mouth as sharp as a sabre, he was sure that she had made good on her promise to be a princess someday. Surely with Lady Sansa at her side, Helene would be alright until he arrived. Speaking of…

”Well then,” he exhaled, running a hand through his too long hair. “Suppose that’s it then,” he bent down to organize his papers. Tucking the letter from his sister into his pocket he stacked the supply requests he had been working on and, with a heavy heart, sought out his commanding officer.

Fall 1810, Harrenhal Estate

“My Lady,” the Clegane butler, Luwin, said softly from the doorway. “His Grace the Duke has returned at last.” 

“Oh,” Sansa took a rough, shaky breath. “Thank you, I shall…I shall…” she suddenly found that she couldn’t quite muster the words to finish.

“Of course, my lady,” Luwin quietly excused himself. The sound of his footsteps on the plush carpet faded away and Sansa was once again alone with her thoughts. It was, she decided, an increasingly dangerous place to be. She had never been prone to melancholy, in fact she had always been the more outgoing of the duo she made with Lady Helene Clegane. Even though she was the younger of the two by nearly two years, she had helped usher her shy closest friend into the vibrant light of the ton’s ballrooms and banquets, and she had loved every second of it. Now, however, that was all in the past.

Pushing to her feet, she brushed out the deep black fabric of her mourning gown, not entirely caring if there was a wrinkle or two in the skirt. Fashion hardly seemed to matter anymore, it wasn’t as if she was going to return to the city for the remainder of the season. No she would remain in the country to mourn the loss of the truest sister she had ever had. She made the quick walk of the familiar path from the library to the master’s study, knocking gently on the half-open door. 

“Come,” the surprisingly deep, gravelly voice called from within and her feet moved without conscious thought towards the sound. 

Logically she knew what Sandor Clegane, the new Duke of Harrenhal, looked like. She had grown up running around these halls with Helene, much to the chagrin of Sansa’s mother. Like Gregor, Sandor had been dark and broad, with ebony hair always seemed to be windswept and sharp grey eyes that bore straight through her. He had been terrifying when she was young and she expected that a decade in military service had only sharpened that fact. 

The reality of this new Sandor Clegane, however, was something else entirely. Nothing could have prepared her for the sight of him behind the large wooden desk, his frame dominating the space in such a way that it seemed to steal the very breath from her lungs. With his jacket tossed across the back of his chair and his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, Sansa watched as he worked to make sense of the ledgers and letters she had left on top of the desk. His hair once messy was now unfashionably long, falling around his shoulders in damp waves that told her he’d bathed before his arrival.

It was then that he looked up, something unnamed flashing in his eyes before he straightened to his full height. She hadn’t expected his well kept dark beard, not many men in society wore their facial hair in such a fashion, but she found that it suited his overtly masculine form. 

“Your Grace,” she politely curtsied before stepping closer to the desk. “Welcome home.” 

“Aye,” he paused, eyes lingering on the shade of her dress. “Lady Sansa,” he swallowed and she realized that he had also cast aside his cravat, exposing the tanned column of his throat. She had never seen a man in such a state of dress, she felt the heat rise to her cheeks and she inwardly cursed her pale complexion. He broke her from her trance with his next words, replacing any thought of indecency with icy dread. “Helene…”

“Your Grace,” she felt her eyes welling with tears, though it was a wonder she had any left at this point. “I am so sorry…”

“When?”

“Just over a sennight ago,” she replied. “The doctor tried to help her but there was nothing…” she paused. “There was nothing we could do but make her comfortable.”

“Gods,” he exhaled, running a hand through his hair. 

“I am so sorry,” she whispered. “I did not want her to go.”

“I am sorry for you as well, lass,” his voice softened, growing almost gentle. “She was more your sister than mine…” he sighed, shaking his head as if words had failed him. Somehow Sansa knew what he meant. She knew without his saying that, given the circumstance of Helene being fifteen years his junior, they had not grown up together and shared the sibling closeness that she and Helene had. He knew that she would be feeling this loss acutely, and she truly was. A long silence passed between them, no words needed to be spoken as they shared a moment of grief that nearly consumed Sansa entirely. When his eyes dropped to the desk once more, this time more in defeat than determination, she took the opportunity to change the subject. 

“The ledgers on the right have been balanced, Your Grace,” she began. “The one on the left I do not have all of the details yet, Helene and I were waiting for reports from your tenants in the East to finish their harvest before we could finish it. And all of the letters have been answered, saving any that have arrived today.” 

“You were managing the estate?” 

“Helene and I were, yes. Until her illness and then it fell to me. Your steward, Mr. Burns, was with your brother at the duel and from what I understand, has since fled the continent,” she explained. “Helene said that you could hire a new business man when you returned, I only stayed until your arrival to help you settle in.”

“Aye,” he sank into the chair with an almighty plop, his long legs making the motion quite awkward. “What a mess…” she watched as he used both hands to push his hair back this time, the action pulling his shirtsleeves tight enough that she thought she could hear the stitches screaming. Forcing her eyes away from her best friend’s older brother, she walked to the sideboard where she poured a generous glass of whisky for him and a very small portion for herself. 

“Your Grace,” she set his glass on the only open spot on the desk. 

“Thank you,” he lifted it. “To Helene.” 

“To Helene,” she repeated, both of them lifting their glasses to take long drinks of the bitter amber liquid. 

“You only stayed until my arrival? Are you leaving?” Sandor asked, setting his empty glass onto the desk. 

“I am not sure, Your Grace,” she crossed to the window, looking out over the last vestiges of the sunset. “I have been at Harrenhal for over a year now. My brother married a woman that doesn’t like me much, you see, and so I thought it best to give them their space.”

“Robb married then, did he,” Sandor chuckled, the sound throaty and deep. “Never thought I’d see the day he stopped rutting his way through bar maids—bugger it,” he broke off. “I shouldn’t speak as such in front of a lady.” 

“I do not mind,” she couldn’t help but smile. “I find it much more honest than the way men in the city speak, always hiding what they truly mean,” she shook her head. “And I didn’t say my brother stopped whoring, only that he had married.” 

“Gods,” he shook his head, lips crooked in amusement. “So you did.” 

“I can return to Winterfell if you prefer,” she braced herself to be sent away, dread curling in her stomach at the thought of leaving Helene’s home behind and returning to the halls now dominated by her brother’s caustic bride. 

“No,” he waved to the desk. “I fear I was not born to be a Duke, nor was I born to run a great house. My knowledge in this regard is pitiful at best. I will need help or I will surely make too many mistakes.” 

“Then I will stay, Your Grace,” she did her best to hide the way her heart raced in her throat. “Thank you.”

“No, it is I who should thank you, Gods know I haven’t the slightest idea where to start,” he scoffed. 

“Well then,” she set her glass aside. “We shall start at the beginning and go from there.” 
 

Sandor found his brother laying beneath the arbor in the garden, looking much worse for the wear in his supremely hung over state. His jacket was hanging in the tree beyond the gate, and his cravat was tied around a garden statue like a blindfold. What would their father say if he could see his precious heir now, Sandor thought to himself. ‘Brought low by drink in the early morning hours. Well…nothing, Sandor pursed his lips. Their father was, at last, dead and buried. Perhaps now this family might know some peace.

“Wake up, ye big fucker,” he kicked his brother’s boot, rousing the giant from his unconsciousness. “Here,” he crouched side him and extended the cup of coffee, which Gregor took without opening his eyes as he sat up.

“Hell of a party, eh?” Gregor chuckled, grimacing at the ache in his head.
  
“Wouldn’t know, I wasn’t invited,” Sandor smirked. “Anything we should be worried about?” he raised his brows in question.

“Was too drunk for women last night,” Gregor downed the coffee in several greedy gulps. “And I didn’t want any women here today.”

“Why’s that?” Sandor asked as the sound of carriage wheels filled the air around the front of the house.

“Because of that,” Gregor nodded as the carriage parked alongside the great estate. The moment it had stilled, two women spilled out of the carriage, their laughter surrounded them as they stepped into the sunshine.

“Home at last,” the familiar voice of their younger sister Helene sounded as she spun in place with her arms outstretched. “Finally! I thought I would waste away in that carriage.”

“Oh the sun is lovely,” Sandor’s eyes went to the second figure, one he had never seen before. She was as tall as Helene, slender and in possession of porcelain skin that seemed at odds with the bright sun. Her hair, however, seemed to come to life in the rays, glowing like fire in the courtyard. She was beautiful, in the way that youth always was, but if she was close to their sister’s age she was too young to look at twice.

“Lady Sansa Stark,” Gregor explained, then asked Sandor for help to his feet. “Helene is set to debut next year, and having a close companion of old blood will help to wash away any sins of the father that cling to her name.”

“Seems you’ve thought of everything,” Sandor replied as the two women dissolved into laughter at a joke they could not hear. He watched as the pair walked arm in arm towards the house, smiling and greeting the servants along the way. Happiness, it seemed, had returned to Harrenhal.

Always one for an early morning, Sandor inhaled deeply of the crisp morning air as he walked towards the stables. He suspected that rising early would be a lifetime habit after a decade in the military, though he didn’t mind. The mornings were quiet, peaceful even. The fog that settled low over the rolling hills brought him a sense of calm that he hadn’t felt since he was a boy. 

“Good morning, Your Grace,” a young groom greeted as he reached the stables. 

“Good morning,” he replied. “Thought I would take Stranger out this morning, stretch his legs.” 

“Straight away, Your Grace,” the boy bowed and hurried inside to saddle the temperamental war horse. A few seconds passed and when a feminine voice reached him he couldn’t help but follow the sound inside. 

“He is beautiful,” Sansa stood at Stranger’s stall door, the fearsome stallion all but nuzzling her shoulder as she petted his cheek. She stepped back as the groom got to work, but it was clear that Stranger wanted to be back at Sansa’s side. He knew that feeling all too well. Especially since the deep rich green of her riding habit did much to accentuate her figure, showing off both the tall and curvaceous figure she kept carefully concealed underneath.

“You’ll spoil him,” Sandor smiled, forcing his eyes from surveying her figure further.

“He deserves it,” Sansa countered. “You’re up early, Your Grace.” 

“Habit,” he replied with a small shrug. “One we share, it seems.” 

“I prefer to ride in the mornings,” Sansa motioned to where a groom was saddling a beautiful grey mare. “As does Lady.” 

“She’s a fine horse,” he noted. “A gift from your brother?”

“From yours, if you’ll believe it,” Sansa laughed, shaking her head. “His Grace originally intended her for Helene, I think, but when I saw her I fell in love. Helene was never much of a rider, so she became mine.” 

“Gregor gave you a horse,” he couldn’t keep the disbelief from his tone. 

“He wasn’t always terrible,” Sansa said. “He gave me a home when he didn’t have to, and the only person I ever saw him flatten with a single punch was a drunken man in the village who didn’t know how to keep his hands to himself.” 

“That’d be Gregor,” Sandor agreed. “Always did throw a damned good punch.” 

“My Lady,” the groom interrupted, extending the reins of Lady’s bridle to her. 

“Thank you, Edd,” Sansa took the reins, guiding Lady towards the mounting block just outside of the stable doors. 

“Here,” Sandor followed, moving to her side. With a careful grip at her waist, Sandor lifted Sansa up into the saddle, helping her to settle in. She was featherlight, curved in the right places and surprisingly without a corset. He imagined it was uncomfortable to ride in one, though he hadn’t given it much thought. Now, however, he was giving it far too much thought.

“Thank you,” she watched intently as he adjusted her skirt around her riding boots, something that would have been shockingly intimate in any other circumstance. “Will you join me, Your Grace? Shall we survey your great estate?” she asked as Stranger was led from the stable. 

“I believe I will,” he was glad of the invitation, it saved him from inviting himself along. “Thank you,” he said as he took the reins from Edd. With a deft movement he swung himself into the saddle, feeling as if he was at home again. Stranger had been at his side for many years, all of them fraught with peril which had created a bond that could not be broken. With an unspoken word they set off, turning towards the east and the fields that lay beyond.

They rode in silence until they crested the first foothill and the whole of the valley came into view, sprawling across the entire horizon to where he could just see the tips of the chimneys in the village.

“I know that as a Stark I am supposed to think that the North is the most beautiful place in Westeros,” Sansa said, her eyes never leaving the horizon. “But there is something magical about Harrenhal, something other-worldly.” 

“When I was a boy I was convinced that the great house was haunted,” he chuckled. “Gregor used to terrorize me, hiding in the shadows and playing tricks.” 

“It is hard to imagine you two as little boys,” Sansa admitted.

“We were little only briefly. The Clegane genes are not for the faint of heart,” he said and several seconds of silence passed before Sansa turned her horse so that she was facing him fully. 

“She was taller than me, you know, in the end. Just a little.” 

“Gods,” he exhaled against the wave of sudden emotion. “I remember only a laughing girl barely out of leading strings with a penchant for mischief. I wish I could have been here sooner, buggering Dorne.” 

“There is a portrait,” she said. “In the gallery. It is only a year or so old.” 

“I would very much like to see it.” 

“I will show you when we return,” she turned back to the horizon, her hair seeming to glow like fire in the early morning sun. She truly was exceptionally beautiful, unlike any woman he’d seen before, and she captivated him in every way. “But for now let us see what your horse is truly capable of,” she flashed a wicked smirk as she turned her mount back towards the village. A split second later she was off, her grey mare leaping into action giving him no choice but to give chase.

Gods did he love the chase. 

“Its just through here,” Sansa directed him through the gallery doorway later that afternoon. They had ridden for several hours that morning, exploring the estate lands and allowing their horses to run to their heart’s content. She would openly admit that Sandor was the best rider she had ever witnessed; he moved with Stranger in such a way that she knew that their bone deep connection had been forged in the fires of war. She could not imagine what horse and rider had been through together, just the idea of war scared her. 

“So many forgotten faces,” Sandor said as he looked around at the portraits. “Some I have not thought of in years.” 

She watched as he walked the room, taking the opportunity to admire the breadth of his shoulders now that he had shed his morning coat. She had noticed early on in their acquaintance that he did not favor wearing a coat while he went about his duties indoors. Perhaps, she mused, he found that they were too constricting of his broad shoulders. She found that she did not mind, however, it gave her many chances to admire the fine figure he cut. In all the years she gossiped with Helene, the two of them had spent many hours imagining what sort of many they would marry. Would he be tall? Blonde? Would he be titled or perhaps a second son? Back then Sansa did not know what she wanted her husband to look like beyond a vague idea, but now she knew that she preferred a man tall and broad, one who was so at home with himself that he did not mind shirking propriety for comfort.

Realizing that she had been staring for some time, she forced herself to turn away from the danger that was the Duke of Harrenhal and instead focused on the newest portrait in the gallery. This was, perhaps, a mistake. No amount of willpower could have stopped the well of emotion from flooding her throat as she gazed upon the familiar face of her truest friend and sister. Sansa remembered helping her to dress for her portrait sitting, both of them laughing at the absurdity of having to sit still for so long. It was worth it in the end, Gregor’s insistence that she be in the gallery beside their mother ensured that Sansa would always be able to remember Helene. 

“She is the very image of our mother,” Sandor’s voice was right beside her, the heat of his body sinking into her own. He is close Sansa thought, so very close. 

“It hardly seems fair,” Sansa whispered, her eyes welling with traitorous tears. She did not want to cry in front of him but she could not help herself. “She had barely lived…”

“If there is anything that I have learned from war, it is that death is hardly ever fair,” he replied, his voice soft and soothing. “It is something that we will never understand, if there is some master plan I cannot see it. I can only trust that she is safe in the arms of our mother.” At his words she choked on a sob, a very unladylike sound bursting from her throat as she cried. She quickly covered her mouth, but the tears could not be stopped as they streamed down her cheeks. 

“Come, Little Bird,” she felt his hand at her lower back, gently guiding her into his embrace. The strong arms she had admired only moments ago now banded around her, wrapping her in a cocoon of warmth and protection. Their height difference was as such that she felt his chin brush the top of her head as she pressed her face to the fabric of his waistcoat. It was scandalous, if witnessed it could destroy her reputation, but she could not muster the strength to care. For the first time in a very long time she felt safe, cared for. And so she allowed herself to sink into his strength, to set aside propriety and simply grieve.

Sandor had never fancied himself a stupid fucker. In fact he had always thought that he was relatively smart for a second son. Certainly better with war tactics and commanding soldiers than ledgers and numbers, but still smart enough to earn his own ranks several times over. But now, staring at his reflection in the mirror of the Duke’s dressing rooms, he was certain that he was a stupid fucker. 

“Fuck,” he muttered for the hundreth time. 

He should have told her to leave, return to Winterfell. 

He should have grabbed her and kissed the last vestiges of sadness from her crystalline eyes. 

He should have told her to go. 

He should have held her close, as he did in the gallery, so that he could lose himself in the fresh jasmine and apple blossom scent that seemed to cling to her.

He should have…

“Fuck,” he repeated as he quickly washed his face in cold water, finishing his preparations for the day. 

Two weeks had passed since his arrival, two weeks spent learning the ins and outs of the estate beside Lady Sansa, two weeks of absolute fucking torture. Two wonderful weeks. The last thing that he had expected upon his return was to find that petulant, mouthy young Lady Sansa Stark had grown into the most beautiful creature he had ever laid eyes on. Tall–taller than any other lady of the haute ton surely, she was built as the Maiden herself, from the rich fiery auburn of her hair to the porcelain of her skin, she was, quite frankly, dangerously beautiful. 

He was a stupid fucker for keeping her beneath his roof.

And he was an absolute fucking baffoon for embracing her. He could not push the memory from the forefront of his thoughts and it seemed to haunt him at the most inconvenient of times. Had they been caught in such a compromising position they would have been forced to marry…not such a terrible idea he mused inwardly.

“Gods be damned,” he muttered as he shrugged into his waistcoat, doing up the buttons before he quickly tied his cravat. Though he had been back on the estate for several weeks, he had yet to hire himself a valet, much to Luwin’s chagrin. His motive was entirely selfish, however, because he knew that if he were to hire a valet, then Sansa–Lady Sansa would no longer have to adjust his cravat for him every morning before breakfast. And admittedly, that was one of his favorite parts of the day. 

“Stupid fucker,” he repeated, this time as he grabbed his deep blue morning coat and made his way towards the breakfast room. It was strange how quickly he had reacquainted himself with the house after being away, though the years had eroded his memory of the decor’s details, he soon found his footing in the layout and was able to find his way with ease. Though he had grown up on the estate, he was more often than not on his own. He was the forgotten second son who was left to his own devices while the heir followed their father everywhere. That was fine by Sandor, the old bastard was hard and cruel in a way that he never wanted to be. While the military had been a hard master, it was still nowhere near the harsh teachings that Gregor had experienced. 

“Good morning, Your Grace,” Luwin greeted as Sandor entered the breakfast room. His eyes quickly raked over the room, drawing him up short as he realized that Sansa had not yet arrived. “Lady Sansa has not yet come down, Your Grace,” the butler continued as if reading his thoughts. 

“Is she ill?” 

“She did not say,” Luwin paused, clearly considering his words. “She did, however, receive a letter earlier this morning, Your Grace. I believe it was from Lord Stark.”

“Her brother,” Sandor frowned, remembering how little Sansa had spoken of her family beyond that she was all but ostracized by her brother’s new Duchess. “Have two trays sent up to Lady Sansa’s sitting room,” he instructed, turning on his heel and marching back through the door, ignoring his butler’s protests. 

It did not take long for him to reach her doorway, a room vaguely familiar to him as it had belonged to his sister at one time. He raised his hand to knock at the same time the door opened, a small maid appearing in the doorway. 

“Your Grace,” she curtsied quickly before darting around him and disappearing down the hall. 

“Your Grace,” Sansa’s voice sounded beyond the door and he stepped into her sitting room to find her sitting on a chair near the fire. She was dressed for the day, but her hair had not been pinned in place and instead fell around her shoulders in a thick braid, a curtain of fire that pooled in her lap. Her hair’s beauty, however, could not detract from the dried tears on her cheeks and the redness of her eyes that proved she had been crying. 

“What has happened?” he asked, his near panic returning him to his blunt and unpolished ways. 

“What do you mean?”

“You received a letter from your brother and you’ve been crying,” he reasoned. “What has happened?” 

“Oh,” her eyes fell to her lap where the folded parchment lay. “My brother has written to summon me home, Your Grace.” 

“Oh.” 

“He has arranged a marriage for me,” she whispered. “With Lord Bolton–” 

“The fuck he has!” Sandor blurted before he could stop himself. Nothing could've stopped his visceral reaction to her name being linked to that slimy chunk of worm shit.

“Your Grace-–” 

“I know that shitty little pissant Bolton,” Sandor shook his head. “He used to hurt cats for fun, there is not a snowball’s chance in the seven hells that you are going to marry Lord Ramsay fucking Bolton.” 

“I do not have a choice,” she shook her head, pushing to her feet. She clutched the letter in her hand as if she could crumble the paper to dust if she tried hard enough. “I am not yet twenty years of age, my brother is—” 

“A cunt,” Sandor cut in. “Your brother is a stupid cunt. He always has been,” he snatched the letter from her hands, quickly unfolding it to scan the contents. He couldn’t help it then when a harsh laugh burst from his chest. “Gods be damned,” he laughed, unable to contain it. 

“Your Grace?” 

“Your brother married Lady Claire Stevenson–Claire fucking Stevenson,” he said, remembering the harpy well from his younger days. “The only woman in the seven kingdoms who could entice a High Septon into homicide–or suicide by the shrill manner of her voice. Gods, even as a girl she was as obnoxious as a feral cat in heat. She’d have seduced a horse if it had a title.” 

“Your Grace!” she gasped though there was finally a spark of life, and amusement, in her eyes. 

“You know I am not wrong,” he crumpled the letter and cast it into the fire. “But your brother is. You will not be marrying Lord Bolton or any other Lord for that matter.” 

“There is a contract or so I am told. I must return.” 

“Fuck the contract,” he continued. “You’ll stay here, where you belong. And if either your brother or that cunt Bolton show up looking for you they will be sorely disappointed.”

“Disappointed? He can force me to go,” she asked as Luwin appeared in the doorway flanked by two house maids with large breakfast trays. 

“Put them there,” Sandor instructed, motioning to the small table to the side of the fireplace. It was intimate, too intimate for the current circumstances but he was about to change all of that. He was a Duke now, a powerful man with title and prestige, he would be damned if he let a woman he greatly admired be dragged into the great white North and abused by the sick ministrations of Lord Ramsay Bolton. Not a fucking chance. Now he just had to convince her that his plan was solid, wise…and most of all, the best choice for them both. 

“Your Grace,” Luwin gave a nod, glancing at them both. “Will there be anything else?” 

“Aye,” Sandor fixed his eyes on hers, almost daring her to speak out. “Have the house begin preparations for a wedding.” 

“A wedding?” Luwin and Sansa spoke at the same time. 

“Lady Sansa and I are to wed,” Sandor continued. “Have the chapel cleaned and readied. And send word to the village, have the seamstress sent to Lady Sansa so that she can be measured for her wedding dress and a wardrobe befitting a Duchess.” 

“It will be done at once, Your Grace,” Luwin nodded, not sparing them a second glance as he darted away and left them alone. 

“Do not,” he cautioned Sansa as she moved closer. 

“You cannot do this,” she whispered, shaking her head. “I won’t let you.” 

“What I cannot do is stand idly by and watch as you are forced to marry…well, anyone,” he said softly. “Anyone else.” 

“Your–” 

“Sandor, call me Sandor,” he pleaded. 

“Sandor….” 

“Let your brother come, let Lord Bolton come,” he said. “Let them come and find that you are no longer Lady Sansa Stark but you are now Lady Sansa Clegane, the Duchess of Harrenhal, a married woman who cannot be bent to any man's will.” 

“Except her husband’s,” Sansa reasoned. 

“If you think I would–” 

“I do not,” she interrupted to assure him. “But what I cannot see is why you would marry me. You are a Duke, you have bigger responsibilities, you need an heir and–”

“You are the daughter of a Duke in your own right, and I will have none but you at my side as the mother of said heir,” he reached out to gently take her hand. “Now come, let us break our fast and have a discussion about our future.” 

“Our future,” her fingers wrapped around his, holding tightly. “Are you asking me to marry you, Your Grace?” 

“I think you will find, my Lady, that I am demanding it.” 

Sansa couldn’t help but stare as Sandor helped her into a velvet lined settee beside the table. It was as if the past few minutes had passed in a blur, the world around her rapidly descending into chaos. In the past quarter hour she had read a letter from her good sister demanding her immediate return to Winterfell so that she could be wed to Lord Ramsay Bolton at her brother’s demand. Now she was sitting beside Sandor, his fingers still entwined with hers as he demanded that she marry him. 

She would not lie to herself and say that this outcome was not ideal. In truth she had grown quite attached to the gruff Duke in the past fortnight that they had been together. He was so much more than she had expected him to be. He was a soldier and commander, yes, but he was also surprisingly witty and charming in his own unique way. But marriage…

She watched Sandor sit down beside her on the settee, his legs angled so that their knees nearly touched as he held her hand between them. This was the closest they had ever been, she idly realized. At this distance she could see the silvery tracks of shrapnel scars that trailed across his left cheek to his temple, giving his beard a unique pattern. She could see the strands of silver that had begun to appear at his temples, the stress of war evident in his hair. Even now her fingers itched to touch the strands, tracing them as they fell to his shoulders. 

“Sansa,” he began softly, drawing her eyes back to his. 

“You must be certain,” she said, her voice nearly a whisper. “Because I--I would not be able to bear it if you ever came to regret your choice, if you…” 

“I will do no such thing,” he promised. “I was not born to be a Duke, Sansa. But you, Gods you were born to be a Duchess. Let me give you that. My name, my title….myself.” Her voice caught at the implications of his words and unbidden her eyes dropped to his mouth for a brief moment before returning to his eyes and the sincerity that swirled in the grey depths. 

“Sandor…”

“I am not an easy man, far from polished and never in fashion,” he continued. “But if you’ll have me, I will protect you, always. No one would ever hurt you, I promise you,” he slid from the settee to rest on his knees before her. His height was so great that he nearly looked her in the eye. He then raised their joined hands to place a soft ghost of a kiss across her knuckles. “I could make you happy, if you let me. Together…”

“Sandor,” she could barely breathe, let alone find the words to convey how she felt at this moment. He must have taken her pause for uncertainty because a frown began to mar his brow, his eyes shuttering closed as if to brace himself for incoming pain. “Please, look at me,” she said softly, raising a hand to guide his chin so that he faced her fully, their eyes locked. “If you are certain–”

“I am.”

“I will marry you,” she nodded. “I do not wish to leave you, not now, not ever. I could love you, Sandor, if you let me. Not your title or your name, just you…that is all I need.” 

“Sansa,” he exhaled, his lips returning to her knuckles, this time lingering there as if he were afraid to let go. With an unpractised movement he turned her hand over in his, pressing a kiss to her palm before placing her hand against his cheek. “I promise you anything, everything…” 

“Just you,” she assured him, stroking her thumb across his beard. “And perhaps some day a baby or two.”

“I’ll give you as many babes as you desire,” he promised, his eyes darkening with what she could only describe as longing, a feeling she felt echoing within her own chest. Only a few minutes ago when she’d read her good sister’s note she felt as if her world was coming to an end, and now this man was on his knees promising her everything she’d ever dreamed of. She must’ve voiced such a revelation aloud because Sandor gave a dark chuckle, a smile curving across his mouth. 

“If this is a dream then let us stay in it forever,” he said, shifting closer. “Have you ever been kissed, my darling little bird?”

“No,” she swallowed, barely resisting the urge to lick her lips. “I decided long ago that my husband would be the only man I would kiss.”

“Good,” he replied as he claimed her mouth with his own. It was a soft kiss at first, gentle but with coaxing that soon had her lips melting against his. She followed his lead, allowing him to teach her all that she would need to know about sharing kisses with your spouse…with your lover. She sank into sensation, her entire body alight with a sparking energy that she had never experienced before. She felt one of Sandor’s arms band around her, pulling her tighter against the solid wall of his chest, the other hand trailed across her cheek before its fingers burrowed into her hair, sending a tingle across her scalp and down her neck. A brush of his beard, a teasing swipe of his tongue against her lips and there was nothing she could do to stop the whimper that escaped her. Though the sound was small, it was enough to break the moment and she nearly whimpered again as Sandor eased his lips from hers. He moved back only enough to break the kiss, still holding her firmly against him.

“Gods,” he whispered, his voice gruff and breathing ragged. “It would be far too easy to forget myself with you.” 

“Sandor?”

“I would love nothing more than to drag you to the floor before this fire, Little Bird. To push your skirts to your waist and wrap those Gods be damned legs around my waist. I’ve seen you ride, I–-Gods,” he broke off, lowering his forehead to rest against hers.  

“Oh,” she exhaled. Her entire body felt overwarm, her stomach swirling while excitement thrummed in her veins. 

“I know that as a peer of the realm I should not speak of such things,” he said, the tip of his nose brushing hers. “I should be a man of polished words and honorable actions. But I cannot pretend that I do not ache for you in ways that would scandalize a Septon,” his hand flexed in her hair, carefully sliding free of the loose strands. 

“Soon we will be husband and wife,” Sansa promised. “I will be yours and you can teach me all that you know.” He groaned at her words, the sound a perfect mix of agony and anticipation. 

“When?” 

“A sennight should be enough to–-” 

“Sooner,” he brushed his lips across hers in a featherlight touch. 

“Five day-–” 

“Sooner.” 

“Sandor,” she frowned even though she felt like laughing. 

“Tomorrow.”

“Two days,” Sansa smiled, reaching out to adjust his cravat as she always did in the mornings. Soon she would be able to help him in a more intimate setting and she found she couldn’t wait for such a menial task to be a part of their everyday life. “I want to look beautiful for our wedding, making a dress will take time.” 

“You’re always beautiful, but alright. Two days,” Sandor agreed. “And not a second longer.”

In the end Sandor got his wish, two days later he stood before the village Septon and took Sansa Stark as his Duchess. Of course by then word had spread to the surrounding villages and the Sept was filled to the brim with Harrenhal’s tenants and residents alike. Most already knew and adored Sansa from her time spent visiting with Helene, and they were thrilled that she was to be their mistress. They had cheered loudly as they were pronounced man and wife, the rafters shaking with the force of their celebration as Sandor kissed his wife for the first time. 

The crowd, however, also meant that rather than being able to spirit his new wife away to their chambers, Sandor was forced to attend a large feast in their honor. There had been tables covered in deliciously cooked meats and cakes, more wine than you could drink in a lifetime, and loud music to dance to. It was absolutely lovely, he glanced at Sansa who sat close to his side, a serene smile on her face as they rode in the carriage back towards Harrenhal proper. She had had an excellent time, but all Sandor could think about was finally being alone with his wife. 

Wife, he smiled to himself. This heavenly being had come confidently to his side in a gown of diaphanous pale yellow silk and hair the color of fire, and pledged her heart and her hand to him. An ethereal creature with a pure heart had taken him, a broken man with more scars than charms, and chosen him. It was truly humbling to think that he could be worthy of such a prize.

“Husband?” Sansa’s voice pulled him from his musings as her hand slipped into his, their fingers tangling together.

“Wife?” he answered.

“Do you think she would be happy?” she asked quietly and he did not have to wonder who she was talking about. 

“She would’ve wanted you happy,” Sandor replied. “And perhaps she would be grateful to finally call you ‘sister’ in truth.” 

“You’re right,” she gave a small, if watery, laugh. “I did not think of that. Sister…” 

“She will always be your sister,” he said. “And our children will know much about their Aunt Helene.” 

“And their Uncle Gregor,” Sansa added with a laugh. 

“Only the good stories though,” Sandor reasoned. “Though there are only a handful of those, I fear.” 

“Perhaps we will wait until they’re older for those,” Sansa smiled as the carriage turned into the gates of Harrenhal, the massive hound statues glaring down at them from their perches atop the pillars. Once upon a time the gates of the estate would have had dread settling into the pit of his stomach but tonight it was only anticipation that flowed through him. In the blink of an eye they pulled to a stop before the front entrance, most of the staff spilling out behind Luwin to greet them. 

Sandor stepped down first, turning back to take Sansa’s hand as she descended the steps. As was his new habit, he tucked her arm under his so that her hand could come to rest on his forearm, safely entwined with his own hand. This kept her close to his side, ensured that she would be safe and near by, something he found he was in desperate need of. 

“Your Grace and Your Grace,” Luwin met them at the bottom of the stone steps, their housekeeper Mrs. Mordane close by his side. “May we all wish you a sincere and heartfelt congratulations. We are so happy that you are staying with us at Harrenhal,” he added, looking to Sansa as he spoke. 

“Thank you,” Sansa beamed. “I am honored and deeply grateful to be able to stay here, with all of you, in the truest home I have ever known.”

“It is we who are honored,Your Grace,” Luwin gave a small bow of his head. 

“Is everything arranged?” Sandor asked their butler. 

“It is,” Luwin replied. 

“Arranged?” Sansa turned to face him as he escorted her up the steps, pausing to thank their staff along the way. 

“Mmhmm,” Sandor smiled down at her. “No need to worry, Little Bird.” 

“You’re being very mysterious, husband.” 

“As I am entitled to on our wedding day–and night, wife.” 

“My dear husband,” Sansa laughed as they reached the threshold. “Are you secretly being romantic?” 

“Never,” he replied in the same instant that he leaned down to scoop her into his arms. He settled her against his chest bridal style and carried her over the threshold, the celebration of their staff following them into the house. 

The “everything” that had been arranged turned out to be a candlelit dessert with a very expensive bottle of arbor gold wine opened on the table beside the fireplace in the Duke and Duchess’ shared sitting room. Their room, she supposed, noticing a few of her belongings had been moved while they were away. To see her things so intimately set beside Sandor’s had a sense of warmth settling into her stomach; her sketchbook and journal that had previously sat on her bedside table were now at home beside a neatly arranged collection of gold and silver military medals that must belong to her husband. They had talked only briefly of his time away at war, but she knew he had been highly decorated upon his rise through the ranks. 

While Sandor shucked out of his coat and moved to pour them each a glass of wine, she indulged her curiosity and crossed to examine the medals closely. There were a dozen, all of them as unique as the brightly colored ribbons they were hanging from. Unibidden, her fingers reached out to touch the medal in the middle, a rounded medallion with a detailed edge that almost looked like it was made of diamonds. Its ribbon was a vibrant black and gold, like that of House Baratheon–the house of their King, which would make sense since there was a flaming heart and crown at the center of the medal. 

“As it would happen,” Sandor said softly as he appeared beside her, setting their wine glasses on the table. “When you lose part of an ear and damn near most of your face in service to the King, he likes to make a big to-do.” 

“Sandor,” she gasped, looking up at him. “The King…” 

“Felt the need to give me a commendation,” he paused, glancing at the medal. “You know, we could repurpose the jewels into a hair bauble, it would suit,” he lifted the medal and held it against her hair. 

“Absolutely not!” she couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the suggestion. “It is a priceless gift!” 

“Even diamonds have a price, Little Bird,” he gave a shrug, absently confirming that it was diamonds that encircled the medallion. “I was an officer, but I was still only one hound in a pack. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“You’ve never spoken of your injuries before.” 

“Not something to discuss, really. A canon ball and a bit of shrapnel there, a bayonet or two there.” 

“Your ear,” she looked to where his hair covered his ear entirely. “I never even noticed. May I?” 

“All that I am is yours now, wife, you do not need to ask permission. I am but your humble servant.” Emboldened by his words, Sansa deftly removed the gloves she’d donned for her wedding, setting them aside she hesitantly reached up to move his hair aside, tucking it behind his shoulder. She was not taken aback by the missing outer shell and lower lobe of his ear, as it had long since healed, but her heart ached none-the-less for the pain he must have endured when it had happened. 

“Oh husband,” she whispered, tracing the side of his neck just below his ear. “Come,” she motioned him lower and he obeyed, closing the gap between their heights. As his face neared hers she traced a kiss across his scarred and bearded jaw to what was left of his ear where her lips lingered. 

“Little Bird,” his growl was a warning, though of what she did not know. Strong hands wrapped around her waist, holding her in place. Her heart raced and deep within her mind she knew that they were on the edge of something very new, something exciting.

“Hound…” she pressed her lips to his jaw. An instant later his mouth had claimed hers, his feral sound of desire vibrating through her as embraced her. Momentarily lost to her inexperience, she scrambled to keep up at first, but soon her hands had found purchase in the strength of his shoulders and their kisses turned deep and devouring. “Gods…” she gasped as his lips blazed a trail from her lips, the corner of her mouth, the curve of her jaw, the hollow of her throat, teeth grazing the flesh at her collarbone where it was exposed by the neckline of her dress. 

“No Gods here, Little Bird, just us,” he whispered, his tongue tracing back up her throat. “A husband here to worship his wife; a man prepared to beg on bended knees at the altar of her beauty.” 

“Please,” a very unladylike mewl escaped her throat, her body thrumming in excitement as fire spread through her veins. Were it not for the strength of his arms around her, she would have melted into a puddle upon the floor. 

“I promised myself I would be patient, that I would go slow so as not to scare you,” he whispered, his lips skating across her jawline. 

“I am not afraid of you, husband. Never of you.”

“The strength of the desire, the very power of need burning through my veins would likely terrify you, Little Bird.”

“I am not afraid,” she repeated, feeling as her own blood was afire as she turned her head to meet his silver gaze. “Show me,” she whispered, unable to stop herself from licking her lips. “Show me everything.” Her only sign of warning was her husband's feral growl before he descended upon her in truth. 

Hours from now he would be hard pressed to remember how he had managed every button and tie that stood between him and his goal of having his wife completely nude so that he may worship her as she deserved. But somehow the large, clumsy hands of a soldier worked with surprising dexterity until he was able to lay her porcelain nudity across their spacious bed. Most of his own clothing was roughly cast aside until he stood before her in only unbuttoned breeches and a loose lawn shirt. 

The flush of her that he so admired now spread down the slender column of her throat to the upper swells of devastatingly perfect breasts. And her nipples…Gods if he were a more eloquent man he could write poetry devoted to the jeweled tips that begged to be suckled. Instead he did just that, lowering his mouth to lap, suck, and devour her. A primal instinct he did not even realize he possessed surged to life as he watched her flesh pinken from his beard, bearing physical proof that this vibrant, stunning creature was now his. 

“Sandor,” she gasped as he palmed her breasts, pinching and rolling her nipples until she writhed beneath him. Any worry he had at the ferocity of his desire began to fade when her hands tunnelled into his hair and all but dragged his mouth back to hers, settling the weight of him above her, safe in the cradle of her thighs. What her kisses lacked in experience they more than made up for in enthusiasm. She followed as he led, meeting his every unspoken challenge. 

“Please,” she whimpered against his mouth as his hands wandered every bit of her he could reach. Finally his hand settled at her most intimate place, the very core of her where he found her utterly soaked with desire. Her gasp as his fingers teased her tore through him, driving him damned near wild. 

“Gods, Little Bird,” he reluctantly broke their kiss and shifted away. 

“No…” she protested but he immediately soothed her with a gentle kiss to her sternum, his face all but buried in her breasts. 

“I’m not a small man, wife,” he shifted lower still. “It’s best to ensure you’re more than ready. And if you think I will pass up the opportunity to feast upon your glorious virgin’s cunt, then you are truly mad.”

“F-feast?” Her crystalline eyes went wide as she pushed to her elbows to watch him. 

“Aye, feast,” he promised as he settled her thighs over his shoulders and made good on his promise. 

Sansa couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t…

“Oh Gods,” she sobbed as her body crested once again, muscles clamping and twisting in a painful sort of pleasure that went through her with the force of a tidal wave. Her husband seemed bound and determined to drive her mad with ecstasy, something she had not expected from their wedding night. Of course she was not an expert at what happened between a man and wife once the doors were closed; having lost her mother at a young age and having not attended the social season for very long, she was sheltered from most would- be scandalous information. That did not mean she was entirely ignorant; a brief memory of a very detailed anatomy book that she and Helene had found in the Duke’s study years ago flashed in her head. So she had imagined a very brief, perhaps sweaty encounter that would result in any required progenies…not…this all-consuming madness. 

She felt as if she could climb out of her skin, every nerve alive with sensation and electricity. Where she was covered in a fine sheen of sweat, her husband’s mouth and beard were soaked with her desire. It was filthy, obscene…delicious beyond anything she’d ever experienced.  

When she collapsed, boneless, yet again, she watched as he rose to his full height and pulled his shirt over his head to discard it before moving to his trousers. Surely her husband was a God among men. From the wide breadth of his shoulders and chest, to the smattering of scars dotted in the thick chest hair, he was the embodiment of masculine beauty. Strong, powerful, dangerous. The scars did little to detract from his unique beauty, instead they drew her in with an unexplained magnetism. Her eyes went wide as they fell to the proud jut of his manhood, standing proudly from a nest of inky curls. He had not been lying when he said that he was not a small man…Gods it will never fit inside… she must have voiced that thought aloud because his chuckle filled the room. 

“It will fit, Little Bird,” he assured her, running a hand through his hair to push it back from his face before he crawled back onto the bed. “I mean to fill every inch of you, full to the brim,” he placed a ghost of a kiss across her lips. “And when the time comes, when I paint the untouched walls of your womb with my cum, I can only pray that whatever Gods forsook me in the putrid sands of Dorne would see fit that it take root,” he shifted closer, thighs brushing hers as his hand settled over her lower stomach. “That the seed is strong. I can think of nothing but watching you grow round with my seed, mine...mine….”

“I am yours, husband,” she reached for him, wrapping a trembling hand around the massive appendage that hung menacingly between them. She watched in rapt fascination as his entire body reacted to her touch, tensing and melting simultaneously. As much as this dominating Duke before her commanded her, she commanded him in turn. “And you are mine.”

“Say it again, say you are mine,” he pleaded on a groan as she dragged the swollen tip of him through her folds. Her body, still alight from his oral ministrations, jumped to life once more. 

“Always,” she promised, notching him where her body wept with anticipation. “Come, become my husband in truth…”

He lowered himself slowly, burning silver eyes never leaving hers as he sank into her welcoming heat for the first time. Her breath caught at the stretch, the burn of the sizable intrusion into her untried body. His jaw clenched, firmly taut against whatever thread of control he was clinging to. 

“Oh,” she couldn’t stop her exclamation as he reached her maiden’s gift and held still, paused at the last barrier between husband and wife, between Lady Sansa Stark and Duchess Sansa Clegane. 

“Look at me,” Sandor lowered himself to an elbow over her, one hand buried in her hair beneath her head, and the other moving to cup her thigh. “Breathe…” her body obeyed without question. Her eyes stayed locked on his, lost in the swirling emotions that lay within them, and when his hips finally descended, uniting them entirely, she saw her pain reflected in their depths. 

“It hurts,” she clung to his shoulders, her core full to the point of pain but held pinned entirely. 

“Breathe,” he repeated, smoothing his hand up and down her thigh in gentle movements. “It will ease. Just breathe.” She did her best, focusing on trying to get her body to relax though it was no easy feat. This sensation was unlike any she’d ever dreamed of. “That’s it, Little Bird,” the cadence of his deep voice helped to calm her. 

“Is that…” she swallowed thickly. “Is that..did it fit...?”

“Here,” Sandor’s hand moved to cup her bottom, encouraging her to tilt her hips upwards towards him. The action, though seemingly small, allowed him to sink into her further, their bodies coming flush together entirely. A broken sob of pain-laced-pleasure broke free from her throat, the very air in her lungs stolen from her. “You take me so well, Little Bird, like you were made for me.”

“Oh Gods…oh Gods,” she sobbed. “I cannot…”

“You can,” he countered, lowering his lips to hers. “You already have. My good girl.”

“Oh!” heat washed over her then, a desire renewed at the sinful words he whispered against her mouth. 

“My beautiful, delicious duchess,” he continued, his firm grip on her bottom helping him to rock against her in gentle movements.

“Sandor…” her own hands made their way to his neck and hair, tangling in the loose strands as she clung to his strength. 

“From the first moment I saw you upon my return, from that very instant I wanted you as my own,” he said softly. “Your beauty, your strength, your body, and your mind. All of you.”

“I am yours,” she promised, her words lost on parted lips as he slowly withdrew before pushing back home. Deep, so deep. Oh Gods!

“Mine,” he agreed, lips lowering to hers as he began a deep steady rhythm of languid thrusts. Sansa could barely hold to sanity as the burn of invasion faded into an obscene pleasure that devoured her very soul. Her senses were overwhelmed; the touch of his skin to hers, the taste of his lips, the sight of his colossal strength moving with such gentility, the sound of their breathing and the wet squelch of their joining. 

She couldn’t breathe…

It was not long until her body melted entirely for his, welcoming his cock with greedy desire. Soon her gasps turned to sobs, then to soft cries and begging. Sandor held tightly to her, his hips pistoning now with a pace lost to frantic sensation, their bodies and the bed bouncing in turn. It was madness. It was beauty. It was sin incarnate. 

She had no warning, not like before when he devoured her with his mouth and tongue, it crested in an instant, snapping through her like a whip. Her scream echoed as every piece of her broke apart. Her vision wavered but Sandor’s voice pulled her back. 

“Look at me,” he commanded. “Look at us,” her eyes fell to where they were joined, watched as the thick length of him disappeared and reappeared between them as he took her. Her nether lips were stretched wide around him, her juices coating his swollen shaft, as he moved, faster and harder. It was glorious. 

“Oh…” she couldn’t look away from the pornographic sight of their joining. 

“Look at me,” his fingers tightened in her hair, forcing her to look up into his eyes. “Come for me—“

“I cannot,” she sobbed, lost almost entirely to pleasure. 

“You will,” he promised. “Come for me so I can fill you up, be a good girl.” 

It shouldn’t have been possible, not with all that he had already wrung from her this night. But she felt it racing towards her just before it l consumed her, another release of immeasurable proportion. She forced her eyes to stay on his, watched as every bit of ecstasy she felt poured into him. Through him. She bore witness to the death of his control as her body clenched rhythmically around his, desperate for what only he could give her. He growled against the force of his pleasure, his features twisting in sheer rapture as he slammed deep and poured himself into her. She could not say how long it lasted, she could barely breathe let alone measure time, but as Sandor’s weight hung heavy over hers, breathing ragged and harsh, she felt their hearts slow together. Absently she traced her hands through his hair, she’d become rather enamoured of the overly long way in which he wore it. It suited him, her roguish Duke. 

Her husband. 

“Little Bird…”

“Hmm?” she hummed, watching as he lifted his head. 

“You are well?” concern filled his eyes now, even as he held himself deep within her. Both of them pulsing in the aftermath. “The pain—“

“Long forgotten,” she said softly. “I do not think I’ve ever been so well in my life.”

“You are so beautiful,” he placed his forehead against hers and she briefly wished they could share thoughts, as she was suddenly too exhausted to form words. If he could only see what she was thinking, how incredible she felt, he’d understand. 

“As are you,” she replied and a small crooked smile formed on his lips. 

“A bath then,” he suggested. “I’ll send for a bath and a dinner tray,” then we can rest.

“Mmhmm,” she agreed, boneless in the aftermath. As she swallowed she realized that her throat was quite scratchy, perhaps her screams had been louder than she realized. Her cheeks heated at the thought of the entire household hearing her, hearing them. She sent a quick prayer to the Gods that they had not, but judging by the wide eyed expression of shock and concern from her maid when she arrived with the dinner tray, Sansa knew that her prayer had not been answered. 

Sansa walked the familiar stoke path, mindful of her hemline and the fresh fallen snow that had appeared overnight. Winter, it seemed, had come early. A serene sort of silence had fallen over the Clegane family burial plot in the east of the estate. Combined with the snow it now took on an otherworldly appearance. As if she had walked into the fade itself. With her she carried two bouquets of winter roses, ones she had picked up in the village yesterday where she had been overwhelmed once again by how lovely the residents were. Even when she had been a small girl running about with Helene, they had always been warm and welcoming. Now that she had stepped into the role of their Duchess, they were beyond thrilled. 

Stepping over the frozen grass she placed the first bouquet before the headstone of Gregor Clegane, and placed a gloved hand on the top for a brief moment, 

“Rest easy, Your Grace,” she said softly. “Harrenhal is in good hands.” 

She then moved to the grave beside it and placed the roses in a small metal vase that the Septon had attached to Helene’s tombstone when he saw how often Sansa visited. In those first weeks she had come daily, sometimes a few times a day; to talk, to cry, to be close to her for just one more moment because being parted was agony. Now that she was married and was the Duchess of Harrenhal, however, her visits were much more infrequent but she still came every seventh day to replace the roses like clockwork.  

“I miss you, Helene,” she placed her hand upon the ornately engraved tombstone. “So much has changed…as you probably know.” She swallowed the lump in her throat and stood in silence for a few moments. 

“I wish that things had been different, that you could’ve been there to greet your brother upon his return,” she continued. “I wish you could have stood at my side while I married him. That you could have been there to see…to  see me fall so deeply in love with him.” She broke off on a watery smile. “We used to wonder about the men we would marry, and in my youthful stupidity I would wish for someone ‘golden’ and ‘vibrant’. But, oh I could not have been more wrong, Helene, for I could not resist what is surely the grumpiest man I’ve ever met,” she laughed then, shaking her head as tears ran down her cheeks. 

“But maybe you knew,” she sighed. “Maybe you always knew I’d be your sister.”

“Or perhaps,” a deep voice said and she jumped slightly as a strong, familiar arm wrapped around her midsection, guiding her back against a broad chest. “She knew I would take one look at you and decide to claim you as my own,” Sandor placed a gentle kiss on her neck just above the collar of her pelisse. “That I would not rest until you were mine.”

“What teasing she would have given me,” Sansa leaned into his strength. “All of my wondering about the future was for nothing, you were always right in front of me.”

“Until I wasn’t,” he replied, his tone laced with the sadness it usually took when he thought of his time in Dorne. 

“But you’ve come home now, just as she asked.”

“If I had known you were waiting I’d have come sooner,” he promised. “Come,” he carefully wrapped a thick fur blanket around her shoulders. “It’s cold now, we should get indoors.”

“Of course,” she agreed, placing a soft kiss to her fingertips before pressing it to the tombstone. “Until next time, sister,” she added, taking her husband’s arm so he could lead her back up the path towards their waiting carriage. Once inside Sandor wrapped an arm around her, holding her close to his side as they made their way home. 

“You haven’t eaten,” Sansa announced as she entered her husband’s study without knocking. She knew she was always welcome in the study and would have been impossible to knock with the heavy tray in her hands anyway. She kicked the door shut behind her with a deft heel and crossed the room. 

“Gods has it been that long?” He looked up from his papers to glance at the window. 

“You’ve been buried in work for hours,” she set the tray on the sideboard before closing the short distance to where he sat behind the massive mahogany desk. “I thought to come rescue you,” she smoothed his hair back from his face before trailing her fingers down his bearded jawline. 

“And there’s something else you’d rather me be buried in, is it?” his grin was positively lecherous as he pulled her into his lap. “I see now, my wife has need of me.”

“Good sir!” she gasped in mock outrage, knowing her cheeks were bright red. While they had been married a fortnight, she was still growing used to the uninhibited intimacy that they shared. 

“There’s no shame in wanting your husband. Who am I to judge a Duchess who demands her husband performs their marital duties,” he chuckled as his hands delved beneath her skirts, gathering the fabric. “Matters of the estate must wait.”

“Are you complaining?” 

“Never,” he pushed her skirts to her waist only to discover that she had completely foregone small clothes. He stilled completely, eyes lifting to hers. 

“They only get in the way…” she suddenly felt shy despite all she’d shared with him over the past weeks. 

“Gods you’re absolute perfection,” he growled as he lifted her from his lap to sit atop his desk, unbothered at the piles of papers and ledgers that fell to the rug. Tucking her skirts out of the way he parted her thighs wide and prepared to dive in. But that isn’t what Sansa wanted—at least, not right now. 

“Wait,” she cupped his jaw as he lowered his head, guiding his eyes up to hers. “Just your…you, please.”

“So polite,” he said softly as he stood and stepped into the cradle of her thighs. With deft movements his hands went to the placket of his trousers and worked the buttons free. “My Little Bird, chirping so sweetly as she asks for my cock.”

“Sandor!” Sometimes she still struggled with the filthy mouth of a solider her husband had. And other times she loved it…

“I told you I wasn’t born to be a Duke let alone a gentleman,” his sock sprung free, hard and ready, and she lost all train of thought for a few seconds. 

“I don’t want a Duke or a gentleman, I only want my husband.” 

“Aye, and you’ll have me,” he took himself in hand and rubbed the swollen head of cock across her folds. Taunting her. 

“Please…”

“Gods I could never deny you anything,” he cupped the back of her neck, lowering his forehead to hers as he aligned himself with her core and pushed deep. A harsh expletive spilled from his lips as he slid home, stilling within her. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered. “How are you mine?”

“I am yours because I love you,” she couldn’t help but whimper as he rocked against her. She would never tire of the feeling of him inside of her, the stretch a delicious ache she now lived for. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling his body flush to hers. “Now make love to me, husband.”

“With pleasure,” he wasted no time in claiming her mouth with his, swallowing her sinfully wanton cries of pleasure as he well and truly devoured her. 

And later, if Sansa couldn’t quite meet her maid’s eyes as she staggered back to her rooms, well…she was alright with that. 

The sound of carriage wheels on the gravel drive pulled Sansa from her impromptu nap on the settee in the library. She wasn’t surprised that she had fallen asleep, she could not quite remember the last time she had gotten a full night’s sleep. Heat rose to her cheeks as she recalled just how demanding her husband was—how they both were, during the night’s hours. Not that she minded, she thought absently as she pushed to her feet and smoothed the dark linen fabric of her skirt, she was quite taken by her husband’s passions. Just as he was fond of hers. 

Her sentimental reverie was broken, however, as a familiar grating voice echoed from the great entrance. 

“Where is she? Sansa! Sansa!? Come down at once!” 

“Oh no,” Sansa moved from the library and down the hallway as the voices grew louder. 

“I demand to see her at once,” this time the voice of her eldest brother joined the fray, his rich Northern accent almost as familiar to her as her own. 

“Sansa!”

“Madam, you will find that if you do not cease shouting in my home, I will find employ for you as the nearest fishwife.”

“How dare you, you brute!” Sansa turned the corner in time to see her good sister gaping up at Sandor like the very fish he’d just mentioned. Her husband was a man who tolerated very little nonsense and Claire Stark (once Stevenson) was made up almost entirely of nonsense. She was dressed as she always was, as if she were about to take audience with the King himself. Dripping in Stark jewels and finery that she, quite honestly, did not deserve. Sansa would admit that the blonde haired woman was objectively beautiful, but her image would soon sour once you saw beneath her facade.

“It’s ‘Your Grace’,” Sansa couldn’t help but gently correct as she joined them in the grand foyer. “You are in his home uninvited, he should be shown due respect.”

“You’ve ignored our letters,” Robb rounded on her with a frown. He looked older, tired. Her brother did not bear the mantle of the Dukedom with as much ease as Sandor did, though perhaps it was his choice in spouse that set him back.

“They were Lady Stark’s letters. Not yours, brother. I’ve read them, and thus I have chosen not to dignify them with a reply.”

“Why?” He demanded, his blue eyes so like her own watching carefully as Sandor moved to her side. “Lord Bolton—“

“I cannot and will not marry Lord Bolton,” Sansa interrupted her eldest brother. “Nor will I be returning to Winterfell anytime soon.”

“Winterfell is your home, Sansa, you must see reason.”

“It was my home before you married her,” Sansa nodded to where her good sister stood frozen in shock. Sansa had never spoken to her brother like this, had never had cause to. But she would not be moved. “I am not sure what you expected, Robb, you married a woman who cannot stand the sight of me. She drove me from my ancestral home. I took sanctuary here at Harrenhal with Helene. His Grace, the late Duke, permitted me a home with his sister.”

“And now that Lady Helene is dead—“

“You watch your tongue you squirmy little shit,” Sandor’s booming voice interjected, echoing in the foyer. Surely the servants were watching from every hidden corner they could at this ridiculous confrontation. “I will not have my sister’s name spoken with such disregard, nor will I allow any man, her brother included, to speak to my wife as such.”

“Your wife?” Claire screeched in an unholy manner. “You are married? To him!?”

“Nearly a month gone,” Sansa replied. 

“Why you spoiled little, grasping slu—-“ 

“Finish that sentence, Lady Stark,” Sandor’s voice was eerily calm now, laced with venom and promise. “And I can promise you’ll discover just how savage a Clegane can be when insulted.” He gave a wilting glance to where Robb stood pale as snow. “Though I don’t think His Grace would like to fight yet another duel over a woman’s honor.” 

“You married—“

“You are the Duchess of Harrenhal then?” Robb deduced.

“I am,” Sansa nodded, moving from the bottom of the stairs to Sandor’s side. She smiled when he wrapped an arm around her waist and held her close, just as he did anytime she was near. She had never expected her marriage to be one of devout physical affection and care, and certainly not with the large scarred man who had come home from war to take up the mantle of dukedom responsibility. And yet, with every little touch and every whispered word, she was reminded that she was so incredibly fortunate to have married Sandor Clegane. 

“And I suppose an annulment is out of the question?” Claire scoffed loudly and Sansa felt her husband’s hand clench at her waist. It was this small reflexive action that had the words forcing themselves from Sansa’s lips.

“Even if it were, which I assure you it is not, I’d have my husband throw me to the floor and take me in the foyer in front of everyone before I went anywhere with you,” she spat back at her good sister. Silence echoed in the foyer, broken only by the wooden handle of a mop bouncing off of the floor, revealing a red faced maid hiding behind the curtains of the front windows. Sansa almost felt sorry for her vulgar words, but her point needed to be made. 

“Come,” Robb cleared his throat and reached for his wife. “We’re done here.”

“But, Lord Bolton—“ Claire protested. 

“She is a Duchess, Claire, it is done. We will return North,” Robb decided, giving Sansa a small, if sad, nod. 

“Send Bolton my regards,” Sandor said as Robb directed his wife back towards the door. “And never darken my doorstep without an invitation again.”

“Good day,” Robb took his hat from Luwin and placed atop his head as they stepped back out into the cold. Sansa barely had time to exhale before Luwin closed the door behind them with an abrupt slam. 

“Tea, Your Graces?” Luwin smiled widely as he moved to stand in front of the closed door. 

“Yes please, Luwin,” Sansa smiled. “We’ll take it in the western parlor,” she glanced around to where servants were emerging from the shadows around the foyer. “And please, everyone take a break for tea. I feel the household has earned it after such theatrics.”

“As you say, Your Grace,” Luwin chuckled, quitting the room to see about the task, the rest of the household staff following behind him. Once they were alone, Sansa turned and stepped into Sandor’s embrace. 

“You’re quite menacing when you want to be, husband.”

“That was me being diplomatic,” Sandor replied. 

“It was quite…attractive,” Sansa felt her heat cheeks at her husband's answering lecherous smile. “What a terrifying Duke you are, Commander Clegane.”

“I daresay that harpy brings out the worst in all men.” 

“She caught Robb in her parson’s trap, he is in a prison of his own making,” she reasoned. “Can you imagine being in such a miserable marriage?” 

“Not at all,” he replied without pause. “I am the most fortunate of men.” 

“Are you?”

“I happen to be married to a woman that I could not live without,” he said softly, reaching up to cup her cheek. “A woman that I love very much.”

“Do you…” she whispered, hating the tears that rushed to her eyes. 

“I do.”

“That is…that is very lovely,” she laughed, wrapping her arms around his neck. She felt as if she could fly, every inch of her was floating on a cloud. Fate had brought her onto the path of collision with this larger-than-life man who, on the surface, should have terrified her, but beneath it all he was everything she could have ever wanted. More than she had hoped for in every way. 

“Come, wife,” Sandor lifted her into his arms with ease, turning to carry her towards the aforementioned parlor. “Let us dismiss the staff and enjoy our tea.”

“Tea…yes,” Sansa couldn’t help but laugh, knowing that by the time they would get to their tea it would be ice cold. Again. Oh well, she inwardly thought, what was cold tea compared to incomparable pleasure in the arms of the one you loved. 

“Please, Helene,” Sansa clung to her dearest friend's hand, mopping her fevered brow with a cold cloth. “Your brother will be here soon, he will need you to show him everything he needs to know about running the estate,” she tried to encourage her friend, though motivation was getting thin on the ground.

“But I am so tired,” Helene sighed, barely able to open her eyes. While the last few days had had moments of clarity and communication, it was becoming clear to all that Lady Helene Clegane had fought all that she could. A fact that broke Sansa’s heart into bits. While they were both tall, slender women, Helene had a more delicate constitution and always had. ‘Hearty Northern Stock’ flowed in Sansa’s veins, as the doctor had put it, and Lady Helene was not of the same ilk. A fever in her childhood had weakened her previously and now, now there was little hope. Oh but if Helene was her true sister than she would be stronger, safe from this illness.

“Please, Helene, I do not know how to go on without you,” Sansa pleaded, the words broken and solemn. “You must fight, you must.”
 
“Sandor,” Helene coughed, her body rattling with the effort. “Take care of Sandor…”

“You can take care of him yourself, he will be here soon,” Sansa shook her head.

“He will need you. Father never taught him…never taught him how to be a Duke,” her coughs once again stole her words, this time her entire body shaking with the force. Sansa held Helene close, praying over and over to any of the Gods that would listen, praying for mercy for her friend. Several moments passed and her coughs calmed, leaving her more pale and exhausted than before. Still Sansa clung to her hand, desperate to tether her to this world.

“Helene…”

“Sansa?” Helene’s voice held a note of panic, of something otherworldly and far away. “Gregor? Oh…”

“Helene,” Sansa sobbed, pressing her lips to Helene’s knuckles. She could not move, frozen in this awful moment as the room around her split between the world of the living and the world of the dead. She cried hot angry tears of despair as her oldest and only friend was taken from her. She begged to unhearing ears and pleaded to uncaring hearts, the Gods finding other things to occupy themselves with at her moment of need.

“I promise,” she could only repeat, over and over. “I promise.”

Spring 1811

Sansa pulled the shawl tighter around her shoulders as she walked the stone path through the graveyard, her feet carrying her to the same place she occupied each time she visited. It had been a sennight she had last visited, but thanks to the mild spring weather, the roses she had left were still in good condition. Dusting a few leaves from the headstone Sansa placed a kiss to her fingers before touching the engraving that read ‘Helene Clegane’. She carefully lowered herself to the grass, pressing her hand to the hardened earth.

“I am afraid that I shall not be here long,” Sansa smiled by way of greeting. “Your brother has it in his head that I cannot be out of his sight for anymore than ten minutes. You never warned me that he was a possessive and protective sort of man.” A light breeze came through the graveyard and Sansa turned to face it, her eyes closing as she felt peace wash over her. 

“I suppose in light of the circumstances it is forgivable, dare I say understandable,” she continued. “I have been so horribly tired, though Gods know I did not tell him, he just knew. He always knows.” Tears welled in her eyes and she did her best to force them back. “It is because he knows me so well, I suppose. I am certain that once he has word that I have come to see you, he will somehow find himself in the village for one errand or another. Married these five moons and he still worries that I am going to vanish,” Sansa frowned briefly. “What a sad sort of life he must have had at war, always losing everyone around you…sort of like life in Harrenhal, losing your mother, Gregor, you…” she shook her head. “But things are changing, just as I hoped, and it cannot be hidden any longer,” her hand fell to her dress, smoothing the fabric over the swell of her stomach. “You would have been the most wonderful Aunt. I cannot wait to tell them about you,” she smiled, talking quietly as the breeze danced around her. She talked of her hopes for the baby and even her fears of childbirth and the weight of what becoming a mother would mean. She told Helene about the portrait of herself that Sandor had commissioned, one that now hung in the family gallery beside Helene's own. She did not tell her about how much she had cried to see them hanging together on the wall. Time passed and the sun shifted overhead, making Sansa thankful that she was shaded beneath an ancient oak tree. 

And, just as predicted, the sound of hoofbeats echoed up the cobblestones a few seconds before Stranger appeared at the gates, the elegant form of his master astride him. Sandor looked as handsome as ever, cutting a fine figure in his beaver skin hat and dark navy coat. While his fashion had once left something to be desired, with Sansa’s guiding hand he was now an imposing, elegant Duke. And still, she fixed his cravat for him every morning before breakfast.

“There he is, my gallant knight,” Sansa whispered to Helene, watching as Sandor dismounted and handed the reins to the Clegane coachman, Edd, who had driven her to town. “It is well timed, as I fear I will need help to regain my footing. My balance is not what it once was, you see.” 

“Your Grace, what a lovely coincidence that you would be in town today,” he smiled as he walked the path towards her. 

“Is it, Your Grace?” she watched as he reached her, crouching down at her side. She could see the concern etched onto his features and it warmed her heart. While overbearing at times, she knew that his actions were from love. While he was a reticent, gruff man, he loved with every fiber of his being, and that love now translated into concern for her and their child. 

“You are well?” he cupped her face, smoothing a gloved hand over her cheekbone. 

“I am,” she assured him, leaning into his touch. “Perhaps a bit stuck here on the grass…” 

“Then allow me to be of service,” he gracefully stood and offered her his hands, which she gratefully took to manoeuvre herself to her feet once more. “Easy,” he wrapped an arm around her to help her gain her balance. His other hand fell to her stomach, smoothing over the swell as if to assure himself that it was still there, still safe. 

“Here,” Sansa took his hand, guiding it to where she could feel their son or daughter, moving around, the sensation and odd sort of fluttering within her. “All is well, husband.” Sandor exhaled, his entire body attuned to the tiny movements. When the moment had passed, she released his hand. Pressing her fingertips to her lips she then placed the soft kiss upon the tombstone in an unspoken goodbye.

“I missed you,” he admitted softly. “The house is too quiet when you are away.” 

“Then we shall return together,” she replied, taking his arm. “Though I daresay in a few months you will miss the quiet of the house.” 

“Hardly,” Sandor scoffed as he escorted her back to her carriage. They paused so that Sansa could greet Stranger, the stallion's nose coming to nuzzle her stomach with a few gentle bumps. From the moment he met Sansa, the massive warhorse had proven that he was more than ready for retirement, which was just one more thing that he shared with his master. 

“Only a few months now,” Sansa petted Stranger’s nose. “Not so very long.” 

“Not long at all,” Sandor agreed as Stranger was tethered to the carriage, allowing Sandor to ride back to the estate inside with Sansa. 

“Thank you,” she smiled to herself as he helped her inside, and when he was seated beside her a few seconds later she did not waste time before snuggling close to his side. Wrapped in the familiar warmth of her husband’s embrace, she couldn’t help but relax. As the carriage turned back onto the road towards the estate she turned to look up at him only to find him watching her with molten silver eyes. 

“I love you,” he whispered, tugging the tie on her bonnet loose in order to cast it aside. He tossed it to the seat across from them with a flick of his wrist before sending his own hat to rest beside it. “Gods, do I love you, Little Bird,” he pulled her closer, lowering his lips to hers.  

“As I love you,” she smiled, meeting his lips in an achingly soft kiss. 

Through it all, the pain and the uncertainty, they had found each other. They had, by some miracle, been blessed with the rarest sort of marriage; one built on love and the powerful desire to spend the rest of their lives with each other. Sansa believed in her heart that Helene had known, in those last moments she had been given the knowledge that Sandor would come home and Sansa would suddenly find herself with everything she could have wanted in a husband. A partner. A future. 

A true love. 

And she would be thankful everyday for the beautiful soul that had brought her here; her beautiful heart-sister Helene.