Author's Notes: It has been my absolute pleasure to write and share this story with you – but finally it is time to call it an end…Thanks for joining the ride, and please, don't be shy about sharing with me your thoughts or comments about this story!

*BANG-CLATTER-CLANK*

A loud crash woke Sandor; the clatter and crash of tin mugs and claypots smashing against a stone floor.

Cold horror clutched his heart and he couldn't breath; he clawed at his chest, suffocating, his vision dwindling into horrible darkness behind his eyelids. His heart thundered in his chest like a trapped animal rattling against its shackles, thumping, skipping a beat and pounding against his ribcage. He fell…

NO!

Sandor hadn't dreamt those particular nightmares for a long while, soothed by the steady pace and easy contentment of his life as it was now. Earlier he had suffered from them frequently, imagining he was back in that day, forced to start it again and again and again in an effort to solve the quandary they had found themselves in. To find his way to Sansa without knowing how.

Yet gradually the horror of those dreams had disappeared, pushed away by the new-fangled things his life was filled with – most of all her.

His lady wife.

Sandor drew in a deep breath, vaguely becoming aware that he was not, as a matter of fact, falling into that precipice again, but was lying in a soft bed, covered by a soft blanket, sensing a soft form next to him.

Sansa shifted, her elbow gracing Sandor's side.

Thankthegodsthankthegodsthankthegods.

Sandor's consciousness clasped onto that touch, her scent. They were the reality.

"The Second Wedding of Winterfell" it had been called.

The guests had come from far and wide, and the numbers had been even higher than in The First Wedding of Winterfell – the scandalous one. Later many who had attended both the events were heard boasting about it, sharing stories of disrepute, high passions and unheard of turn of events surrounding the feasts.

The second time neither Sandor nor Brienne had stood in the honour-guard, although they had still faced each other in the sept. For once, Brienne had submitted to the rules of propriety and had worn a dress, but under Sansa's tutelage it had been just right for her; unadorned and cleanly cut, her maiden's cloak proudly displaying the colours of Tarth. Next to her Jaime had looked splendid as always in Lannister red and gold.

Sansa… Sandor hadn't really paid attention to what in hells she had worn; she would have looked just as lovely in his eyes, had she been dressed in a pig herders garb.

At the time Sandor had known that everyone's eyes had been trained on him, thinking the ex-Lannister Hound to be woefully out of place in that gathering of nobles, and by the side of such a lovely lady. Black and grey had been his attire, the only concession to his past being the yellow lining of the cloak he had wrapped around Sansa's slender shoulders. One of the three dogs had been replaced by a wolf, indicating his intention to forgo his own house in favour of a new cadet house granted to Sansa by the grace of her brother, the Lord of Winterfell.

He hadn't cared about the dark looks. If they had thought their long faces would have been able to spoil that day for him they had had another thing coming. He had met Sansa's gaze in the flicker of candlelight and everything else had disappeared.

In the sept there had been the four of them, Sansa and Sandor saying their vows first, Jaime and Brienne immediately after. In the Godswood it had been only him and Sansa and all those who still believed in the old gods standing as witnesses as they had sworn themselves to each other for that day and for eternity, for as long as they both might live.

At the end of the solemn ceremony, Sandor had watched deep into the red eyes of the heart tree and silently nodded the old gods once again in recognition of the gift they had bestowed on him.

How it was possible that the relief, when it came, was every time as profound and liberating, Sandor did not know. This was not like those dreams of the past when he had dreamt of Gregor pressing his face to the hot coals over and over again. No, waking into the reality of those had been a dull relief, acknowledgment of cruelty done and the acceptance that the aftermath was still his to bear.

But these nightmares; the sense of utter loss and desolation, at dawn being replaced by the sense of jubilation and profound gratitude…

He still couldn't handle it very well.

"I believe our eldest has run out of patience and tried to break the fast on his own – or with the help of his little brother," Sansa's sleepy voice sighed. "I better go and see what damage they have done this time."

By now Sandor's heartbeat had returned to almost normal, the shock of his rude awakening gradually fading away. Yet he was not fully in this moment either – not yet. He knew the reality of it; Sansa by her side as his lady wife, their two sons wreaking havoc in the main room and the adjoining new kitchen, probably climbing on top of the cupboards in search of food. Here in the woods, their life was not following the usual pattern of the keep with meals in the main hall and servants doing their bidding.

But it was one thing to be aware of it in one's head, another thing to reel from the terrible feeling of loss…of it all.

Sandor pulled his lady wife back into his arms.

"Don't go yet, little bird," he breathed into her ear. If his voice was somewhat shaky, what of it?

In one thing he had been right. He had never tired of waking up next to her – not even after many years of wedded life, which they had unconventionally lived in their shared chambers. That it had nothing to do with the lack of space in the newly established Clegane's Burrow, built further north from Winterfell, became obvious only once the keep stood tall and ready, its many chambers completed.

There was not to be Lord's and Lady's chambers for as long as there was breath in his body, Sandor had sworn, and Sansa had agreed.

Sansa yielded into his touch and fell back on the bed.

"I hear neither crying nor sounds of small bodies falling from great heights, so I guess they'll manage without me for a bit longer." She studied Sandor and her expression changed. "What is it?"

Sandor's throat was dry and he only looked at her. He didn't want a big fuss made of this – but his wife knew him too well.

"You had that dream again." It was a statement, not a query. "I thought I felt your heart racing."

"The sounds – made it worse." It was bad enough if the dreams came on their own, but to be awakened by that…

After many years Sandor had finally confided in Sansa about the God's Will and the experiences of that horrible, wonderful, exasperating and enchanting day. At first, she had refused to believe him, teasing him only to try to make out excuses for his suddenly changed behaviour on that very day. Yet after a visit to Winterfell where she had spoken with Maester Samwell – under false pretences, of course – she had returned to Sandor with her eyes wide, disbelief changed to curiosity.

"You did what?!" she had exclaimed in shock when Sandor had revealed her his botched abduction attempt.

"I had to get you away – how was I supposed to do that otherwise?"

"As you did, by revealing yourself to me," Sansa had kissed him firmly on the lips and the discussion had been diverted to more pleasurable directions.

Later she had gone quiet when Sandor had told her how he had left her in her wedding chamber with Jaime on the first few nights, and how she had held on to him.

"To think how things could have been… Jaime and Brienne not living happily in Casterly Rock as they do now, their sons having never been born…"

"The gods were stubborn. They didn't let go until I had diverted you from your path," Sandor had grumbled. That it all had happened had still been a wonder to him and there had been times he had had to pinch himself to make sure it all had not just been a dream.

"I am glad you did," Sansa had said simply - but since then Sandor had noticed her visiting the Godswood of their keep more often than before, spending time in front of its heart tree.

Once he had sneaked upon her, silently, seeing her kneeling on the ground with her head bowed, murmuring softly as if to herself. He had pricked his ears and heard her words.

"Thank you for your blessings, for what you did. Thank you for him, thank you for our sons, thank you for our happiness. I should never have doubted you, even during all those years in the South when I thought your ears were closed to my prayers. I should have known, I should have trusted you. Always - until your will is done."

Sandor had backed away then, as silently as he had arrived.

Sansa twined her way into the circle of his arms and pressed her head against his still heaving chest.

"Shhhhh – I am here." Her fingers drew lazy circles against his hip, her other hand resting at his ribs. She wore a thin shift but Sandor was naked and could feel her body pressed against his all too well.

Sandor closed his eyes. Over the years he had grown accustomed to a human touch, but there were times when it was still new to him – that feeling of another person's skin meeting his own, the heat of their bodies blending. The sensation of blood thrumming in Sansa's veins and the involuntary reactions of her flesh when he touched her.

Always a marvel.

Over the years they had learned to comfort each other when nightmares took over their sleep. Sansa's were filled with images of her lord father's head at the stake, the overwhelming sense of oppression in her gilded cage, the unwanted attentions of Littlefinger. When she tossed in her sleep and let out small distressed noises it was Sandor who took her into his arms and soothed her, murmuring into her ears senseless words, as if settling down a skittish horse.

And when Sandor broke into cold sweat and his muscles tensed hard as a rock, it was Sansa who squirmed into his embrace and brushed her lips against his brow, his chin, his lips, and told him that she was there and was never going to leave him.

And as if an affirmation of life and victory of the past, more often than not they ended up loving each other feverishly, passionately, with all their heart. If Sandor at those times was the Hound again and bruised her in his bent-up emotional state, Sansa welcomed his ardour and responded to it with her own.

Yes, they were each other's rock and anchor.

The familiar arousal surprised Sandor. He would have thought that he needed a few more moments to transfer himself from that dark void into the lightness of their existence - but his body had other notions. Sansa, sensing his growing hardness, threw a concerned look towards the door of their chamber, but Sandor had been prepared.

Barring their door in their secret hideaway – the previously deserted hut in the wilderness – had become a necessity since their eldest had become old enough to accompany them for their stolen getaways.

They would not be interrupted.

Over the years Sansa had ordered the hut and its surroundings restored, yet had resisted the temptation to make it a grand house. And year after year they had returned to it, sometimes just them, sometimes with their children; sometimes for only a few days, sometimes for longer. And always just them, no servants nor maids, no trappings of nobility. Fishing, crabbing, cooking their simple fare in the open fire or in their snug new kitchen, Sansa the carefree girl again.

And when it had been just the two of them, they had relived the day they first got together there again and again and again.

Assured that they would not be intruded upon their moment of wedded bliss Sansa tugged at her shift. Sandor interpreted it as a sign it was meant to be – they had learned to read each other so well – and pulled it above her head and carelessly threw it on the floor.

Laying the flat of his hand on her breast he succumbed to the precipice of another kind; this one filled with sights and sensations and elations of the body. He loved to look at her like that, totally naked, her pale skin flushed pink, her eyes half-lidded in anticipation of what she knew was to come.

Sansa's nipples hard against the palm of his hand Sandor rubbed them slowly with his thumb, ragged edges of his nails drawing small trails into her unblemished skin. Wanting more than what his eyes could take in, he nuzzled his face against the valley between her breasts, inhaling her scent in deep lungfuls of air. Sandor loved her scent, especially when she had gone without a bath for a while and the musky undertones of her sweat and womanhood overcame the flowery tones of her bath salts.

Sansa threw her head back and sighed contentedly. She was usually slower to warm up, enjoying when her senses were woken up gently, unhurriedly. Sandor had learned that over many nights and days when faced with the bewildering new world he had found himself in.

The world with a willing woman, a loving woman. A woman who wanted him as badly as he wanted her. Sometimes the weight of it was a burden on his shoulders, the dread that one of these days she would look at him and see him for what he as; an old dog, unused to petting and clumsy in his attempts to return her many favours.

So far that day had not arrived and he hoped it would never come, and that he would learn to be a better man - worthy of her.

Sandor kissed her – an art he had learned slowly but practiced eagerly - and nipped at her lips, her tongue, tasted her sweetness. Open-mouthed kisses trailing down Sansa's chin and throat and to where his thumbs still did their lazy dance. Sandor captured one of her nipples between his lips and suckled, his mind flashing back to the days when she had nursed their first-born and he had tasted the sweetness of her milk. He had been embarrassed the first time his eagerness had caused it to flow – but Sansa had brushed his awkwardness away with a laugh and a light-hearted comment and he had loved her for that.

Sometimes Sandor thought kissing was an act more intimate than fucking and he was glad he had never bothered to try it with women of his past.

Wet and clumsy, alternating between her breasts and mouth, their hot breaths mingling while Sandor continued his relentless attack on her, only to be jolted by the press of Sansa's hand on his cock. Slowly, unhurriedly, she encircled it with her fingers and started pulling it, squeezing it in the way she knew he enjoyed the most. He was hard already, but she could always tease an extra length, an extra twitch out of him – fuck if he knew how but he had never stopped to respond to her touch. The little bird had gone a long way from that first fumbling attempt when she had first laid her hands on him.

Fuck!

Groaning against her shoulder, muffling the sound into her flesh, Sandor slid his hand lower, skimming past her stomach down to the juncture of her thighs. Slick and swollen, she was already ready for him - and as he wanted to invade her in every way possible and unable to wait any longer he slowly pressed his forefinger into her heat. Overwhelmed by the sensation and the knowledge that it was just a foretaste of even greater delights, Sandor gritted his teeth. He felt her sweet cunt, its contractions, sensed her eagerness for more.

"Sandor, please…" A breathless whimper, the sound he loved more than anything in the world. His little bird begging for his cock.

How had he ever thought to have known anything about fucking, or women, before she had entered his life? That it could be more – so much more – than just emptying his balls in a meaningless act?

Sansa squirmed under his weight and suddenly Sandor felt her teeth biting into his shoulder, drawing blood. Suppressing a groan he fastened the pace of his ministrations and was rewarded with another yelp, another nibble, another graze of her sharp teeth. It was driving him crazy and Sandor wanted nothing more than to respond to her assault with the ferocity of his own. He panted and gathered her long hair into his fist and pulled it back to reveal her vulnerable throat for him to nibble, to find her pulse point and suck on it - but this was not the time nor place for heated aggression, not with their children so close.

Instead, he suppressed that urge and turned her on her side, not ungently, her back towards him. Sansa complied readily enough but in the ensuing tumble lost her grip on his cock – but it didn't truly matter, Sandor already had other ideas. Gathering her arse cheeks into his hands he squeezed them, they fitting perfectly into his palms, and nudged his cock closer to press it against that soft, plump flesh. Sansa didn't need further guidance but promptly lifted her thigh to let him in – and he did, sliding with a deep sigh into her slickness.

Seven hells!

Taking her like this, sideways, had been an invention of necessity, allowing them to enjoy their coupling quietly, silently, only a hitched breath, soft murmur and creaking of bed boards betraying what was going on under the furs. As much a Sandor enjoyed her wanton and loud, the intimacy and secrecy of the act this way brought with it a different aspect. Private. Secret. Hidden.

They must have made love hundreds of times or more, and always it was different. Sometimes characterised by tenderness, soft sighs and caresses, other times by frenzied passion and animalistic deeds. There were times for familiar, comforting union, for playful sport in bed, for stolen quick tryst when the time was in short supply.

And he never got tired of any of it.

Hissing Sandor pushed deeper into her, then out again, then in. His hands moved from Sansa's hips to her shoulders and pressed her until her back was bent all the way down, aligned with his thrusts, the delicate knobs of her backbone gracefully curved. He could see the scars; fine welts indicating where the flat of that bastard Trant's blade had sometimes cut up her porcelain skin. Even her scars were like the rest of her; delicate, graceful, beautiful, but that didn't stop Sandor hating himself when he saw them and remembered his own part in her torture.

I just stood there and did nothing.

Many times Sandor had traced those fine lines reverently and let his fingertips ask for her forgiveness, which she had granted gladly, and yet the sight of them made him wince. Not this time, though – he was too far gone, too overwhelmed with her to afford them more than a passing glance.

She had also more mysterious marks, but they had been caused by finer things in life; streaked red lines gracing her skin where her belly had grown to make room for the new life inside it. Following their contours had always filled Sandor with wonder and gratitude, and he had learned that women bore signs of their battles just like warriors they were, even though their battlefields were different. That Sansa had survived her two most deadly encounters, emerging from them drenched with sweat and filled with exhaustion, but holding in her arms the prize most precious - a mewling babe - Sandor had given countless thanks to the gods, old and new.

Blood rushing in Sandor's ears the urgent sensation kept on building inside him, and soon he realised he couldn't take much more – but when he peaked he wanted to see her face. Pulling out and earning a sobbed remonstration from Sansa in the process he bodily flipped her on her back, kicked her knees apart and placed himself between her legs and thrust inside almost without missing a beat – then stopped and looked at her. Sansa's eyes were huge and dark and mirrored his own want, and the look in them sent a thousand sparks of arousal run through Sandor's entire body. That, and her hand now cupping his balls softly, tenderly, and yet with enough grit to remind him that this soft seductress was, in fact, a wolf in heart, and had sharp claws under that silky exterior. The sense of danger called to the warrior in him and he rumbled in a low voice, words with no meaning.

She smiled back at him and all he could do was to steady himself over her and start pushing again, slowly sheathing himself inside her time and time again. Gods, it never stopped amazing Sandor how it could feel so good!

Sansa had wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled his head down and kissed him thoroughly, slowly, their bodies touching only from the mouth and where he was sliding in and out of her, his cock wet with her desire. In and out, every movement his stamp on her flesh, but as equally a signal of her acceptance of him.

Acceptance of his mind, body, and soul, as wretched and ruined as they were.

This time their coupling was tinged with urgency and caution – despite the barred doors, at any moment a wail could pierce the stifled silence and a child's need for mother interrupt them. Mayhap it was that, combined with Sandor's unspoken need for reassurance after his dark dreams, which saw him grind into his wife with unusual intensity and resolve. Every one of his senses was acute and hypersensitive; the sight of reddening skin around Sansa's breasts, the smell of her sex, the sensation of her tightness around him, the little whimpers she made when he moved inside her…

Sansa rose to the occasion as he had known she would and raised her hips to meet his thrusts, whispering into his ear and begging him to go on, harder, faster, deeper… Her hands had dropped lower, against his ass, forcing him against her so he pushed into her fiercer.

As if he needed any encouragement.

"Sansa, fuck, Sansa…" Sandor's breathing had become hitched. Not much longer, no, he couldn't prevent the approaching release. All he could hope for was that Sansa had ridden on the same wave as he – but to speed her along he slid his hand between their bodies and found her secret nub and rubbed it as he had learned. Sansa jolted and soon started to pant in tune with his ministrations and Sandor knew she was not far. He himself – fuck, his whole body was tingling in anticipation. Not. Much. Longer.

And then his balls tightened and he recoiled, and at that same moment Sansa hissed and convulsed under him.

The wedding night had been all and more Sandor had ever imagined. No swords between them would have been able to hold him back, nor shying away of a young maiden. He had meant to have her that night and anyone standing in the way of that would have been shorter of the head for sure.

Time for waiting had been over.

Yet to his astonishment he had not been alone in his impatience – Sansa had surprised him with how uninhibited she had been, how hungry, how wanton. When he had teased her about it later, she had confessed of dreaming about him constantly after those nights in the hut and through the months of waiting for annulment, her fire being stoked by a few stolen kisses and embraces in the secret recesses of the keep whenever they had had a chance. The scandal their betrothal had caused hadn't bothered her the least, and where she led, he followed. To hell with the propriety!

In due course Sansa had grown heavy with a child, and yet new wonders had been revealed to disbelieving Sandor.

The Hound would have rolled his eyes.

Sandor Clegane had drank in the sight of his son.

The blood of their blood, the flesh of their flesh.

Sandor collapsed like a log on the bed next to Sansa after having ridden the last waves of pleasure with her – exhausted, blown, drained. That Sansa was different, he never truly could get his head around. Even after their most intense coupling she coud be filled with energy and often they stayed up a long time talking – or to be precise, Sansa talking and Sandor replying with few words or single sentences. And yet those times were when their lives were put in order, their confidences shared and the bond between forged anew.

Sansa pulled him against her so that his head rested in the curve of her arm and his burned cheek against her collarbone. Her fingers twirled in his long hair and her at first laboured breathing gradually steadied and her running heartbeat evened to a familiar rhythm he knew so well.

"I am here, and I will never leave you," she continued from where she had left before. "It was just a dream. Just a dream."

Sandor burrowed closer. There had been a time when he might have been embarrassed to be seen weak – unsettled by a mere dream. Mayhap he was even now – but not with her.

"I know. Fuck the dreams."

"Yes, we piss on them." That was probably the most vulgar language he had ever heard Sansa use and as mild as it was, the way her soft words clashed with the content made Sandor smile.

Smile was good.

Too soon to his liking Sansa pulled away and angled her discarded shift from the floor, then donned her heavy morning robe to cover herself.

"I better go and see whether we still have sons. It has grown suspiciously quite there. Either they have found food and fed themselves, or ran into the woods like wild animals they are."

"Mayhap knocked each other senseless fighting over a piece of bread," Sandor put forward, only Sansa's raised eyebrow preventing him to make further suggestions of how their two wild sons might have excelled themselves this time.

Soon Sandor heard Sansa admonishing the boys in the main room, her soft voice mingling with the loud noises of their children. Six years and three, sturdy lads with his colouring and appearance of the North.

Exhaling out loudly Sandor closed his eyes. The nightmare was gone, vanished as shadows of the night when the sun rises.

Everything was perfect in the world.

- THE END -

Notes: This time it truly IS over! Once again many thanks to all of you who have read and especially those who have commented – it is always such a great thing to connect with readers and see that there are actual people behind the 'hits'… So don't be shy!

I also have to say that from a very dreary start – an old draft that was horrible – I am personally very happy how this turned out. This was the first time I have dabbled with a trope that is 'out of this world' (besides the usual Westeros magick), so this was a new area for me. I suspect that eventually, this fic may even become one of my own favourites – once I get some distance to this after finished writing…