Chapter 8

Sandor awoke in a warm bed, with light streaming through the window. There was a sharp pain in his right thigh, and he reached under the blankets to grip at it through the bandage.

"Don't move too much. You'll rip open the wound again," he heard his little bird say. He looked to the side. She was sitting on a comfortable looking chair by the window, working on her needlework. She put it aside and walked towards him, her silk skirts rustling in the quiet of the room. She laid a cool hand to his forehead. "Hm, your fever is returning again. I'll bring the maester."

"Little bird," he rasped to her, but his throat was dry and all that came out of his mouth was a croak.

She returned to his bed and lifted his head, allowing him to drink from a glass of cool milk laced with honey.

"Tommy woke this morning," she said. "He says his head hurts but otherwise he seems fine. The maester has given him some powders for the pain." She placed the glass on the table and wiped a drop of milk off his lip with her thumb.

"I'll be back with the maester," she told him, leaving him alone with the smell of her fragrance in the air.

… Five days later...

His hand was freshly bandaged, and he was looking blearily at the wound on his thigh. It was about nine inches wide and purplish pink. It was still seeping yellowish liquid. The maester had given him some concoction so the pain was not as sharp as it could be while they changed his bandage. He looked at the neat stitches crisscrossing the wound, and then into the rheumy eyes of the old maester.

"Was this your fine needlework, little bird?" Sandor asked, without even looking up.

"Why yes, it was," she replied from somewhere nearby, sounding pleased.

Were he hale and hearty, he would have laughed at this.

But right now he felt absurdly like weeping.

… A week later...

He was propped up on some pillows and eating a bowl of stew. She had pulled her chair close to him and was working on her perpetual needlework again.

"It is a very stupid thing your brother has done, little bird," he said to her thoughtfully. "The Frey's are dangerous enemies to have."

She bit off a piece of thread and looked down at her work approvingly. When she turned the embroidery frame his way he saw a snarling wolf. Or dog. He couldn't be sure.

"People have been doing stupid things for love since the beginning of time, have they not?" she asked, packing up her things. "Besides, love does not always end badly. You are too much of a cynic, Hound."

...Three days later...

"I got your clothes back from the washer woman and was mending them, and I found this," she said. "I thought you might like to have it."

It was the handkerchief she had tied around his hand back in King's Landing. She had it pressed and folded into a neat square, but the blood stains were still visible.

He took it from her without a word, unable to meet her eyes.

"I'll have Tommy bring you your dinner," she said softly before leaving.

…That night...

He pulled back his blanket and looked down at the jagged scar on his thigh. The maester had told him the stitches would be removed tomorrow. He looked around at the comfortable but empty room and felt the walls press towards him. He heard laughter from beyond his shut door. He closed his eyes and willed sleep to come.

… Two days later, in the morning...

She was holding the mirror for him as he shaved the stubble off his face. He only had to worry about the left side, as no hair grew on the right. A scrape of the sharp knife and he revealed the three faint lines on his cheek that she had given him. Her eyes focused on them and he smirked at her, letting her know he didn't mind these scars as much as the others.

She handed him a cloth to wipe his face with. Then she picked up the bowl of soapy water and turned to leave.

She stopped at the door and looked back to him. She seemed to hesitate a little before speaking. "There are many handsome knights here, you know," she said. "They write me poetry, give me flowers. Some sing to me. Yesterday one called me Lyanna Stark come again... And none of them seem inclined to beat me, just as you said."

She stood still, as if waiting for him to say something. But there was nothing to be said.

She closed the door softly behind her.

He clenched and unclenched his fist uselessly.

…A couple of days later...

He leaned heavily on Tommy as they took a turn around the room. When he finally allowed himself to sit down on the bed he was breathing heavily. Tommy sat on his little bird's chair and looked at him. His nose wrinkled up, and Sandor waited for him to speak.

"I have... I have something to tell you uncle," he said quietly.

It was just the two of them in the room, so he let the "uncle" slide. He lay down on the bed and pressed his hand to his head. He felt weak and dizzy, but the piercing ache in his thigh was now a dull throb. "Speak quickly, then go fetch me some wine."

"You must have heard that the Imp killed the King?" Tommy asked.

"Aye. What of it?" Somehow Sandor found it difficult to imagine the Imp as a poisoner, but he did not voice his suspicions.

"Sansa told you this?" Tommy asked.

He nodded in reply. His little bird, Tommy, and the old maester were the only ones he communicated with. The Tully's did not seem inclined to come visit an ailing former Lannister dog.

"She was afraid to tell you the whole story. She didn't know how you would take it. But I think you should know. After he killed the King the Imp was granted a trial by combat. He chose the Red Viper as his champion, while the queen chose-"

"Gregor," Sandor completed for him.

Tommy nodded. "He won of course," he said, his normally jovial face twisting unpleasantly at the words. "But the Red Viper managed to scratch him with his poisoned spear. The queen's maester tried to save him, but the poison turned his blood black, his piss full of pus, and it ate a hole the size of a fist in his side. It took him weeks to die." There was grim satisfaction on his face when he continued. "He died screaming, they say."

Sandor heard his heart thudding dully in his ears. He wasn't sure what to feel. From the first time he had picked up a sword as a lad he had dreamed of thrusting it into his brother. And now Gregor was dead.

What did he have to live for now?

…The next day, in the evening...

His little bird was right, he thought sourly, swallowing a mouthful of wine. Riverrun seemed overrun with handsome knights.

She looked pretty in her yellow dress. Her hair was gleaming in the candlelight and there was laughter in her eyes as she spoke to the girl seated beside her.

"Hound," Lady Stark called to him from across the table. He turned to look at her. He took in her beautiful pale face and the regal bearing and wondered if he was looking at his little bird twenty years from now. "Are you well enough to travel yet?"

"Not yet, my lady," he said. "But soon. I thank you again for your hospitality."

"You saved my daughter more than once," she said politely. "It was the least we could do. But as soon as you can travel you will let us know. The septon will not come here to annul your marriage, so you must go to him."

"Of course, my lady," he said, and returned his attention to his food.

…Another week of rehab and scowling at all knights even remotely handsome in shoddy lighting...

He eyed the three dusty bottles on his bedside table and laughed. He uncorked one and took a swig. Arbor red. His little bird truly spoiled him, even as she crushed him with every pretty smile she granted freely to every fool knight in Riverrun.

Tomorrow he and his little bird would take one last journey together. This journey to the sept would only take a few hours, and after that she would be free of him for good. From the sept he and Tommy would make their way to Wyndhall. Hopefully they would be able to catch a ship to the free cities from there. It would be good to leave behind the cold and the endless war.

He took another swallow of the Arbor Red and scrutinized the bottle. Maybe they should make their way to the Arbor instead. Then he could have enough Arbor Red to fill a bathtub, and maybe drown himself in it.

He laughed at his own morbid wit, if wit is what it was.

He uncorked another bottle and settled with his back to the headboard.

The wine lulled him into an uneasy sleep.

When he awoke his room was bright with candles. His head throbbed and the light pierced his eyes. He made to bring his hand to cover his eyes, but his hand would not move. He looked up to see that both his hands were tied to the headboard.

He growled and pulled at his bonds. His wrists chafed as he pulled and pulled, and finally he heard the wood of the headboard give a satisfying creak.

"Stop struggling!" he heard his little bird cry out.

***

He was wide awake and staring at her now, and Sansa shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

He pushed himself up as much as he could and eyed her. She was wearing a new flimsy nightdress he had never seen before. It was made of a gauzy butter-yellow material, and she knew that he could make out her nipples and the dark shape of the hair between her legs. She felt a hot flush spread across her whole body. Her eyes widened as the thing between his legs swelled and grew upwards towards his hard stomach.

He was watching it too, and looked somewhat taken aback to see it there.

He cleared his throat, causing her eyes to return to his face. "Care to explain why I am naked and tied to my bed, little bird?"

"Can't you guess, Hound?" she said, her hands smoothing down the skirt of her nightdress daintily. "We are about to consummate our marriage."

He laughed delightedly. "My little bird as the seductress? Even my depraved mind had not come up with this scenario." He grinned at her. "Do I have no say in this, Sansa?" he asked.

She opened her mouth and closed it. She walked slowly towards him, as if her moving quickly would cause him to flee in fright. She watched as he pulled at his bonds again. No chance of that, she thought with relief.

She let her eyes wander over him. He had been right. Aside from noting his strength and his size, she had never dared to look closely at his body. His arms tied above him were hard with smooth muscle. His chest was dusted with hair, and with small scars. There was a large ragged scar above his right nipple, and another on the side of his stomach. She already knew the one on his leg, of course. She looked down and his powerful thighs were splayed open. She swallowed nervously as her eyed locked onto the thing again.

"Are you big everywhere?" Dolly the serving wench had asked. This is probably what she had been taking about.

Her fine brows drew together in worry, and she returned her gaze to his eyes. They were lovely eyes, she thought. Crinkled in amusement, and a different gray from Arya's. She thought them clear and cool as a winter morning sky.

"You have never called me by my name before... Sandor," she said, inching towards him, her voice throaty.

He smirked at her, his mouth twisting. "Aye, but then you have never gotten me drunk and tried to rape me before."

She brought a hand to her mouth in shock. "It isn't rape if you want it!" she cried.

He snorted, and then proceeded to laugh so long and hard she thought he was going to kill himself.

She pouted and drew closer to stand right beside him. She reached down and gathered the hem of her nightdress and pulled it over her head, tossing it aside with a flourish.

The laughter left him. His eyes roamed her body, pausing hungrily on her breasts and the red hair between her legs.

"Where did you get this idea of tying me to the bed, little bird?" he asked, his voice suddenly serious.

"My maid," she confessed. "She told me that some men like to be tied up. Tommy helped me undress you though. I couldn't move you on my own."

"Ah, the industrious maid. If I ever meet her again I will remember to give her a piece of my mind. And I can only imagine the thoughts running through poor Tommy's head right now." He struggling against his bonds again. "I am not one of those men, little bird. Dogs do not like to be chained. Loosen my bonds."

She looked at his angry face and then back to his member, thick and glistening at the end with moisture, and made up her mind. "No, I will not," she said primly, climbing onto the bed and straddling him.

She smiled at him fondly and leaned forward to place a kiss on the corner of his mouth. His member arched towards her behind, and he cursed. "Don't do this," he begged her helplessly.

"Stupid little bird, stupid little bird," she mocked. "Isn't that what you call me? Well, you are a very silly hound." She smoothed the hair out of his eyes and kissed his burnt cheek. She had the strange notion that she would like to tie his hair back, away from the face that had frightened her once, so he would never be able to hide from her again. "You say that my head is full of songs, when yours is even more full than mine. You think that when you release me from my marriage vows I will be free to marry whom I want? A dozen handsome knights could propose to me tomorrow, and my mother would turn away every one. She is planning to give me to a man twice your age, because in return he would gift my brother two thousand men to fight his war." There were tears in her eyes now, and her voice was breaking. "My sister is missing, my little brothers are all alone at Winterfell. But my mother will remain here with Robb. With the King in the North. He is all she thinks of now, it seems..."

She kissed him again, slowly, her tongue playing lightly with his. When she moved back she was smiling through her tears.

"I think I know what to do next, Hound," she said, her cheeks red. "I am to ride you with my teats bouncing above you."

He just stared at her, his mouth slightly open.

She reached back and wrapped her fingers around his hot member and began guided him into her slick entrance. She pressed her hips downwards, haltingly, her smile replaced with a look of concentration. He cursed softly and pushed up to meet her. Slowly, slowly, they had her impaled on his entire length.

"Sandor," she gasped, her face twisting in pain. She was stretched around him, and the bright burning pain was sharper than she had anticipated. All she could do to ease it was sit very still and breath rapidly, her hands braced on his stomach.

"Fuck," he swore. "Untie me. Untie me, Sansa."

When his hands were free he reached forward to gently hold her in his arms. Her skin felt unbearably sensitive as his hot hands, one callused and the other smoothly ridged, roamed her body. He cupped her breast and gently brushed a nipple with his thumb, causing her to arch her back. She moaned as the motion drew him further inside her.

He grabbed a handful of her hair and brought it to his face, breathing deeply. Still inside her, he turned and placed her on the bed. He brushed kisses to her forehead, her eyes, her nose, before finally kissing her mouth, fully and deeply. He pulled back and played with her breasts for a little while, his gaze intent as his large hand gently kneaded one, then the other. Everything seemed to burn, and she clawed at his back, urging him towards what she had no words for. When she squirmed under him, he moved back and looked at her face. She wrapped her legs tightly around his waist and her arms around his neck, and smiled hugely up at him. "Well, what are you waiting for, Hound?" she asked, her cheeks rosy and still sticky with tears. "Get to it!"

He threw back his head and laughed. He was still chuckling when he began moving in her with slow even strokes. He lowered his head and took a nipple into his mouth. He sucked, and she arched into him again.

He was so large, and the way he was moving was nudging something immensely pleasurable within her. When he brought his hand between their joined bodies and touched the nub between her legs, she cried out, and her inner walls spasmed, squeezing powerfully around him.

"Fuck, little bird," he rasped, all attempts at gentility leaving him. He spread her legs wide and took hold of her arse with his large hands, lifting her hips off the bed. He pounded into her over and over again. She was tender and sensitive and it hurt a little, but Sansa just watched his face, furious with concentration, and reached out to cup his cheek. He finally stopped then, squeezing her hard and groaning her name.

Afterward, he held her tightly to his side.

"I wonder how your mother will take the news," he asked.

"She will be very angry," she replied, burrowing her face into his neck and breathing his musky scent. It was difficult to get closer to him than she already was, but it seemed she couldn't stop herself from trying.

He snorted. "An understatement if ever there was one."

She pulled herself away from him and sat up, looking down into his cool gray eyes. "Sandor, will you take me to home? To Winterfell?"

"I'll take you anywhere you want. You don't even have to ask." A smile tugged at his lips. "We could have a special collar and leash made for me and you could tug me along all day. I'll be a better pet than that direwolf of yours."

She reached out and swatted him sharply on the chest. She didn't pull back her hand after. Instead she smoothed it over his torso, feeling his skin, hair, and scars and watching as his muscles jumped and twitched under her hand. "You are not a dog. And you are nothing like Lady. You wouldn't behave yourself for a minute." Her voice sounded breathless. "Rickon and Bran are all alone."

"Aye, they are all alone. And you want to save them. When did my little bird become so gallant?" He smiled again, his mouth twitching. "I will take you to Winterfell as soon as I regain my strength. Just give me a week in the training grounds."

"You will really take me? Even if your balls freeze up north?" Her face was serious despite the words.

He laughed and shook his head. "Will you always chirp back ever ridiculous thing I say to you? As for my balls freezing," he pulled her in for a kiss, "I was hoping you would help keep them warm."

Epilogue

It was a crisp and clear night. Sandor sat on a log and frowned at the dirty little rat sitting by their campfire, eating their food. He looked to his wife and felt his heart soften a little. She was watching the rat intently, and he wondered if he had ever seen her look so happy before.

For some reason, that thought made him gloomy.

The rat glared at him and spoke with her mouth full of bread. "I still can't believe you did this to me, Sansa. I vowed I would kill him and now I can't." She screwed up her face in thought. "But he is just my brother-in-law, not my brother. Would I still be a kinslayer if I slayed him?"

"Arya, you will not kill the Hound," his little bird said sternly. "I love him."

"You love him? You love him!" The rat was standing up now and pointing a ridiculous skinny little sword in his face. "This monster killed Mycah, and you say you love him? I should gut him and feed his innards to the dogs!"

"Arya!" her sister cried out. Sandor's eyes widened at his wife. He thought her voice sounded somewhat whiny.

Sandor turned to the rat again. "Who is this My-cah person you keep talking about, little rat?" he asked calmly, going almost cross eyed as he watched the gleaming tip of her sword.

Her sword lowered a little and her steely gray eyes grew moist. "You don't even know? He was my friend. Joffrey lied and said Mycah hurt him, and you rode Mycah down. You killed him." She raised her sword again and narrowed her eyes. "You killed him and you don't even know his name!"

He looked away, unable to meet her gaze. He hadn't killed the Mycah boy, but he hadn't saved him either. He doubted the little rat would believe him though. His reputation was as black as his reality, and he had killed a lot of people over the years, many of them innocent.

"Get away from him!" he heard Tommy call out. He looked up to see Tommy advance towards the campfire, his small knife glinting in his hands.

Sandor frowned. He supposed it was about time got Tommy a bigger weapon and trained him. Even the rat's little stick was bigger than the toothpick Tommy was brandishing.

The little rat blinked towards Tommy. "Mycah?" she asked. But when Tommy drew closer to the fire she saw she did not know him, and her face fell. She looked to her sister in confusion.

"This is Tommy," Sansa said gently. "He is the Hound's nephew and squire. Arya please, please get your sword out of my husband's face. I beg you."

The rat eyed Tommy up and down, taking in his lanky tumbler's build, his fine-boned face, the snub nose, and the orange shock of hair crowning it all. "You don't look anything like Ser Gregor," she said.

"Thank you!" Tommy exclaimed, positively preening.

The little rat looked resigned. With her eyes still on Tommy, she slid her sword into her scabbard. Then she sat back down and reached for her bowl again.

Tommy continued looking at her suspiciously, but he tucked his knife into his boot.

"How many men do you have with you?" the little rat asked thoughtfully after a while, licking her bowl clean.

"Don't do that, Arya," his wife said, "I'll give you more." She took the bowl and ladled more stew into it from the pot by the fire. "There are about a hundred men," she continued. "Sandor suggested we reinforce Winterfell and for once mother agreed with him."

The little rat snorted. "I wish I could have seen mother's face when you told her you love this ugly dog."

"Arya!" his little bird whined again.

Sandor considered his new sister-in-law solemnly. "Your wish is my command, little rat," he said. He reached for his wife, pulling her into his lap. She squeaked at first but quieted when he kissed her deeply. Then she moaned and wrapped her arms around his neck, melting into him.

"Seven hells!" he heard a high pitched swear.

He pulled back and smirked. The little rat had an almost comic look of disgust screwing together her features. "Tommy, hand the little rat a looking glass. That is precisely the look her mother had!"