Sandor flung a pouch on the table. It clonked heavily.

'What is this?' Sansa asked apprehensively. Her army has returned from Dreadfort, just before the heavy snows heralded the end of autumn. Storming the Bolton stronghold turned out to be a bloody affair, so now she half-expected the pouch to drip.

'My tourney winnings,' he said. 'Whatever is left of them. The elephant lord had the right of that. You'll need to feed your people.'

'Tourney?' She repeated, uncomprehending. Was there a tourney?

'The Hand's tourney. Your father's. In King's Landing.'

'But... but..,' she stuttered. 'It's been so long...' She did remember him winning forty thousand golden dragons, but she never imagined he had any of the money still.

'Oh, it was taken from me,' Sandor snorted. 'When your brother's men searched me after we arrived to Riverrun. Robb Stark was too proud to nick it, but he said he'd store it for me in a safe place, now that half the castle knew I had it. He didn't want any accidents. And then he got himself killed, and your uncle knew nothing about my gold. I could only wonder how the money ended up in Dreadfort, if not for that Frey cow. She said it was her dowry.'

A couple of serving wenches scrubbed him clean. He was surprised when he realized both of them were actually eyeing him approvingly and smiling at him. He grinned at them. They didn't look abashed by it. On the contrary, they leered at him, their smiles getting wider, their touches bolder. He marveled at how the place of Sansa's army leader made the common people love him.

He dismissed them, preferring to dress on his own. Then he wandered towards her chambers. He didn't mean to stand guard tonight. Someone else had this duty now, though Sandor suspected he'd miss these long night hours of listening to surroundings while picturing little bird in her warm bed, sleeping, her pretty eyes closed, her auburn tresses tangled, her pink lips slightly parted.

He wondered if she was ever going to keep her promise. He damn well kept his. Winterfell is hers. He recalled Sansa dropping on her knees at the castle great gates the day they arrived. The stronghold stood broken, ruined, burnt, covered with snow and soot and ashes, yet the girl looked at it like it met her in its full splendour. Tears were trickling down her face, but for the first time the sight did not make Sandor want to hit something.

He knew it was stupid to still cherish any sort of hope. I should know better than to expect kings and queens to be true to their word. Back in the Twins, she responded to his kisses eagerly, she even talked about beddinghim... yet for him it only meant more trouble. It's been ages since he had a proper fuck. Nothing to speak of since leaving King's Landing. In Riverrun, women were way too scared of his face, and he didn't want to get on the wrong side of the King of the North by imposing himself on them. In the Moon Gates, the Royce girl kept casting him lingering looks, but first he was too busy watching Littlefinger, and then this whole tabard business happened leaving him mortified and seething at the same time. He might have gotten some pleasures in the White Harbour, though, if not for the promise little bird gave him at the Twins. She spoke of bedding, and the mere thought of her coming to his bed willingly made him discard any other girl who happened to come by.

But this couldn't last forever. On their march to Dreadfort he finally emptied his seed into some washerwoman, only to realize it brought him no relief. He wanted Sansa, not some random wench.

When he entered her chamber, the girl turned and smiled at him. She looked every inch a queen - tall, beautiful, dressed in silk and velvet. The glass gardens of Winterfell might be smashed, but the main flower of the castle was in full bloom. Sansa has always been lovely, but now her beauty has truly become breathtaking. If we were still in King's Landing, Cersei would have poisoned her just for looks.Yet he knew it was not quite so. It was Winterfell that gave Sansa's features this happy glow, her posture this proud outline.

'My lady,' he said, much to his own surprise. He never called her that. She has always been little bird for him. But now he looked at her and felt the old nickname to be somehow inappropriate. When did this little girl become a woman?

'My lord.' She matched his cool tone. 'So good of you to come see me again so soon.' They conversed mere hours ago, upon the northern army's victorious return to Winterfell, but she looked distant and reticent, with faraway look in her blue eyes. The snow queen.

'The time has come for me to thank you for all the services you did to our House,' the girl said, and Sandor felt light-headed as if he just woke up after a massive loss of blood. She does remember, then.

'Do you think I want your words, girl?' he grumbled.

She smiled a beautiful smile of a snow maiden.

'Oh, you don't want words, do you, Sandor Clegane,' she said softly. And then she strode towards him, her movement graceful, her smile suddenly playful. 'There is no need to look so frowned,' she actually brushed the crease on his forehead with her deft fingers. He barely stifled the desire to bite her hand. Lightly.

'You kept your promise,' she whispered, her lips smiling, her eyes twinkling. 'And I'll keep mine. Tomorrow be sure to dress finely. This should pose no problem as Jeyne and I stuffed your wardrobe with new clothes. I'll bestow Dreadfort on you before the whole court. I'll also name you the Lord Protector of the North...'

'Is this what do you think I want, girl?' he rasped. 'More titles?'

'No. That's what my people want. As for your reward... I won't give it to you. I'll let you take it for yourself.' She lowered her eyes, and, just like this, it was his little bird standing in front of him, blushing.

Sandor had just had enough chirping and games he cared to stomach. Woman or no woman, queen or no queen, she was about to find out what happened if she teased a man for so long. He pulled the girl towards him and started kissing her. Only he had to stop when he felt her smiling into his lips.

'What is it?' he asked suspiciously.

'Nothing,' she said. 'It just feels so good.'

Is she mocking me?Before he could answer, the girl stepped away, turned and raised her hands, lifting her hair and putting it all onto one shoulder. She was now standing with her back at him, giving him the perfect view of her long slender neck... and the laces of her gown.

Sandor reached out to them and was astonished to find his hands trembling.

He dreamt of fucking Sansa Stark for years. He almost fucked her in the Eyrie, and many times after, in his feverish fantasies. He hoped he'd get to bed her, he yearned for it. But now when it was happening he couldn't believe it.

Sandor Clegane fucked plenty of women, never giving it a second thought. Yet now he was uncertain. What was perfectly normal to do with a whore, seemed completely inappropriate to do with Sansa Stark. She was so tender, so delicate, so… noble. How do you go about fucking a lady?

He was never good at undressing women, preferring for them to do the job themselves. Now, tugging clumsily at the laces of Sansa's gown, he wanted nothing more than to tear the thing apart to get the girl out of it as soon as possible. But he knew it would be a wrong thing to do. If only these bloody fucking damned strings were not that tight...

The lacing finally gave way, and the blue silk pooled on the floor with a barest of whisper. Sansa turned to face him. She was left in a light white chemise, probably the same one he saw her in in the Eyrie. Back then he didn't really pay much attention to it, but now he realized the shift was so thin he could see the pink of the girl's body through it. Sandor's breath caught in his throat.

'Would you let me to take off your tunic?' Sansa asked shyly.

He spared her the trouble by getting rid of the garment himself. The moment he was done she stepped closer and raised on her tiptoes to kiss him. The feeling of her bare arms against his shoulders was almost too much to bear, but it was nothing comparing to the feeling of her almost naked body pressed against his. He grunted, putting his arms around her and clasping her as tightly as he could.

Sandor heard her sigh and loosened his grip a little. Sansa sighed again, and ran her fingers down his naked chest. Her hands stopped at the belt of his breeches, uncertain. He stripped them off, trying vainly to repress the sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach.

When he straightened again, Sansa Stark was staring, big-eyed, at his hardened manhood.

'What did you expect, girl?' he grumbled hoarsely. And now, of course, the girl will change her mind. Any moment now she'll chirp some polite nonsense and back out.

'I'm glad I'm here with you,' Sansa said absently, 'and not some lord I've never seen before the wedding.'

The next thing he knew was the feeling of her tender fingers on his cock.

Sandor inhaled so sharply the girl snatched her hand back and look up with the eyes full of fear.

'Did I hurt you?'

As an answer he took her hand and placed it back where it was, covering it with his own fingers and moving it up and down. The pleasure was so intense he had to groan. Yes, this is it. He should content himself with fucking her hand and leave her maidenhead for some high lord to claim.

'Wouldn't you want me to take off my shift?' Sansa asked.

This time Sandor did hear the tearing sound as he tugged at the cloth, but he was past caring. His little bird was fully in his arms, pink, auburn, blushing, naked as her name day. Her creamy skin was smooth and silky under his fingers, her flesh warm and yielding. He wanted to stop, to look, to drink down the sight of her, but succeeded only in pressing her tighter against himself.

'Little bird,' he muttered, while his hands wandered hectically around her body, fondling her firm teats, tracing the soft curves of her waist, slipping down her thigh into the thicket of flaming hair...

Sansa gasped. And Sandor almost growled - with longing, with anticipation, with long-restrained desire.

She is wet. Seven save me, she is wet for me.

The girl licked her pink lips and glanced towards the featherbed.

He scooped her into his arms and almost threw her onto the bed in his rush to get down. His fingers found their way between her legs again, rubbing and fiddling. Sansa moaned and arched against him, and the next thing he knew he was spreading her legs with his knee. The girl didn't seem to mind, and Sandor couldn't bear to wait. He didn't look her in the face and he hated himself for it, but he shoved himself inside her just the same.

She was so tight he almost came right there and then. He drove himself in, deep, then pulled himself out and dived deep again. It was better than any whore he ever had. The feel of her, the overpowering scent of her body, of her cunt made him mad with lust he was suppressing for so long. He was fucking Sansa Stark, and there was not a thing in the world that could stop him now.

In his lusty haze, Sandor half-opened his eyes and accidentally looked his little bird in the eyes.

He stopped.

'It hurts.' He didn't bother to make it a question. The pain was written plainly on her face.

Sansa nodded. Her cheeks were pale, her lower lip bright red where she has bitten into it, trying to stifle a cry.

He pulled himself out sharply, almost roughly. The sight of his bloodied cock didn't make him feel any better. The overwhelming urge to shove it right back in enraged him even more.

Seven bloody hells.

His exhilaration evaporated, replaced by the piercing ache of a fresh burn. He wanted to kill somebody. He wanted somebody to kill him.

'The hell with it,' he said, standing up and going for his breeches.

'Stop.' Sansa called after him. Sandor froze. He knew an order when he heard it.

'Stay,' she commanded. 'Come back here.'

He found himself lowering on the bed obediently. Sansa lifted her chin in a way that reminded him of her fierce little sister.

'And don't you dare ever leave me like this once again.'

'I thought you didn't like me torturing you, little bird,' he muttered.

'So don't.'

He took his place next to her, wondering what she expects him to do. She would probably cringe if he touches her.

'Hold me.'

Sandor hastened to obey. Little bird curled up in his arms with her head on his chest and her bare leg against his thigh. He stroked her back tentatively. She didn't cringe.

'I like it when you put your arms around me,' Sansa said conversationally. 'It feels safe.'

He kissed her hair.

'I'm too big for you, little bird.'

'You are just right. You were simply a little too... fast.'

'I was fucking you too hard,' he stated darkly. 'No need to waste pretty words on me, little bird.'

'Sansa,' she said. He gave her a stare. 'You just took my maidenhead. You can call me by the name.'

'Sansa,' he rasped. Her name was pretty, as pretty as she was.

She smiled and closed her eyes.

'Say it again.'

'Sansa,' he repeated, and bent to kiss her.

This time he entered her slowly, taking care to hold his weight on his elbows. When he started moving, a small crease appeared on her forehead. He kissed it, and she threw her arms around his neck.

'Sandor,' she sighed.

A wave of heat rushed through his body. He sped up before he knew what he was doing, but this time the sound she made was more like a moan, not a gasp of pain. Sandor felt the current of desire return, swell, boil up, flooding him, swallowing him. The girl beneath him squirmed and arched, clutching at his shoulders, planting feverish kisses on his good cheek and neck.

'Sansa,' he breathed out again. She opened her strikingly blue eyes and looked him straight in the face.

'I love you,' she whispered.

Sandor groaned and spent his seed deep inside her.

'You and I will be married on the morrow,' Sansa informed him.

The man who was holding her gave her a weird look, and then his face went carefully blank.

'I did tell you I cannot bed unless I wed,' she reminded him.

'Aye, you did,' he agreed, his face still impassive.

'You do not look happy.'

'It's not my happiness you ought to concern yourself with, little bird. Your own bannermen are the ones you should think about.'

'I had two months to think about it, while you were busy sieging Dreadfort. I know what to do. I know what to say to them.'

She really did. For once in her life, Sansa Stark had a plan of her own.

'And one more thing,' she added, raising from the bed and paddling barefooted to the big cedar chest in the corner of the room. 'Be sure to wear this.'

He grinned at the sight of the familiar bundle of yellow silk in her hands.

'Him?' Hother Umber asked incredulously. The Greatjon Umber said nothing. Sansa bit down the sigh of relief.

'Didn't he proved himself in battle?' she asked ser Hother. 'Didn't you take Dreadfort under his command?'

'He certainly did, Your Grace, but he is a southerner, and a lowborn.'

'My brother Jon writes me Alys Karstark has just wed a wildling,' Sansa pointed out. She wished nothing more as Jon being here with her, but it was impossible, of course. He was Lord Commander on the Wall. He had duties. And anyways, he'd have to fly to get to Winterfell ahead of Stannis. 'Surely the North has seen more uneven matches than me and lord Clegane.'

'Alys Karstark is not Queen in the North,' Rodrik Ryswell objected.

'I must wed before Stannis comes here,' Sansa replied calmly. 'Otherwise, the Baratheon king will most definitely propose a match for me, and I don't want the complications that will undoubtedly arise after my refusal.'

'You can pick from any Northern family, Your Grace. Any of us would be honored to become your lord husband.'

The other bannermen announced their consent by hubbub of shouts:

'Umbers!'
'Flints! Not the first time for Flints to marry Starks!'
'Ryswells!'
'Tallhart! Proud and free!'
'Cerwyns! Honed and ready!'

Sansa sighed. She was ready for this, but it didn't make the moment any more pleasant. She lifted her hand to calm the loudmouths, yet there were still murmurs and mutters when she started speaking.

'You have just demonstrated the exact reason for me not to marry any of you, my lords,' she proclaimed. That won her silence. Everybody was looking at her, waiting for her to explain herself. 'Ambitions,' she said. 'I spent last two years watching what ambitions do to people. My lady mother persuaded my lord father to take the place of King's Hand, because she wished to once see me on the Iron Throne. I shared her aspiration, so I did my best to please the prince I barely knew, and I lost my wolf for it. It cannot count all the things I lost since then. And I tell you: ambitions are for summer. For winter, I need a strong hand and an honest soul.'

'Yet the man I chose to marry has more than honesty to recommend him. As much as I don't like playing the game of thrones, closing my eyes won't make it disappear. Sandor proved he can see through games and plots. Many times he told me the truth of what's happening while others tried to feed me honey-coated lies. And, what is more, Sandor has no stomach for scheming. Whatever happens, I know I can count on whose side he's on. Mine.'

As her bannermen dispersed from the Great Hall, muttering and grumbling, Sandor grabbed her by the elbow unceremoniously and bent to whisper into her ear.

'If I marry you,' he hissed, 'I'll become king, won't I?'

'Yes,' she confirmed carefully, turning to face him.

He grimaced.

'Well, I know for sure that this is definitely not my place.'

'Would you prefer this place to be taken by someone else then?' she asked dryly. 'Would you want me to marry a high lord instead? Some Ryswell, perhaps?'

His face darkened at the thought, as always. She thought he was going to swear, to curse her, her high birth and the high lords with their games. She was waiting for an outburst, but none came.

'I'm just sayin' I'm not the best man for the job is all,' he grumbled at last.

'Of course you are,' she smiled. 'The king is the one who leads his people into battle, and you're good at that. Leave all the rest to your council to sort out.'

The corner of his mouth twitched.

'I will leave it to my queen,' he said. Somehow he still managed to sound like a soldier, not a husband and a sovereign.

'You will,' she agreed.

They were married the following afternoon in the godswood. Lord Manderly gave Sansa away, and Sandor grinned like a boy when he threw his cloak around her shoulders. From the look on Arya's face one could tell that she disapproves, but at least the younger Stark girl didn't try to stab the groom. The air in the godswood was strangely warm, and the mist was rising from the dark hot pools.

At first Sansa thought some snowflake has gotten into her eye. Why else would she see two Nymerias where there should have only been one? But then she realized the direwolf she's looking at has much darker fur than Arya's, and is much larger. The eyes of the beast were fiery green, not molten gold. And next to him stood a boy of six or seven, looking strong and tall for his years, with auburn hair so much like her own.

'Rickon,' she whispered, then cried aloud. 'Rickon!'

The boy turned his head and studied her through the narrowed dark blue eyes for what seem the longest heartbeat in her life.

'Mother!' he exclaimed loudly and run to her.

She dropped on her knees just as he threw his arms around her and hugged her possessively.

'Oh, my little baby brother,' Sansa was sobbing, tears streaming down her cheeks, hands clutching at the precious boy who returned to her so unexpectedly. 'My lost, my most wept-for, my wonderful baby brother. You're here, you're alive, and we're home, home, home.'

The boy wiggled out of her embrace.

'You're Sansa,' he told her, half-accusingly. 'And you're Arya,' his eyes wandered at another sister. 'And who is he?" he motioned towards Sandor. 'I remember him! He mocked Robb!'

'This is Sandor Clegane, my husband,' Sansa risked a brief glance at the Hound and was surprised to find him grinning widely.

'Your Grace,' he said as he took a knee before the boy. The crowd around them burst into whispers. They understood the same moment Sansa did: with Rickon back, she was no longer the Queen of the North. Queen Regent, perhaps, but not for long. In any case, Sandor was no king. It seemed to please him enormously.

'And where is Robb?' Rickon demanded. 'Is he here? Did you bring him back from the South?'

'No,' she admitted, her throat suddenly tight. 'I'm sorry. I didn't.'

'Then you should,' the boy declared. 'Him, and Mother, and Father. Bring them all home. Winter is coming.'

Now, if anybody wants to use the setting and to write Sansa and Sandor some more satisfactory smut than their awkward first time, they are welcome to it. My goal was to get Sansa from King's Landing to Winterfell. My job here is done. I hope you enjoyed the ride:)