Thunderstruck

Chapter Eighteen

"Love is all around you

Love is knockin' outside your door.

Waitin' for you is this love made just for two"

-Love Song, Tesla

Sandor ran his palms over the front of his leather pants, fully aware that wouldn't do shit to rid them of their sheen or settle his nerves already shot not an hour off sound check.

He cleared his throat and greeted Robb standing upright and rigid in the corner of the catering room picked clean. "Good to see you again."

"Likewise," was the response, just as stoic as his father though he looked every bit his mother's son and just as out of place at the venue with his pressed pants and starched shirt. At a metal show, the kid—who wasn't really a kid and made damn sure everyone knew it—still played the part of polished lawyer looking to be made partner in the next five years. At last year's Thanksgiving, he'd been sure to tell Sandor and it wasn't meant to be boastful, just an awkward attempt at conversation.

He'd thawed with the end of winter and, by Easter, didn't flinch when Sandor busted his balls for showing up to brunch looking like a pastel princess in his mint green sweater and khaki pants. The kid could dole it out like the best of them and took shit-talking in stride.

Clacking heels sounded in the hall and about sent Sandor's heart out of his chest. The rhythm was off. It wasn't her. Sansa walked in a way that made him half-hard just thinking about it—hips swaying, long legs moving with grace, and the look she gave when heading his way. After a year together, he still couldn't get enough of her.

A leather-clad groupie sauntered by the catering room, just slow enough to eye the men gathered in there and looked faintly disappointed Sandor was the only Cannibal Star member in sight right now. The rest were Sansa's ragtag assortment of older brothers.

Hawk-eyed, Theon sat upright and pushed a mop of ash brown curls out of his face. His neck craned and he damn near tumbled from his seat as the chick continued down the hall for greener pastures.

"Hey man, fair game?" Theon wore a devilish grin. He'd probably give Harwin and Bronn a run for their money if that girl gave him half the chance.

Sandor exhaled a laugh but couldn't quite manage the mirth. His stomach roiled with nausea. "Knock yourself out, man."

Jon cut Theon a judgmental look but softened with a sly smile and a shake of the head.

"What?" Theon launched himself out of the chair and tossed one arm across Sandor's shoulders, barely able to reach without rolling onto his toes. "I'll just say I know this guy and I'm in."

A hardened military man, it'd taken Jon the longest to come around to Sandor. A Great Wall of reticence and waters that ran deep, Sandor hadn't known how to breach either. Jon matched Robb in the unspoken threat requisite in older brothers—break her heart and we'll break your legs—but Sandor wouldn't put it past Jon whereas Robb could talk the talk but probably couldn't summon the walk. At Arya's graduation party and encouraged by one too many drinks, Jon had finally given up the ghost and spent most the night talking Sandor's ear off.

Jon ignored Theon and leveled his eyes at Sandor when Theon slinked back to his seat.

"You nervous?" Jon asked. The question landed in the center of the room, quickly filling it with oppressive unease. On cue, Sandor's stomach flipped again, and his mouth went dry. Some odd instinct bid him to pat his back pocket.

"Yes," he answered plainly; no use trotting out a false claim to fearlessness. He was scared shitless. End of story.

He folded his arms tight across his chest, a shield that did little to stave off nerves he hadn't felt since the first time Cannibal Star played a sold-out arena.

"Don't fuck it up," Theon taunted with a good-natured grin.

"If he was gonna fuck up, it would've happened by now," Robb said and spared a discreet wink in Sandor's direction to squash hard feelings.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Sandor grumbled.

The kid had the right of it. He and Sansa weathered more than most in their first year together. They'd traveled the world, places she'd never been, and Sandor never thought he'd see with someone he loved. They'd been put through the paces and, if the relationship was going to fail, it would've been in the last year. The hardship of distance, time, misunderstanding, and loneliness hadn't spared them. Like a sea-battered stone, it smoothed out the jagged bits through trials they overcame. At the end of it, they shone brighter for having weathered the storms.

Their travels together on tour were well-documented in polaroids Sansa lovingly glued into photo albums that she just as lovingly displayed on their bookshelf in the condo she also lovingly (and tastefully) decorated. Come to think of it, Sansa scarcely did anything without loving patience and strength—the times they'd spent apart, weeks' worth of a grueling tour schedule, long-distance spats that had to be put on ice until he got home so they could fight it out and make up like a proper couple. And that they did in spades. Halfway in the door he'd be mostly undressed, stumbling over pants around his ankles and Sansa ravishing him with kisses and whispered declarations of love.

The one declaration they'd whole heartedly agreed on—never again. Sandor had had his fill of midnight calls with Sansa in tears at being apart that left Sandor scaling a mountain of guilt for constantly leaving. Never again.

By the end of tour, Cannibal Star had made a similar declaration. "Music is a young man's game. We ain't young men," Thoros had delivered the mantra to their tour manager last month who looked about ready to shit his pants or throw a punch. Maybe both. They weren't doing it again was the point. They'd plan their own tour from now on, domestic gigs at their own leisure and perhaps a foreign leg when they damn well pleased.

The hall beyond the catering room steadily filled with more crew members and Beric whizzing past with a trail of chiffon scarves he'd wrapped himself in. Sandor eyed the doorway with the unlikely notion that Sansa would appear. His heart skipped a beat with more heel clacking that bounded right into the room. Hair-teased and tits barely contained in her top, Lexie cantered in with Bran Stark in tow.

"I found this little sweetheart wandering the hall," she remarked with a doting grin and squeezed Bran in a side hug. "Told me all about how to solve a Rubik's cube in under seven minutes."

"It's simple really," Bran shrugged. He yanked the lollipop from his mouth and waved as Lexie retreated for the hall. "Thanks, Lexie," he shouted after her.

Theon flung one hand towards the door. "What the hell, dude? I should've gotten lost in the hallway too. I could've…you know."

"You could've what?" Sandor rumbled with a laugh. "Shown her something else than can be solved in under seven minutes?"

"That's too generous. Three minutes tops," Jon joined in with a smirk.

"She's with Bronn. Don't even try." Bran deadpanned his wisdom and a round of laughter filled the small room. He turned to Sandor, mouth stained red from the lollipop. "They're here. Gendry's parking now."

Sandor shot Bran a smile. "Thanks, buddy. Alright, you guys better head out there." He motioned to the venue beyond. The din already flittered down the hall as the crowd packed in. "You saw Sansa last. She's not onto any of this, right?" he asked Bran.

The kid shook his head, thick bowl cut shifting across his forehead. "Nope. Sansa still thinks everyone's in town for Arya's birthday."

Sandor loosed a sigh but felt no better for it. A pounding in his head set in, the prelude that meant playing a gig was going to be hell.

"Rickon wanted you to have this." Bran produced a piece of folded up paper from his back pocket and handed it to Sandor.

He unfolded the paper to reveal a crayon drawing of He-Man who looked an awful lot like Rickon, holding hands with a scarred giant and giving a thumbs up.

A pang of guilt ran through Sandor. He'd wanted Rickon here too, but Cat didn't think a metal show was appropriate for him. The compromise—Rickon would come over for a He-Man slumber party at Sandor and Sansa's place as soon as Sandor figured out what the fuck a He-Man slumber party might entail.

"He said to tell you not to throw up on her," Bran informed dryly, yet another one of the Stark children who took after their mother in looks and father in composure. Sandor used to wonder where Sansa inherited her warmth and Arya her raging temper that'd damn near tried to burn Sandor alive with wrath. The girl had calmed down quick enough, burning too bright to sustain that kind of heat.

"Solid advice," Sandor chuckled, folded up the paper, and tucked it in the empty back pocket, but didn't pass up the chance to pat the other. Perhaps the most expensive purchase he'd ever made was hidden away back there, rivaling even his guitars and gear in money he'd thrown down to make it his. It'd be worth every dollar spent if he could pull this off. Sandor swallowed hard and expelled the thought of failure.

He ambled to the door, stopping to see Sansa's brothers out and each offered their own brand of encouragement along the way.

"Alright, man, this is it. Break a leg," Theon beamed and patted Sandor on the shoulder. Bran said nothing but waved and hurried down the hall after Theon.

"I'm sure it'll be fine." Robb gave a reserved nod, but stray bits of warmth stirred behind his eyes.

"We're all rooting for you, brother." Jon's encouragement came sincere and with a glint of excitement that was buried somewhere in Sandor too.

In the silent moments after they left, Sandor sunk against the edge of the emptied catering table and tried to unearth his own anticipation, but found it tangled in nerves. He couldn't quite decouple that flutter in his belly and, when he thought too long about what he might say, the flutter was more nausea-inducing than sweet.

He drew a deep breath, but the room was stuffy, the light garish, and so Sandor sought sanctuary in the empty hall. He eyed the double doors at the end and toyed with the idea of barreling through and seeking out what he needed now; the only one who knew how to soothe him, knew what to say. She was out there somewhere with her mother, Arya, and Gendry.

Slow steps shuffled behind him in a soft echo. Sandor knew who it was. As much as he knew Sansa's footfalls, he also knew her father's as well.

He turned to Ned who eased closer, a Walkie Talkie slung on his hip because he wore that thing with more pride than anyone else involved in this production. Ned Stark got to live out his purported glory days in the music scene as an honorary Cannibal Star crew member. He helped out for the Chicago shows, Sally's shadow as the two set up gear or tied up loose ends.

"How're you holding up?" Ned asked and, when Sandor rested with his back against the wall, Ned did too.

"I'm not," Sandor chuckled, though there was nothing funny about the way he felt right now—scared out of his mind and ready to topple over. He turned to Ned who offered an easy smile, about the closest thing to comfort Sandor could get right now.

The Starks had welcomed Sandor into the fold with graciousness he never thought he'd see from them again, the least of which their proud patriarch. That old stubborn bastard, Ned Stark, wasn't so stubborn after all and apologized to Sandor with a stipulation—that they bury the hatchet and move on.

Sandor had obliged for Sansa's sake and assumed that was the only reason Ned had come around as well. They could forgive one another but wouldn't forget what kickstarted their battle of wills in the first place. And what had started it? Neither could really remember and that was the point. Anger without origin wasn't worth holding onto.

With each passing holiday and the occasional Sunday dinners, Ned and Sandor put their differences aside and, what originally had everything to do with Sansa, grew into meeting on common ground of mutual respect and what some might even call friendship. Sandor certainly did.

"Thanks for helping with all of this," he murmured and motioned to the double doors. By now, the chants had started; the crowd pulsing in a four-beat rhythm. Cannibal Star. The beats drilled into Sandor's head.

Ned smiled with a look of pride he often reserved for his own children. "It's my honor. Are you nervous?"

The million-dollar question just wouldn't quit, and Sandor spared a bit more truth with each iteration.

"Ned, I feel like I'm gonna fucking pass out or vomit. Or both." Sandor stared at the drop ceiling above, yellowed from the years and from cigarette smoke that often filled the venue in a dingy haze.

"Just breathe," Ned encouraged with a gentle laugh and his eyes crinkled at the corners. He really was a good man. "You'll be fine, son."

The moniker wasn't lost on Sandor. Ned had started tacking it on to throwaway statements, a caboose laden in paternal sentiment hitched up to banal musings or other mundane minutiae. Sandor's father was dead, and Ned Stark had more sons than he could keep track of. The man didn't need another, but he'd accepted Sandor as such a few months ago one warm late summer evening. A breeze moved sweet through the trees and the sun melted against the horizon. Sandor wasn't quite asking for Ned's permission, but rather vowing that he'd love Sansa until his dying breath. And Ned wasn't just granting his daughter's hand, but also accepting Sandor into the fold.

The Walkie Talkie at Ned's hip crackled and broke the silence as Sally's voice rippled through.

"Michelin Man—it's Sally, is Sandor ready to go on? Over."

Ned turned to Sandor with a smile and waited a beat until Sandor gave a nod. Now or never.

Ned lifted the Walkie Talkie to his mouth. "Michelin Man here. I copy. He's ready. Over."

Sandor closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. When he opened them again, he released a ragged exhale and swiped his palms down the front of his pants once more.

"Here I go," he said with a quiver in his voice that hadn't been there before. "See you on the other side."

Sandor headed down the hall towards an adjacent corridor where he could already hear the rest of his bandmates and Sally gathering.

"Hey," Ned hollered behind. Sandor turned on his heel to find Ned pointing a solemn finger at him. "You're a part of this family, no matter what."

"It seems crowded tonight," Sansa remarked and clutched Sally's arm. His hulking form cleared a path through the boisterous crowd that'd packed in for Cannibal Star's last show of the tour. Of course, it's crowded.

Sally's voice could carry, certainly well enough over the rising swell, but he tossed a cheeky smile over his shoulder and kept quiet. Sansa gripped one of her mother's hands and Arya had the other, the three of them daisy-chaining lest they get swept up and separated.

Sally promptly deposited them at a VIP table corded off against the wall, the spot Sansa always requested, and it became obvious to the crew at some point why. The line of sight to Sandor was clear as a bright blue day, but this had more to do with nostalgia. Since the night she met him, Sansa always perched in this spot and he always knew to look for her here.

"Enjoy the show," Sally rumbled on his way towards the backstage hall, his voice and his form swallowed up by the exhilarated hoard.

They settled around the table and Sansa shed her leather jacket but admired the way it looked with her white lace miniskirt. Something in the contrast appealed to her these days or maybe it always had. The difference—she was free now to express herself, no longer tied to sorority group think. Freedom had been sweet, and Sansa forged a new alliance with Arya, now a freshman at Northwestern, and Mya and Lily, now a couple. The four of them hung around campus; walking together between classes, lunch breaks in the courtyard, dinners together on the weekends.

"While Gendry's getting our drinks, I'm doing mom's hair," Arya announced. She dug through her purse for a comb and settled behind their mother.

Arya backcombed like the best of the them, evidenced by her wild hair she sported to Cannibal Star shows, and their dear mother obliged with graceful patience.

"Don't do it too much," their mother complained. Her swat missed Arya's hand, but landed on a teased nest of hair.

"Quit squishing it, Catelyn!" Arya flicked her hand away and set in again. "Do you wanna look like Joan Collins for the rest of your life? The correct answer is no. This ain't Dynasty; it's rock n' roll."

A bright chuckle escaped both Sansa and her mother who rolled her eyes. "Girls, I'm serious. For Thanksgiving…"

"Halloween is barely over," Arya whined.

"I need to plan! There's gonna be a crowd. We'll have nine of us, Gendry, Sandor, Robb's bringing his new girlfriend." She counted on manicured nails until she ran out. "Who am I missing?"

Sansa plucked a compact out of her purse and slathered on a layer of lip gloss. "Mya and Lily said they'd stop by. Sally is coming too."

Gendry broke through the crowd carrying four drinks and visibly tensing as he dodged rowdy fans head banging despite the lack of music.

"Ladies, vodka cranberry." He set a plastic cup in front of Sansa and her mother each. "And a cherry coke for my little cherry pie." He planted a kiss on Arya's head and plopped down in an empty seat.

"Honestly, bite me, Gendry," Arya sniped with daggers in her eyes but a smile on her lips. The dissonance was a product of keeping up appearances because, underneath it all, Arya loved the way Gendry doted on her.

"Ignore her." Their mother cut Arya a chiding look and smiled sweet at Gendry. "Thank you, honey."

"We're talking Thanksgiving, babe." Arya continued her work on the winged hair that framed their mother's face. "I want pumpkin pie. Gendry wants apple."

"No, don't go through any trouble," Gendry cut in. "Anything you make will be fine, Mrs. Stark."

Their mother patted him on the hand. "I will make an apple pie just for you."

After a hard roll, Arya's eyes landed on Sansa in a knowing exchange. The running joke in the family as of late—Gendry was their mother's favorite and that included of her own children. The woman claimed no allegiance, but Gendry had ended Sandor's run as boyfriend to dote over. Sansa had reminded Sandor that he still reigned supreme as her father's favorite, a turn of events that surprised everyone.

"Well," Sansa began and tossed her compact back in her purse. "Sandor will eat anything you put in front of him."

As soon the as the statement left her lips, Sansa bit her straw and thanked the Lord for the dimming lights that surely masked burning cheeks. The innuendo whizzed over the table and Sansa eyed the empty stage to occupy her mind.

Try as she might, visions from the afternoon invaded her thoughts. Out of the shower, Sansa had cut across the hall to their bedroom and Sandor had planted himself at the end of their couch with a clear vantage point. She'd dropped the towel to the floor and disappeared into the bedroom. Like a Pavlovian response, Sandor bounded down the hall and put those instincts to good use. He tossed her to the bed, spread her legs, and dove in, lips and a tongue well-versed in hitting the right spots and even some new ones in a pleasurable surprise.

Sansa fanned herself with her envelope purse as the venue slowly faded into darkness. The crowd erupted in piercing howls and cheers that settled in a thunderous chant.

Sansa swiveled in her seat and lifted her drink. "They're about to go on, so here's to my adorable and only slightly demonic baby sister, Arya! I hope this isn't stealing your birthday thunder."

The others followed suit with plastic cups and a lone aluminum can clanking together.

"Are you fucking kidding?" Arya shouted over the crowd. "I get to celebrate my birthday with Cannibal Star and force my family to suffer through my exceptional musical taste in hopes you all will come to the light. That's the dream!"

Sansa giggled and sipped her drink, marveling at the feat of bringing all the Starks together. It was worthy of admiration. Even Bran bubbled with excitement near the bar where Robb, Jon, and Theon cut up about something, their laughter swept away with the rest of the room that pulsed in effervescent glee.

Robb must've felt Sansa staring. He shifted a glance to her across the room and lifted his drink. Jon turned and gave a thumbs up, Theon an obnoxious wave, and Bran shifted with his hands awkwardly steeled to his side as if he didn't quite know what to do with them.

The lights cut out; the venue delivered into pitch black. Sansa knew what came next. Every city, every venue, always the same—darkness, a quiet hush, smoke billowing across the stage, five darkened figures descending, a beat where everything stilled, Beric's wailing voice, and the crowd losing its collective mind as the stage lit up like wildfire and Cannibal Star exploded with vigor, instruments thrashing and the crowd rushing forward.

Every time, every city, every venue, it never failed to leave Sansa faintly breathless in wonder and beaming with pride, a smile erupting across her lips.

She'd become that girl and wore it like a badge of honor. Sansa had become one of those blissfully happy creatures who just couldn't help but slip in statements about her boyfriend at every conversation or get lost in dreamy admiration watching him on stage or doing mundane things like washing the dishes. If you gave her an inch, she'd take a mile, off to the races singing the praises of the man she loved.

After the first song, Arya and Gendry bolted for the mosh pit and Sansa checked up on her mother, who looked overwhelmed with a polite smile, but well into the first set bobbed along to the beat and even shimmied at the end of one of Sandor's guitar solos.

Sansa didn't blame her mother. Sandor always looked good up on stage, but tonight he'd done something different and Sansa's admiration of him was just as much trying to pin-point that difference as it was the delicious foreplay of watching him perform.

Perhaps it was his leather pants. They were tighter than they had any right to be and slung dangerously low on his hips. He'd let his hair down as usual, but tonight it flowed over broad shoulders and chiseled arms in long glossy waves. But it wasn't that either.

Sansa gave up trying and drank in the sight of him, enjoying whatever had gotten into him tonight and fantasizing about all the ways they could put that to good use later.

She sang along to each song and knew the lyrics by now. It'd taken some time—more than a handful of tour stops around the world and tagging along to the recording studio—but she could hum along, shake her ass, and cheer with the crowd. She'd also developed her own rituals for Cannibal Star shows. The most enduring was slipping to side stage towards the end of their second set. When that time came, Sansa turned to her mother.

"I'm gonna go backstage," she croaked, voice hoarse now. "Will you be alright? You want me to send dad out here?"

"No, go! I'm having a great time." Her mother sucked down the remnants of her third vodka cranberry and waved Sansa away. "Besides, your father loves doing his backstage duty."

Sansa laughed and hugged her mother, who was well on her way to being tipsy, and disappeared backstage. Down the corridor, she greeted various crew members gathered around and waiting to be put back to work.

She hurried up the half-set of darkened steps to side stage just in time for the favorite part of her favorite song. Sandor stepped forward for his solo, fingers deftly tracing up and down the guitar's neck in exacting precision. There was something about the way he moved during this solo; the way his hips bucked against the back of his guitar, head thrown back, and bare chest slick with sweat.

A clearer view in the shadows, Sansa devoured the sight of him, and he liked knowing she watched him here. The girls at the front of the stage got their view for as long as they could handle getting jolted around in a rowdy crowd. And Sansa got hers—sheltered in the wings and sometimes she'd tease him with a little shimmy in a low-cut top or a skirt hiking up bare legs. The corner of his mouth would twitch, and he'd get that glint in narrowed eyes that warned not to tease him. She did it anyway. And she did it now.

Arms lifted over her head, she slowly rolled her hips and her crop top lifted to reveal the lacy red underside of her bra along with her bare midriff. In a slow drag, Sansa ran her hands down the side of her breasts, the dip of her waist, and curve of her hips. Sandor watched, the intensity of his gaze remaining on her. He bit his bottom lip hard and his jaw clenched in that familiar way that meant he'd bend her over his amplifier and take her right now if he had the chance.

Instead, when the song ended, Sandor strode over with ardent determination that made Sansa flutter with anticipation and wet between the legs. Boots stomping, Sandor swung his guitar around to his back and pressed Sansa up against the wall.

His lips crashed against hers, tongue plunging in her mouth. His blood was up, pulse thumping against her palms at his chest. Slick with sweat and pressed against her, his breath panted a warm beat against her neck.

"You trying to get me hard?" he veritably growled in her ear. Sansa laughed. There was no trying. He was hard. Period. He rolled against her in a thrust and she felt just how aroused he was.

Sansa's lips grazed up his neck and delivered kisses along the way. She teased with a gentle nip on his earlobe. "You trying to get me sweaty?"

"When I take your clothes off later, it won't matter how sweaty you get." His hands circled her bare waist and he pressed another kiss to her lips, slow and tender but losing no urgency.

"Well." She circled her arms around his neck and tugged him closer. "When I take your clothes off later, it won't matter how hard you get," she whispered and pulled away enough to match his eyes. "The harder, the better." Her tongue ran over her bottom lip and eyed the bulge straining against his leather pants.

"You're goddamned right," Sandor groaned through clenched teeth and squeezed Sansa's ass until she yelped.

"What the hell, man?" Bronn hollered from the stage, arms thrown in the air. "You two can fuck later!"

"You're needed out there." Sansa eased from the wall but pressed her breasts against Sandor's chest and teased with one quick lick to his lips.

"I'm needed in here more." Sandor snapped the waistband of her skirt but extracted himself from her embrace with a weighty sigh.

"You're gonna get it later," he warned on rumbling laughter and with a pointed look.

"Is that a threat?" Sansa countered with a sultry smile.

"Nope, mark it down as a promise. And one I fully intend to keep." Sandor reached down the front of his leather pants and adjusted his hard manhood for all the good it did. There was no hiding a dick that big with pants that tight.

With a wink, he returned his guitar to its proper place and retreated to the stage in a stride Sansa swore was a deliberate and swaggering saunter. Must be the pants, she speculated with an adoring smile.

The band powwowed at center stage for some reason. Sansa didn't care what it was. She took the opportunity to admire Sandor's ass in his leather pants, making a mental note to demand he wear them more often. A round of nods, the circle broke for the next song, normally their encore, but the set list had inexplicably changed and the song they played didn't usually come last. With the change up came another oddity. At the end of the song, Sandor ditched his electric guitar for an acoustic.

A handful of crew members hurried on stage with stools, one for each band member, and adjusted the microphones. Sandor stiffened, the muscles in his back and shoulders rippling beneath his skin. The audience quieted in confusion, an eerie silencing of a spirited crowd.

Look at me. Sansa willed her eyes to bore into Sandor but couldn't manage the same intensity that he could; all those moments she could feel his gaze. He busied his hands and his eyes on the acoustic guitar resting in his lap and murmured something to Sally who nodded and leaned in close. For a few moments, the entire band, lined up on stools, looked to Sandor and not in urgent demands to carry on with the show. They guarded something behind knowing smiles exchanged with one another.

Whatever Sally said bid Sandor's brows to draw together in concentration and his Adam's apple bobbed with a hard swallow. Sally patted Sandor on the shoulder, retreated to side stage, and slipped past Sansa before she could ask what was going on.

"It's great to be back in Chicago, especially coming off a long tour," Beric sighed into the microphone and elicited a hearty cheer. "We're gonna end the night on a different note and debut a song we've never performed live. We saved this one for our hometown crowd. You all have supported us through the years and made Cannibal Star what we are today. This one's for you."

With a shaky breath, Sandor counted off the beat to a song that started with a resonant strum, a melodic backdrop to Beric whistling into the microphone. Tender lyrics told a tale about patience and the yearning that comes with distance, trials, and tribulations. All of it struck a chord of the familiar in Sansa.

Every city, every venue, every place she'd been with the band, Sansa had never seen them like this—the brotherhood obvious between them, the heartfelt way Beric drove meaning into words and sentiments Sansa had heard before from Sandor. In the times things got hard, every mile between them like a knife in the heart, he always soothed with the same words about patience and faith. They loved each other and the rest would work itself out.

She watched Sandor with his eyes downturned and bare chest rapidly rising and falling, and understood he had something to do with this. He poured himself in to the song and his fingers now carried the rest with each gorgeous strum. The audience swayed in mesmerized unison and, one by one, lighters went up like a dusting of stars in the dark.

The last note hung sweet in the silence before the crowd erupted with claps and howls, chants and cheers. When they quieted, Beric returned to the microphone.

"This song was written by our very own Sandor Clegane at the start of this tour, so we wanted to end tour with this song and thank you all for coming."

With tears staining her cheeks, Sansa didn't have to be told that Sandor wrote this. Of course, he did. He shifted his eyes to side stage, seeking her out with a sweet little grin.

"I love you," Sansa mouthed. His smile widened and he might've responded but Beric cleared his throat into the microphone and Sandor turned to his bandmate.

"We have one more piece of business to take care of tonight." Beric paused. "Miss Sansa Stark, can you please join us on stage?"

Leaden legs rooted Sansa to the floor. She misheard. Of course, she did. They didn't say her name.

"Sansa Stark," Harwin sang into his microphone.

That settled it.

"You're needed on stage, girl!" Bronn hollered. Sandor's cheeks blazed red, maybe just a trick of the stage lights, and he couldn't look at her.

Oh no.

Sansa swallowed hard despite a dry mouth. Her heart pounded a frantic beat in her chest. Her ears buzzed and her mind couldn't quite inspire her body into motion, so she froze dumbfounded in the shadows.

Two hands gripped her shoulders from behind. "I think that's you," her dad whispered. "Go on." He nudged her forward and Sansa turned over her shoulder.

"Don't they mean Arya? For her birthday?"

This was a mistake. All those people. They'd see her on stage. She wasn't a performer. What was she supposed to do out there? Was she supposed to say something?

"No," he chuckled, and Sansa noticed now Sally hovering behind her father. "He said your name, sweetheart."

"Okay," she sighed on a ragged breath.

Sansa's legs wobbled as she stepped into the glaring light of the stage. She squinted against it and, behind that light, was a swaying sea of shouting shadows. Her skin roasted and her cheeks burned just as hot.

Sandor swiveled in his stool towards her and reached out a hand to guide her. She clutched his fingers and her eyes searched out his face covered in a sheen of sweat, strands of his hair sticking to his cheeks, but his skin looked ashen now.

"What is this?" Sansa's question quivered on a nervous laugh but went unanswered.

Drawing a deep breath, Sandor stood from the stool and lowered to the ground in front of her. The leather pants strained against the thick swathes of his leg muscles.

Did he drop his guitar pick? Sansa's eyes darted across the dingy stage floor until her gaze landed on him again when the entire room erupted in howling cheers that deafened as much as the lights blinded. One knee. He was on one knee.

The world froze. Like a gauzy frame of an old movie, everything blurred at the edges. The crowd sounded muddled now, far off. Or was it still deafening? She couldn't tell. All her faculties went into making sense of the sight before her—Sandor doing his best to settle on one knee and digging into the back pocket of his leather pants.

Whatever he was after was taking more effort than he intended. He gripped her hand and bit his bottom lip where a sudden, satisfied smile formed. Now she knew why. When he brought his hand forward, a diamond ring rested on his pinky, slid down to the first knuckle.

This wasn't happening. It was just a dream. A joke. A sob escaped Sansa. She covered her face with her free palm, but felt Sandor squeeze her hand. Look at him, you idiot.

Sansa pulled her hand away from her face. Salty tears rolled down her cheeks and over her lips. Ring secure on his pinky, Sandor took her other hand and pulled her towards him.

"Come here." His chuckle was swiftly swept up in the crown chanting "Say yes!" over and over again with rhythmic insistence.

Sansa shook like a leaf and sunk to her knees in front of him, collapsing against his chest and she wasn't the only one shaking. Curled against him, Sansa felt Sandor trembling too.

Sandor kissed her cheek and gripped her hands. She relished the scent of him, the warmth of his body as he held her close and shakily murmured into her ear.

"When we got back together, you told me to make a believer out of you. I wrote that song for you when we were apart, Sansa. It's yours. It will always be yours. And I told myself you wouldn't hear it until I felt like I'd done enough for you to believe that we could make it. We've been through so much this past year and I've never loved anyone or anything more than I love you. I never will. You're it for me. That's all there is to it."

Sansa felt the wetness against her cheek and knew it wasn't her own tears. She rested her forehead against his and closed her eyes, but heard the quiver running through each of his words.

"My first question, do you believe me now?"

She opened her eyes again and met his wide-eyed gaze. More color had drained from his face. He licked his bottom lip in anticipation of her answer.

"Of course. I never had any doubts."

Sandor dropped his eyes and something quieted in him. She could've sworn the crowd did too. The chants thinned and the world fell away again, but this time it left only them behind. He lifted his eyes again and smiled.

"My second question—will you marry me?"

Sansa wouldn't remember what happened next if she tried. She hurtled into his arms with foreign force and squealed a yes blotted out by the crowd exploding into applause. Somewhere in the daze Sandor laughed as they tumbled backwards.

Sansa steadied herself against his chest with Sandor's grip firmly at her hips. "Yes." She kissed him hard. "Yes." She mumbled against his mouth. "A million times, yes. Always."

"Folks, I think we got a yes," Beric announced into the microphone though the shouts and applause still thundered on.

The ring. She'd forgotten all about it. And so had Sandor. Settled on their knees and facing one another, they could do little more than exchange bewildered laughs and frantic kisses. When Sandor remembered it, he slipped the ring on her finger. Both their hands trembled. What a beautiful bumbling mess it was and neither cared about their tear-stained cheeks.

Sansa held up her hand. Gorgeous, huge, sparkly. She'd admire it later. As it stood, she could hardly breathe, and her heart was surely about to pound right out of her chest. Sandor eased himself from the floor and pulled Sansa up with him.

He held her hard against his chest, the kind of embrace where she knew he'd be damned to let go. Eons could pass just like this and he'd happily stay here; face buried in the side of her neck, breathing her in, and holding her tight and tighter against him.

Sansa's arms coiled firmly around him and, when her eyes fluttered open, her gaze landed on side stage where her father burst with pride and Sally swiped at tears barreling down his cheeks.

"How the fuck did you pull that off?" Bronn nearly careened himself into Sandor whose arm shot up to stop the man short of hurling into Sansa too. She clung to his side, intoxicated on whatever she saw in him. "Everything," she'd told him time and time again and he believed her enough to pull this off.

And how the fuck did I pull this off?

"You trail-blazing son-of-a-bitch! Now we all gotta settle down," Thoros shouted, cheeks red enough Sandor swore he must've downed half a handle of whiskey already.

On it went as Sandor led the way down the back hall and gripped Sansa's hand. Her ring pressed into his skin, an unfamiliar sensation. He knew the feel of her hands well, the shape of her fingers.

The coming down off adrenaline rendered him dizzy, delirious, in a daze. He'd barely had enough time to throw on a t-shirt and retrieve his jacket from his dressing room. Even that had been a mental feat and, without Sansa sweetly cooing from the corner, "Darling, don't forget your wallet" and "Sweetheart, your keys," he wouldn't have accomplished a damn thing.

A cacophony of congratulatory glee, shouts and hoots and a whole mess of sentiment that got lost in the noise erupted in the hallway lined with Cannibal Star, every crew member involved in the tour, friends, family. Sansa and Sandor were battered liked pin balls bouncing down the hall. Where he got solid claps to his back and shakes of the hand, she got gentle kisses on her cheek and whispers of what a beautiful bride she was going to make.

At the end of the hall, they reached Sansa's family and, by all rights, his family now too. Sandor hadn't spared much thought to the notion, only passing recognition, because he'd spent most his life without one, his band his only family. A void wasn't meant to be noticed and it hadn't been; not until that void was filled with love and warmth and acceptance. He'd gone so long without it, Sandor never truly stared down what'd been absent in the first place. This woman, this life—it was a blinding light burning away that darkness.

Theon, Robb, and Jon beamed on one side of the hall in a trio of approving smiles no doubt eased on their lips from booze. With his bowl cut a mess, even Bran looked like he was coming down from the time of his life. On the other side of the hall, Gendry stood with his arm slung across Arya's shoulders.

The girl lifted Sansa's hand where the massive pear-shaped diamond danced with fire on a thin gold band.

"I helped pick it out," Arya announced with her own version of pride that never quite beamed but existed all the same. "I told him you deserved a ring that looked like it may've been responsible for sinking the Titanic. You're welcome."

"Thank you," Sansa giggled and admired her hand and so too did Sandor. The diamond was perfect in every way. The jeweler had rendered Sandor, Arya, Cat, and Gendry into utter silence when he brought it out, but it was brought to life on Sansa's finger.

Arya squeezed Sansa in a hug. "I love you," the girl whispered sweetly. She peaked around Sansa and cracked a smile at Sandor. "And I guess you too."

At the end of the line, Sansa's parents stood side-by-side in front of the double doors leading outside. Misty-eyed and barely hanging onto her composure, Cat embraced Sansa and whispered something Sandor wasn't meant to hear so he turned to Ned who was wearing a Cannibal Star t-shirt and a smile.

"You did good, son." He shook Sandor's hand and clapped his shoulder. "Everything's ready to go outside."

Good old Ned tried to manage a subtle wink and might've succeeded in discretion if it weren't for the cheesy thumbs up that he also gave.

"Thank you," Sandor said, and Ned and Cat stepped aside.

Sandor glanced at Sansa whose cheeks were rosy pink and she smiled in a way he'd never seen from her, backlit by happiness she struggled to contain.

"You ready?" he asked. She squeezed his hand and breathed a yes. All they were doing was going outside, but it seemed an awful lot like crossing a threshold, stepping into a new part of their life together.

Sandor pushed open the door to the steps where they first met and, when it closed again, it sealed off the applause in the hall. Sansa gasped at the sight and Sandor might've too if he hadn't known what was coming.

Tea light and pillar candles adorned each step and flickered amongst scattered rose petals. An ice bucket housed a bottle of champagne with two glasses next to it. It all stunned in its sweet simplicity.

"Who did all this?" Sansa turned to Sandor. Her thumb swept against the back of his hand and she gave him that look like he'd hung the moon for her.

All Sandor had really known was that he wanted to end the night where he and Sansa had begun. The rest was Cat's idea because he was in bad need of a woman's opinion. Arya's suggestion of a midnight mausoleum picnic with Black Sabbath playing in the background just wasn't going to cut it. With luck on his side, Cat intervened with the more romantic details.

"Your mom helped me with the idea." Sandor smoothed the hair from Sansa's cheek and placed a tender kiss there. "Sally set it up before we played the last song."

The man had taken obvious care, Sandor recognized now, right down to a folded-up blanket—a detail Sandor hadn't even thought of but cherished now as a crisp chill sunk against his skin.

Sandor took Sansa's hand and they descended the first few steps to settle in the middle of the staircase. Sandor unfurled the blanket and tossed it around her shoulders as she handed him the bottle of champagne to do the honors. He popped the cork and poured the wine, but in perfect unison they both abandoned their glasses on the steps.

Sandor's fingers sunk into her hair and what he meant to be a gentle kiss came urgent and hard. Their lips crashed together, and he swallowed up the soft little sigh she gave as his tongue swept against hers. His hand disappeared under the blanket and even further beneath the crop top she wore. He cupped her breast and savored her lips sweeter than any champagne. Drunk on desire, his dick strained hard against these fucking leather pants; the last anyone would see of them because, with Sansa around, there was absolutely no hope of hiding what she inspired in him.

And what she inspired now was a delicious ache brought on with the way she gently kissed his neck and reached for his dick. Her palm pressed against the outside of his pants in a proper, exploratory touch and he covered over her hand, guiding her to grip him hard. There wasn't anything proper about this; no use in pretending.

His lips pressed against hers, softer now, and through the lace of her bra, he rolled her hardened nipple between his forefinger and thumb. Sansa rewarded him with a sigh and melted in his arms, body limp as she relaxed against him.

"You're still shaking," she whispered against his mouth. Starting at his temple, she ran her fingers through his hair with a delicate sweep. He closed his eyes at her touch, relishing the sensation but also marveling at the way Sansa drove out doubt and fear. Sandor sometimes liked to claim fearlessness; he'd seen too much to spook easy. What a ruse it was—he was stronger with her by his side.

"I wanna fuck you right now," he replied and, while it wasn't a lie, it also wasn't the full truth. Sandor was still drifting somewhere in the exuberance of the evening and the loosening of nerves that'd left him exhausted and still trembling. He was only biding time until his feet hit the ground again.

"These stairs have seen a lot of action from us," Sansa remarked, and Sandor admired the way her silhouette looked in the pale moonlight.

"Only one thing left." He lifted one brow with a smirk and surveyed the stairs and the height of the rail.

Standing up or bent over, it didn't matter. They could figure out the logistics of fucking. They always did. He liked the challenge and she liked the thrill; a match made in heaven.

Sansa gripped the front of Sandor's leather jacket and tugged him towards her. "You will fuck me in our bed like a proper fiancé," she giggled.

"You're the proper one in this relationship, babe," Sandor murmured against her mouth. "Not me."

"You have to wait." She planted a supple kiss, as sweet as it was tempting, to his lips. "This will help in the interim."

Sansa retrieved their forgotten champagne glasses and handed one off to him. The glasses clanked together in cheers.

"I see you're changing your tune already, Ms. The-Harder-The-Better." Sandor took a slow sip from the glass and eyed her over the rim.

"No, I'm most certainly am not," Sansa corrected with a haughtiness he could get behind because she'd long ago abandoned all that pearl-clutching affront. "And that's Mrs. Clegane to you, pal."

Sansa broke with bubbling laughter, bright as the full moon hung above and Sandor swore nothing could ever be this perfect. She smiled at him dreamy and tossed her arms around his neck and if he didn't know any better, he'd say she was well on her way to being tipsy despite abandoning her glass once more.

"Oh my God," she sighed, lovesick and glowing. "You wrote me a beautiful song and I get to be your wife."

Sandor chuckled and drew her closer, as close as he could, and pressed his forehead against hers.

"Mrs. Clegane," Sansa exhaled. She breathed it like a daydream, a delicate hush that soaked in the wonderment.

Sansa pulled away enough to grip his hand and gaze at her ring as if she were the lucky one and he were the prize. All this time, she'd never made him feel like her love was an act of charity, a favor she bestowed upon him by good graces alone.

"Mrs. Clegane," Sandor repeated because he hadn't heard it out loud like this.

He'd only whispered it to himself once when he went to get the mail. Sometimes even he indulged in daydreams, so he imagined Mrs. Clegane on letters addressed to her or how she might manage the cursive of a new last name. A few months ago, at the bottom of a drawer, he found a wrinkled piece of scrap paper with Sansa Clegane doodled from margin to margin and every space between. She'd manage just fine.

Realizing now he'd actually pulled this off, a sudden flush of adrenaline came over him; like a wave crashing, invigorating and powerful. It brought with it a broad smile and Sandor was lovesick in his own way and swore to himself he'd marry her this moment if he could.

Sansa scooted close and tossed the blanket over his shoulders. Sandor eased back on the stairs with her nuzzled up next to him, cheek against his chest. One arm draped over her side.

"Were you scared?" she asked and gazed up at him. Sandor brushed his fingers through the length of her hair. Sansa always looked beautiful, somehow even managed it when she came down with the flu, but he'd remember this moment and the way she looked right now—blue eyes and pretty lips, flawless skin and flushed cheeks.

"Yes, you have no idea," he whispered and lifted one leg. "And these fucking pants! I could barely get on one knee or the ring out of my pocket."

Of all the things—all the minor little fucking details he went over and over again in his head—the last goddamn thing he'd accounted for was the leather pants shrinking just enough from the metric ton of sweat he'd shed to preclude him from getting down on one knee.

Sansa burst into laughter and so too did Sandor on a deep rumble, the scenario humorous only in hindsight.

"I love these pants on you," she cooed and wrapped her arms around his chest. She pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

"Better enjoy it," he grumbled. "I'm never wearing them again."

Sansa's bottom lip pouted, just as arousing as it was endearing. Sandor held her tight against him and trailed kisses along her neck up to her ear.

"Maybe once in a while for you," he muttered. "But only if you ask nicely and it ends with you being naked and on top of me."

"Of course, that's only fair," she laughed as Sandor swept his fingertips along the bare skin of her waist. "That reminds me of the night we met, and I asked what your real name was, not your stage name. Do you remember that?"

"How could I forget?" Sandor watched the way the candles flickered on the breeze. "We were right here. I said my real name doesn't matter. Not unless you planned on moaning it later while I was on top of you or you were on top of me. Either way." He matched Sansa's eyes and cracked a smile. "Not exactly a story for our future children."

"It all came full circle," Sansa said and burrowed her cheek against him.

"It did." Sandor took her hand and lifted it until the ring caught the light.

For a quiet moment, they both admired it until Sansa stirred slightly against him and cleared her throat.

"How did you know you wanted to marry me?"

Sandor drew a deep breath to buy some time, but not for a lack of examples. He had plenty of sterling moments too big to fit into words that seemed so small. In the end, he selected the best way he knew how to explain it.

"I asked your dad once how he knew he wanted to marry your mother. He said there are two ways to look at it. The first—wanting to spend your life with someone. In that way, they're a bonus, icing on the cake. You don't need them. You want them.

"The second way to look at it is not wanting to spend your life without that person. Sounds like a subtle difference but it's not. That's the one person you can't imagine going on without. They're not the icing, they're the cake. Everything else is icing, extras. You want them and you need them. He couldn't picture a future without your mother and that's how he knew. And that's how I knew. I can't fathom a life without you in it. Just doesn't make sense."

Sansa propped herself up to look at him and tears brimmed in her eyes. "Does that mean I'm your cake?" she asked and traipsed her fingertips up his chest.

"Yes," he whispered and covered over her hand with his, her palm pressed to the beat of his heart. "My lemon cake."

Sandor gave her a wink and a smile, and her tears broke free with merry laughter.

"You're my lemon cake too," Sansa beamed.

Sandor interlaced her fingers with his and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. "Your lemon cake wants to take you home now."

"Because you promised I'm gonna get it?" Sansa stood and let the blanket pool at her feet. By now, half the candles had burned out and the other half Sally would take care of.

Sansa rested with her back against the stair rail and arms circled around his neck. Sandor's hands settled at her hips. The breeze swept between them and Sandor pulled her against him, wanting her warmth and her touch.

He kissed her forehead. "Yes. Because I promised and I won't break my promises to you."

"I have a promise too." Sansa matched his eyes and spoke sweet. "To love you. Always to love you."

"And I'll love you always too." It was the only promise that mattered, for him and for her, and they'd been making good on it for a solid year with no signs of stopping.

With his arm across her shoulders, Sandor descended the steps and Sansa's arm coiled around the small of his back. Wrapped up in one another, they trailed in dawdling steps across the parking lot towards his motorcycle.

In another indulgence in nostalgia, Sandor settled side-saddle on the seat, gripped Sansa by the hips, and drew her towards him. She stood between his legs, hands at his shoulders.

"You know what my other promise is?" The corner of his mouth curled in a devious smirk and his hands slipped to her ass.

She hummed and bit her bottom lip just like the days when they first danced around the inevitable. "I think I can guess but tell me."

Sandor leaned forward. In the still night, his leather jacket crackled. His hand brushed the hair from her neck. When Sansa tilted her head, Sandor pressed his lips to the pulse point just below her ear.

"No matter how old we get," he vowed. "You're always gonna get it."

He tapped her ass and she giggled softly as she climbed behind him, securing her helmet as she went.

"Ready, little bird?" he rumbled and turned over his shoulder. She coiled her arms tight around him. Sandor covered over her hand with his, her ring pressing into his palm.

"Ready," she smiled and kissed him for good measure.

The lights rippling on the Chicago River guided their way home and it all seemed to Sandor like riding into a future he couldn't have curated for himself if he'd tried. Luck—or maybe something greater—had been on his side one night over a year ago on the empty steps after a show where a gorgeous red-head came barreling through the door, damn near into his arms and into his life. His little bird, his lemon cake.

Sandor settled his hand against hers once more, the sensation of the ring against his palm already becoming familiar. If his feet never hit the ground again, Sandor didn't quite care as long as the feeling now never ended—wind sweeping, heart racing, his whole life put to rights, and Sansa holding onto him with more love he'd ever known.