Fic: The Reward
This is what I wrote back in April for the last round of asoiaf_exchange.
Title: The Reward
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sansa/Sandor
Word Count: 4,147
Summary: Sandor slays the monster Gregor and wins the hand of the fair lady Sansa.
The signs of carnage began a mile from the Eyrie's mountain. There were old campsites with food and weapons abandoned - a sure indicator that something was wrong at a time when half the realm was starving and anything of value was fast looted. A little further down the first frozen corpse littered the road. There were many more of them; the dead men piled outside the castle were too numerous for Sandor to count. Soldiers doing their jobs or fools looking to make a name for themselves, it hadn't mattered. Gregor had slain them all.
Sandor watched his brother from his carefully concealed post. He'd meant to confront Gregor right away, to just ride straight up to him. But the field of corpses had made him cautious. Gregor had always been good at killing, but no single man could kill this many people. It was true what they said then: some sorcerer had revived Gregor from death more terrible than ever and made him impossible to kill. Impossible for others, perhaps. Not me. His brother's resurrection had done what the Elder Brother's preaching and healing hands hadn't been able to accomplish; it had given Sandor faith that the gods were taking a hand in his life. Killing Gregor was all he'd ever wanted and now he had a second chance to do it.
There were Lannister banners strewn on the ground too. Cersei had not sent her champion alone. The host who'd accompanied him were all dead now, slain by some of those gallant knights before they'd fallen themselves. Only Gregor remained. He prowled the area, every so often pounding at the castle gates. The gates did not give; not even Gregor was strong enough for that. But the castle was as much a prison as refuge for its inhabitants. Gregor could not get to them, but they could not get out. The Gates of the Moon was the Arryn winter castle; it was no doubt amply provisioned to withstand a siege. It would be months more before danger of starvation. But as supplies dwindled and terror grew, people would begin to consider giving Gregor what he'd come for.
That's why the Blackfish hasn't come out to face him. Sandor had wondered about that. It'd seemed strange that a famed old hero like the Blackfish would cower behind castle walls and send ravens begging for help instead of confronting Gregor himself. But Sandor realized now that Tully knew he would die if he fought Gregor, and then there would be no one to keep the castlefolk from throwing Sansa out. He was protecting his niece more surely than if he'd tried to fight Gregor.
The little bird must be terrified. Sandor had mostly tried to avoid thinking about Sansa Stark these last few years, but sometimes when he'd lain alone in his pitch-black cell, he couldn't help seeing her face and hearing her voice. She'd followed him into his dreams sometimes, a few of the dreams good, but most bad.
Dusk was falling. Sandor crawled back to where he'd left Stranger tethered. He brushed the horse and fed him, then urged him down onto the ground. It was too risky to build a fire, but too cold to go without some additional warmth. He curled beside the horse and covered them both with blankets. "Just one last night, boy," he said, patting Stranger. It would be over tomorrow, one way or another. Either he killed Gregor and the grateful Vale folk gave him and Stranger food and a warm place to stay, or Gregor killed them.
He wondered if Sansa would shed a tear for him if his brother killed him. She and everyone else in the castle would be watching from the walls. She must have watched Gregor kill her gallant young fiancé Harry Hardyng and all the others who'd come to save her. He wasn't here to save her; she would know that. She knew why he wanted to kill his brother.
He'd told the Elder Brother too, told him everything, but that had been different. Anger griped him at the thought of the holy brother. Most of the men on the Quiet Isle were under vows of silence so there was no gossiping. What news came was known only to the Elder Brother and his proctors. Gregor had been resurrected for over a year and Sandor had not known it. The Elder Brother had only told him when it was time for him to take final holy vows.
Sandor had been wroth to learn that while he was digging graves and suffering through prayers, Gregor had been alive again and serving Cersei Lannister in King's Landing. While he was about to pledge himself to a life of penitence, Gregor was on his way to the Vale to fetch Cersei Sansa Stark's head. Most incredulously of all, telling him had only been another of the Elder Brother's tests. The man had wanted him to do nothing; to say a prayer and carry on like nothing had changed. Sandor had left the Quiet Isle that same day.
He'd taken an old sword and a mail shirt from the septry's store of things that had washed up on the island. No one had tried to stop him - whether because they didn't begrudge him the items or because they were afraid to get in his way, he couldn't say. He'd wanted proper armor, a breastplate at the least, but the pieces of plate armor the septry had were all too small for him. He'd kept an eye out for knights to rob during the journey here, but he hadn't encountered any his size. So he tried to convince himself that being so lightly armored was an advantage.
He tried again that morning, as he mounted Stranger. I'll be faster without plate to weigh me down. But he remembered his brother's terrible strength, the way Gregor had once severed a horse's neck with a single blow. And that had been before the "improvements" Cersei's sorcerer had made to him. I won't let that matter. I will kill him. Steeling himself, he rode out to meet the man he'd feared and hated all his life.
"Little brother," Gregor greeted him. His smile was nastier than ever. His veins had turned black beneath his skin, giving him a gruesome appearance. He lowered the visor of his helm. "I was going to find you after I finished Cersei's errand. It's good of you to save me the trouble."
Sandor had nothing to say to him. He drew his sword.
"I won't kill you with this sword," Gregor said. "I'll cripple you, and then I'll skewer you on a spit and roast you slowly."
Sandor refused to be afraid. He urged Stranger towards Gregor. Gregor stood his ground, his greatsword raised to meet the charge. It was said he'd killed some knight and his horse all in one blow. Just out of his brother's reach, Sandor turned his horse. They circled Gregor, forcing him to turn with them.
Gregor had always been short-tempered and impatient. It was his biggest weakness, and Sandor meant to use it to his advantage. He spurred Stranger around a cluster of frozen corpses, and Gregor chased them. "Stay still," he snarled.
Sandor laughed at him. He continued the dance, getting Gregor angrier and sloppier. Finally he charged straight at Gregor. Gregor adjusted his sword. But Sandor was no longer on Stranger's back. He'd leapt off at the last moment, and he hacked at his brother's knee, hoping to find the gap in his armor there and chop through his leg. The cut made Gregor stumble, but it did no more damage than that. Luckily for Sandor he was already moving to avoid the swing of Gregor's sword and he cut at his other knee. This cut went deep. Gregor fell to his knees.
"Think I can find a spit big enough to roast you?" Sandor taunted him.
Gregor slashed at him and Sandor parried the blow. Again and again. Sandor moved nearer, thinking to cut Gregor's sword hand off. Gregor slashed at him again and this time Sandor didn't get his own sword between them fast enough. He managed to throw himself backwards as the sword bit into him, so he wasn't cut in half. He didn't stop to wonder how bad the wound was; he was still alive, that's all that mattered. He snatched up a handful of snow and threw it at his brother's face.
Gregor was startled into rearing back. Sandor tried again to cut off his right hand. Gregor's gauntlet and mailed glove were very thick and strong, though, and the gap between them was very narrow. The cut didn't take his hand off. But he felt it; his grip on his sword became clumsy. Sandor moved in again.
Gregor punched him in the side. It was completely unexpected; Sandor had been so focused on his brother's sword hand. It drove the breath from him, but somehow Sandor managed to resist rolling away from Gregor. He found a burst of speed and instead scrambled behind his brother. Gregor was already turning. A steel codpiece protected him in front. But from behind...Sandor kicked his brother between the legs with all his strength. Gregor howled. Sandor grabbed his helm and yanked it off. He raised his sword with both hands and swung. Gregor's head went flying from his shoulders.
There was silence, save for Sandor's own labored breathing. It was finally over. He'd kept the promise he'd made to himself. He'd killed his brother. At last he had his revenge for the terrible burns that had ruined his life. Curiously, it wasn't as sweet a moment as he'd dreamed it would be.
Then he heard shouting. Cheering. People began to pour out of the castle. They surrounded Sandor and his fallen foe, offering him praise and thanks, and cursing Gregor and the bitch who'd sent him. He was their hero.
"You have our gratitude, ser, and any reward you name," said the Blackfish.
He'd not come for the reward the Blackfish had promised, but it had been good to know that he would be rewarded since Sandor was certain the Elder Brother would not permit him to return to the Quiet Isle. He tried to think of a good high sum to ask for, but she was there and he only wanted to look at her. She was a woman grown now, or near enough, and more beautiful than ever. He spoke without thinking. "I want her."
The Blackfish's exuberance was replaced with caution. "I beg your pardon?"
"Give me Sansa Stark. That's the reward I want."
Sansa was looking at him with utter shock on her pretty face. Sandor smirked at her. "Isn't that the way of things, little bird? I slew the monster so now I'm due the fair maiden. Just like those songs you love."
Her great-uncle replied before she could. "Ser, let us tend your wounds and provide you with food and drink, and then we'll discuss your reward."
His blood was still up from the battle; pain was a distant thing. The maester could wait. "You told me to name my reward and I did, Blackfish. Give it to me or not, it's your word at stake, not mine."
The Blackfish did not like having his honor questioned. The crowd was buzzing with speculation, enjoying this display nearly as much as they'd enjoyed witnessing the fight. Ser Brynden could not refuse outright, but he also could not accede to the demand. Sansa was as highborn as they came, fit for a king, while Sandor's father had been a mere landed knight only a generation removed from poor commoners. "I will not force anyone to marry," the Blackfish said at last. "I will reward you with gold. Whether my niece marries you is her decision."
Sansa glanced back and forth between them uncertainly, clearly surprised that she was expected to make such an important decision. Sandor had little reason to hope; he was hideously scarred, too lowborn, penniless, and he'd abandoned her in King's Landing. Yet he couldn't help hoping. He almost didn't hear her when she spoke; her voice was so soft.
"I will marry you, my lord."
Sandor could only stare at her. She'd extended her hand to him, perhaps to kiss like some gallant fool. Recovering, he grabbed the proffered hand and yanked her near. He would have taken her right there in the snow if not for all the people watching. Do it. Let them watch. Instead he contented himself with kissing her, long and hard and hungry.
She was flushed and breathless when he released her and she would not look at him. It didn't matter. She was going to be his soon enough. He spied a man dressed in a septon's robes among the crowd and signaled to him. "You. Come marry us."
"Now?" the little bird exclaimed.
"Now," Sandor said, holding her wrist tightly.
"You'll bleed to death before you can consummate the marriage," the Blackfish said wryly. "Give us the chance to prepare a proper wedding and everyone will be happier for it."
The pain was becoming more insistent. And he was covered in his brother's black blood. Sansa would take more kindly to being fucked by him if he had a bath first. "All right," he said. "But I won't wait long."
They made him wait a fortnight. Sandor tried to see Sansa, but they never allowed her to be alone with him. Once he saw her walking with a group of women and pushed his way in their midst to get to her. "Changed your mind, have you?" he asked her, seizing her jaw to be sure she looked at him.
"No, my lord. The bride's cloak isn't ready yet, and the steward hasn't returned from Gulltown with all the things we need for the wedding feast."
Fuck the feast, he wanted to tell her. The look in her big, blue eyes was totally earnest - and not as afraid as he'd expected. Her cheeks reddened and she lowered her gaze. Sandor let go of her. "Sew faster," he told all of them. "I want to enjoy my reward."
He heard the women giggling as he went his way and they went theirs. It reminded him of the bedding portion of the weddings he'd been to and made him think of his own upcoming wedding night. Might be a good thing she's no virgin. Sansa's misfortune was to his benefit. She'd been married to the Imp, and Littlefinger had most certainly used her before the Blackfish had come and replaced him as Robert Arryn's regent. Even her betrothed Harry had probably taken his husbandly rights early. Fucking him shouldn't be too terrible for her; he wouldn't even take offense if she closed her eyes.
While wedding preparations were being made inside the castle, the bodies were being cleared away outside. Gregor's head had been mounted on the wall, but his body and those of the other men Cersei Lannister had sent were stripped of all valuables and burned without ceremony. Harry the Heir was given a proper funeral and interred in the Arryn crypt while the bodies of the other failed would-be heroes were discreetly stacked away to be buried when spring came. By the day of the wedding, no trace of the carnage remained.
Sandor wore a new set of clothes, part of his reward. He had a good new castle-forged longsword too, and the castle's blacksmith was currently working on a new suit of armor. The Blackfish had promised him ten thousand gold dragons as well. Sandor had had a notion that he would buy land and have a home built for him and Sansa to live quietly, but the Blackfish quickly disabused him of that.
"Sansa's marriage to Harry would have meant he and the Vale would fight to restore the North to its rightful lady. I can command the Vale as lord protector, but Robert will not last much longer and my influence here will be finished. However, there are still loyal lords in the North and in the riverlands who will fight for Sansa. Leading them will be your responsibility."
Slaying Gregor had restored the damage fleeing the burning Blackwater Bay had done to his reputation. Sansa's lords would not be happy to bend the knee to him, but they would follow him in battle willingly enough. He'd spent his life fighting the Lannisters' battles; fighting his wife's battles was surely an improvement, even if the Elder Brother wouldn't agree.
He thought of the knightly vows he'd refused to take while he spoke his wedding vows. The two sets of vows were not so different. But he was only promising to protect one person - the only person he'd ever wanted to protect as a man - and he was certain he could keep this vow. He draped the cloak made in Clegane colors they'd made for him over her shoulders. Then he kissed her, more softly this time, and it was over. Sansa Stark was his wife.
She slipped her hand into his as they walked to the great hall for the feast. "You look good in those clothes. I knew that color would suit you."
She was on his left, away from the burns that marred the right side of his face. Sandor supposed he might not look bad when she couldn't see his scars. Or perhaps the little bird was just reciting one of her courtesies. He turned his face so his scars were visible to her and watched her react. Her eyes widened. Then she gave him a reproachful look, as if she knew what he was doing. She turned straight ahead, her chin held high. Sandor dearly wanted to skip the wedding feast and go straight to the consummation.
The feast was impressive though. They had not skimped. There were seven courses to the meal, from pheasant and aurochs to a variety of fresh fruits all the way from Dorne. Sandor used his new sword to cut the traditional wedding pie, but Sansa ate only a few mouthfuls and quickly set it aside for the lemoncakes.
"You haven't tried the lemoncakes," she observed.
"You're enjoying them enough for us both."
She didn't speak to him again until the dancing began. "It's bad luck not to dance at your own wedding," she said.
Sandor remembered her telling Joffrey that it was bad luck to kill a man on your name day. She had made that up so Joff would not kill the drunkard Dontos Hollard. Sandor wondered why she'd made this up. He indulged her, though he hadn't danced since he was little and his sister had forced him to partner with her so she could be prepared for a neighbor's wedding feast. "I had a sister," he told her.
He could tell from her expression that she had an idea of what had become of his and Gregor's sister. "What was she like?" she asked.
"Like you," he replied. "She liked songs and knights. She was a sweet, happy thing until Gregor went too far one night and killed her."
"We can name our first daughter after her if you'd like."
Sandor hadn't given any thought to children. He supposed they were inevitable once he was fucking her. He would have to protect them too. "You don't know what her name was. You might not like it."
"I'm sure I will, because it's your sister's name."
Bratty little Lord Robert insisted on dancing with Sansa next. Sandor returned to his seat to wait for her. To his surprise Nestor Royce's daughter wanted him to dance with her. Sandor refused. He claimed Sansa again for the third song, but then afterwards he had to relinquish her to the Blackfish. He lost patience when dancing for a fifth song began. "Enough," he roared, loud enough to be heard over the music. "I want my bride now."
There were catcalls and laughter. "Bed them," someone shouted, and the bedding began. Their wariness of him dulled by wine and the boldness of their leader, Royce's daughter, the women led Sandor to the bridal bedchamber, tugging at his clothes all the way. He quickly shed what was left of his clothing when he reached the bed. Sansa had already been deposited there, naked as her name day. The hair between her legs was only slightly darker than the auburn hair on her head.
"Get out," Sandor said to their wedding guests.
The fools only laughed and made bawdy suggestions until Sandor made to throw one man out bodily. Then they left and Sandor was alone with Sansa at last. She was afraid again; she wouldn't look at him. It made him angry. "Stop cowering like a frightened rabbit. What is it you think I'll do to you?"
"I'm a maiden on my wedding night."
He chuckled. So that was it. She was pretending to be a virgin. He touched her hair, then her face. She'd closed her eyes, but her lips were parted. He leaned to kiss her, then he decided against it. He stroked her lips with his forefinger for a moment before sliding his finger into her mouth. Her eyes opened. She looked confused. Then she seemed to understand. She began to suck. "Good," he told her approvingly. He imagined her sucking his cock. But that would have to wait for later. Tonight he was going to fuck her well and proper.
He cupped her breasts and squeezed them gently. She had great teats - large and creamy and tipped by delicate pink nipples. They looked almost edible. So he devoured them. Sansa gasped and gave little sighs as he suckled her teats. Her arms were around him, her hand in his hair. Yet when he tried to put his hand between her legs, her thighs were firmly clamped together. "Spread your legs."
She opened her legs wide, blushing so hard her face looked nearly as red as her hair. Sandor admired the sight exposed to him. He stroked her cunt and found it wet. He'd only ever been with whores before and he'd never felt any desire to put his mouth where hundreds of other men had spent their seed. But Sansa made him want to taste her.
"Oh," she exclaimed when he licked her cunt. She squirmed. Sandor held her thighs to keep her still for him. She moaned when he tried to suck the little nub above her cunt so he did that for a while. "Stop," she gasped. "Too much." He didn't stop. She screamed and her body bucked. Sandor felt quite proud of himself. "Stop now, please. It's starting to hurt," she said.
Sandor sat up and licked his lips. "Sweet you might look, but you taste salty," he told her. He was sure she would have blushed if she hadn't already been flushed with pleasure. His cock was demanding its pleasure. He pulled Sansa's legs up and pushed them forward. He entered her with a shallow thrust, then a deeper thrust all the way in.
"Ah." It was more a sound of pain than pleasure. Sandor was pleased to know he was bigger than she was used to. But he restrained himself, not fucking her too hard. She didn't close her eyes or look away from him once. That was almost was satisfying as the tight clench of her cunt.
When he was finished he laid beside her, simply enjoying the feeling and never wanting it to end. She cuddled against him and put her head on his chest, and he found himself saying, "The Elder Brother said I would be damned if I killed my brother."
"The Elder Brother?" she asked.
"The senior brother at the septry where I spent the past two years."
"You were at a septry?! I'd heard you'd become an outlaw."
"Some outlaw found my old helm and took it for his own."
"I think this Elder Brother was wrong," Sansa declared. "Prince Oberyn of Dorne had already killed Ser Gregor. How could you be a kinslayer for killing a dead man? I think the gods are more like to reward you for putting an end to the unholy abomination your brother had become."
"Spoken like a good, loyal wife," Sandor teased. He was pleased though. "I hope you're not tired, I mean to enjoy my reward some more."
"I'm not tired, my lo- Sandor."
He petted her hair. "Why did you marry me?"
"Because you wanted me, not gold or lands. And because I wanted you to kiss me again."
Again? He was about to ask her what she meant by that, but she draped herself atop him and kissed him, and Sandor lost interest in anything but enjoying Sansa.
Title: The Reward
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sansa/Sandor
Word Count: 4,147
Summary: Sandor slays the monster Gregor and wins the hand of the fair lady Sansa.
The signs of carnage began a mile from the Eyrie's mountain. There were old campsites with food and weapons abandoned - a sure indicator that something was wrong at a time when half the realm was starving and anything of value was fast looted. A little further down the first frozen corpse littered the road. There were many more of them; the dead men piled outside the castle were too numerous for Sandor to count. Soldiers doing their jobs or fools looking to make a name for themselves, it hadn't mattered. Gregor had slain them all.
Sandor watched his brother from his carefully concealed post. He'd meant to confront Gregor right away, to just ride straight up to him. But the field of corpses had made him cautious. Gregor had always been good at killing, but no single man could kill this many people. It was true what they said then: some sorcerer had revived Gregor from death more terrible than ever and made him impossible to kill. Impossible for others, perhaps. Not me. His brother's resurrection had done what the Elder Brother's preaching and healing hands hadn't been able to accomplish; it had given Sandor faith that the gods were taking a hand in his life. Killing Gregor was all he'd ever wanted and now he had a second chance to do it.
There were Lannister banners strewn on the ground too. Cersei had not sent her champion alone. The host who'd accompanied him were all dead now, slain by some of those gallant knights before they'd fallen themselves. Only Gregor remained. He prowled the area, every so often pounding at the castle gates. The gates did not give; not even Gregor was strong enough for that. But the castle was as much a prison as refuge for its inhabitants. Gregor could not get to them, but they could not get out. The Gates of the Moon was the Arryn winter castle; it was no doubt amply provisioned to withstand a siege. It would be months more before danger of starvation. But as supplies dwindled and terror grew, people would begin to consider giving Gregor what he'd come for.
That's why the Blackfish hasn't come out to face him. Sandor had wondered about that. It'd seemed strange that a famed old hero like the Blackfish would cower behind castle walls and send ravens begging for help instead of confronting Gregor himself. But Sandor realized now that Tully knew he would die if he fought Gregor, and then there would be no one to keep the castlefolk from throwing Sansa out. He was protecting his niece more surely than if he'd tried to fight Gregor.
The little bird must be terrified. Sandor had mostly tried to avoid thinking about Sansa Stark these last few years, but sometimes when he'd lain alone in his pitch-black cell, he couldn't help seeing her face and hearing her voice. She'd followed him into his dreams sometimes, a few of the dreams good, but most bad.
Dusk was falling. Sandor crawled back to where he'd left Stranger tethered. He brushed the horse and fed him, then urged him down onto the ground. It was too risky to build a fire, but too cold to go without some additional warmth. He curled beside the horse and covered them both with blankets. "Just one last night, boy," he said, patting Stranger. It would be over tomorrow, one way or another. Either he killed Gregor and the grateful Vale folk gave him and Stranger food and a warm place to stay, or Gregor killed them.
He wondered if Sansa would shed a tear for him if his brother killed him. She and everyone else in the castle would be watching from the walls. She must have watched Gregor kill her gallant young fiancé Harry Hardyng and all the others who'd come to save her. He wasn't here to save her; she would know that. She knew why he wanted to kill his brother.
He'd told the Elder Brother too, told him everything, but that had been different. Anger griped him at the thought of the holy brother. Most of the men on the Quiet Isle were under vows of silence so there was no gossiping. What news came was known only to the Elder Brother and his proctors. Gregor had been resurrected for over a year and Sandor had not known it. The Elder Brother had only told him when it was time for him to take final holy vows.
Sandor had been wroth to learn that while he was digging graves and suffering through prayers, Gregor had been alive again and serving Cersei Lannister in King's Landing. While he was about to pledge himself to a life of penitence, Gregor was on his way to the Vale to fetch Cersei Sansa Stark's head. Most incredulously of all, telling him had only been another of the Elder Brother's tests. The man had wanted him to do nothing; to say a prayer and carry on like nothing had changed. Sandor had left the Quiet Isle that same day.
He'd taken an old sword and a mail shirt from the septry's store of things that had washed up on the island. No one had tried to stop him - whether because they didn't begrudge him the items or because they were afraid to get in his way, he couldn't say. He'd wanted proper armor, a breastplate at the least, but the pieces of plate armor the septry had were all too small for him. He'd kept an eye out for knights to rob during the journey here, but he hadn't encountered any his size. So he tried to convince himself that being so lightly armored was an advantage.
He tried again that morning, as he mounted Stranger. I'll be faster without plate to weigh me down. But he remembered his brother's terrible strength, the way Gregor had once severed a horse's neck with a single blow. And that had been before the "improvements" Cersei's sorcerer had made to him. I won't let that matter. I will kill him. Steeling himself, he rode out to meet the man he'd feared and hated all his life.
"Little brother," Gregor greeted him. His smile was nastier than ever. His veins had turned black beneath his skin, giving him a gruesome appearance. He lowered the visor of his helm. "I was going to find you after I finished Cersei's errand. It's good of you to save me the trouble."
Sandor had nothing to say to him. He drew his sword.
"I won't kill you with this sword," Gregor said. "I'll cripple you, and then I'll skewer you on a spit and roast you slowly."
Sandor refused to be afraid. He urged Stranger towards Gregor. Gregor stood his ground, his greatsword raised to meet the charge. It was said he'd killed some knight and his horse all in one blow. Just out of his brother's reach, Sandor turned his horse. They circled Gregor, forcing him to turn with them.
Gregor had always been short-tempered and impatient. It was his biggest weakness, and Sandor meant to use it to his advantage. He spurred Stranger around a cluster of frozen corpses, and Gregor chased them. "Stay still," he snarled.
Sandor laughed at him. He continued the dance, getting Gregor angrier and sloppier. Finally he charged straight at Gregor. Gregor adjusted his sword. But Sandor was no longer on Stranger's back. He'd leapt off at the last moment, and he hacked at his brother's knee, hoping to find the gap in his armor there and chop through his leg. The cut made Gregor stumble, but it did no more damage than that. Luckily for Sandor he was already moving to avoid the swing of Gregor's sword and he cut at his other knee. This cut went deep. Gregor fell to his knees.
"Think I can find a spit big enough to roast you?" Sandor taunted him.
Gregor slashed at him and Sandor parried the blow. Again and again. Sandor moved nearer, thinking to cut Gregor's sword hand off. Gregor slashed at him again and this time Sandor didn't get his own sword between them fast enough. He managed to throw himself backwards as the sword bit into him, so he wasn't cut in half. He didn't stop to wonder how bad the wound was; he was still alive, that's all that mattered. He snatched up a handful of snow and threw it at his brother's face.
Gregor was startled into rearing back. Sandor tried again to cut off his right hand. Gregor's gauntlet and mailed glove were very thick and strong, though, and the gap between them was very narrow. The cut didn't take his hand off. But he felt it; his grip on his sword became clumsy. Sandor moved in again.
Gregor punched him in the side. It was completely unexpected; Sandor had been so focused on his brother's sword hand. It drove the breath from him, but somehow Sandor managed to resist rolling away from Gregor. He found a burst of speed and instead scrambled behind his brother. Gregor was already turning. A steel codpiece protected him in front. But from behind...Sandor kicked his brother between the legs with all his strength. Gregor howled. Sandor grabbed his helm and yanked it off. He raised his sword with both hands and swung. Gregor's head went flying from his shoulders.
There was silence, save for Sandor's own labored breathing. It was finally over. He'd kept the promise he'd made to himself. He'd killed his brother. At last he had his revenge for the terrible burns that had ruined his life. Curiously, it wasn't as sweet a moment as he'd dreamed it would be.
Then he heard shouting. Cheering. People began to pour out of the castle. They surrounded Sandor and his fallen foe, offering him praise and thanks, and cursing Gregor and the bitch who'd sent him. He was their hero.
"You have our gratitude, ser, and any reward you name," said the Blackfish.
He'd not come for the reward the Blackfish had promised, but it had been good to know that he would be rewarded since Sandor was certain the Elder Brother would not permit him to return to the Quiet Isle. He tried to think of a good high sum to ask for, but she was there and he only wanted to look at her. She was a woman grown now, or near enough, and more beautiful than ever. He spoke without thinking. "I want her."
The Blackfish's exuberance was replaced with caution. "I beg your pardon?"
"Give me Sansa Stark. That's the reward I want."
Sansa was looking at him with utter shock on her pretty face. Sandor smirked at her. "Isn't that the way of things, little bird? I slew the monster so now I'm due the fair maiden. Just like those songs you love."
Her great-uncle replied before she could. "Ser, let us tend your wounds and provide you with food and drink, and then we'll discuss your reward."
His blood was still up from the battle; pain was a distant thing. The maester could wait. "You told me to name my reward and I did, Blackfish. Give it to me or not, it's your word at stake, not mine."
The Blackfish did not like having his honor questioned. The crowd was buzzing with speculation, enjoying this display nearly as much as they'd enjoyed witnessing the fight. Ser Brynden could not refuse outright, but he also could not accede to the demand. Sansa was as highborn as they came, fit for a king, while Sandor's father had been a mere landed knight only a generation removed from poor commoners. "I will not force anyone to marry," the Blackfish said at last. "I will reward you with gold. Whether my niece marries you is her decision."
Sansa glanced back and forth between them uncertainly, clearly surprised that she was expected to make such an important decision. Sandor had little reason to hope; he was hideously scarred, too lowborn, penniless, and he'd abandoned her in King's Landing. Yet he couldn't help hoping. He almost didn't hear her when she spoke; her voice was so soft.
"I will marry you, my lord."
Sandor could only stare at her. She'd extended her hand to him, perhaps to kiss like some gallant fool. Recovering, he grabbed the proffered hand and yanked her near. He would have taken her right there in the snow if not for all the people watching. Do it. Let them watch. Instead he contented himself with kissing her, long and hard and hungry.
She was flushed and breathless when he released her and she would not look at him. It didn't matter. She was going to be his soon enough. He spied a man dressed in a septon's robes among the crowd and signaled to him. "You. Come marry us."
"Now?" the little bird exclaimed.
"Now," Sandor said, holding her wrist tightly.
"You'll bleed to death before you can consummate the marriage," the Blackfish said wryly. "Give us the chance to prepare a proper wedding and everyone will be happier for it."
The pain was becoming more insistent. And he was covered in his brother's black blood. Sansa would take more kindly to being fucked by him if he had a bath first. "All right," he said. "But I won't wait long."
They made him wait a fortnight. Sandor tried to see Sansa, but they never allowed her to be alone with him. Once he saw her walking with a group of women and pushed his way in their midst to get to her. "Changed your mind, have you?" he asked her, seizing her jaw to be sure she looked at him.
"No, my lord. The bride's cloak isn't ready yet, and the steward hasn't returned from Gulltown with all the things we need for the wedding feast."
Fuck the feast, he wanted to tell her. The look in her big, blue eyes was totally earnest - and not as afraid as he'd expected. Her cheeks reddened and she lowered her gaze. Sandor let go of her. "Sew faster," he told all of them. "I want to enjoy my reward."
He heard the women giggling as he went his way and they went theirs. It reminded him of the bedding portion of the weddings he'd been to and made him think of his own upcoming wedding night. Might be a good thing she's no virgin. Sansa's misfortune was to his benefit. She'd been married to the Imp, and Littlefinger had most certainly used her before the Blackfish had come and replaced him as Robert Arryn's regent. Even her betrothed Harry had probably taken his husbandly rights early. Fucking him shouldn't be too terrible for her; he wouldn't even take offense if she closed her eyes.
While wedding preparations were being made inside the castle, the bodies were being cleared away outside. Gregor's head had been mounted on the wall, but his body and those of the other men Cersei Lannister had sent were stripped of all valuables and burned without ceremony. Harry the Heir was given a proper funeral and interred in the Arryn crypt while the bodies of the other failed would-be heroes were discreetly stacked away to be buried when spring came. By the day of the wedding, no trace of the carnage remained.
Sandor wore a new set of clothes, part of his reward. He had a good new castle-forged longsword too, and the castle's blacksmith was currently working on a new suit of armor. The Blackfish had promised him ten thousand gold dragons as well. Sandor had had a notion that he would buy land and have a home built for him and Sansa to live quietly, but the Blackfish quickly disabused him of that.
"Sansa's marriage to Harry would have meant he and the Vale would fight to restore the North to its rightful lady. I can command the Vale as lord protector, but Robert will not last much longer and my influence here will be finished. However, there are still loyal lords in the North and in the riverlands who will fight for Sansa. Leading them will be your responsibility."
Slaying Gregor had restored the damage fleeing the burning Blackwater Bay had done to his reputation. Sansa's lords would not be happy to bend the knee to him, but they would follow him in battle willingly enough. He'd spent his life fighting the Lannisters' battles; fighting his wife's battles was surely an improvement, even if the Elder Brother wouldn't agree.
He thought of the knightly vows he'd refused to take while he spoke his wedding vows. The two sets of vows were not so different. But he was only promising to protect one person - the only person he'd ever wanted to protect as a man - and he was certain he could keep this vow. He draped the cloak made in Clegane colors they'd made for him over her shoulders. Then he kissed her, more softly this time, and it was over. Sansa Stark was his wife.
She slipped her hand into his as they walked to the great hall for the feast. "You look good in those clothes. I knew that color would suit you."
She was on his left, away from the burns that marred the right side of his face. Sandor supposed he might not look bad when she couldn't see his scars. Or perhaps the little bird was just reciting one of her courtesies. He turned his face so his scars were visible to her and watched her react. Her eyes widened. Then she gave him a reproachful look, as if she knew what he was doing. She turned straight ahead, her chin held high. Sandor dearly wanted to skip the wedding feast and go straight to the consummation.
The feast was impressive though. They had not skimped. There were seven courses to the meal, from pheasant and aurochs to a variety of fresh fruits all the way from Dorne. Sandor used his new sword to cut the traditional wedding pie, but Sansa ate only a few mouthfuls and quickly set it aside for the lemoncakes.
"You haven't tried the lemoncakes," she observed.
"You're enjoying them enough for us both."
She didn't speak to him again until the dancing began. "It's bad luck not to dance at your own wedding," she said.
Sandor remembered her telling Joffrey that it was bad luck to kill a man on your name day. She had made that up so Joff would not kill the drunkard Dontos Hollard. Sandor wondered why she'd made this up. He indulged her, though he hadn't danced since he was little and his sister had forced him to partner with her so she could be prepared for a neighbor's wedding feast. "I had a sister," he told her.
He could tell from her expression that she had an idea of what had become of his and Gregor's sister. "What was she like?" she asked.
"Like you," he replied. "She liked songs and knights. She was a sweet, happy thing until Gregor went too far one night and killed her."
"We can name our first daughter after her if you'd like."
Sandor hadn't given any thought to children. He supposed they were inevitable once he was fucking her. He would have to protect them too. "You don't know what her name was. You might not like it."
"I'm sure I will, because it's your sister's name."
Bratty little Lord Robert insisted on dancing with Sansa next. Sandor returned to his seat to wait for her. To his surprise Nestor Royce's daughter wanted him to dance with her. Sandor refused. He claimed Sansa again for the third song, but then afterwards he had to relinquish her to the Blackfish. He lost patience when dancing for a fifth song began. "Enough," he roared, loud enough to be heard over the music. "I want my bride now."
There were catcalls and laughter. "Bed them," someone shouted, and the bedding began. Their wariness of him dulled by wine and the boldness of their leader, Royce's daughter, the women led Sandor to the bridal bedchamber, tugging at his clothes all the way. He quickly shed what was left of his clothing when he reached the bed. Sansa had already been deposited there, naked as her name day. The hair between her legs was only slightly darker than the auburn hair on her head.
"Get out," Sandor said to their wedding guests.
The fools only laughed and made bawdy suggestions until Sandor made to throw one man out bodily. Then they left and Sandor was alone with Sansa at last. She was afraid again; she wouldn't look at him. It made him angry. "Stop cowering like a frightened rabbit. What is it you think I'll do to you?"
"I'm a maiden on my wedding night."
He chuckled. So that was it. She was pretending to be a virgin. He touched her hair, then her face. She'd closed her eyes, but her lips were parted. He leaned to kiss her, then he decided against it. He stroked her lips with his forefinger for a moment before sliding his finger into her mouth. Her eyes opened. She looked confused. Then she seemed to understand. She began to suck. "Good," he told her approvingly. He imagined her sucking his cock. But that would have to wait for later. Tonight he was going to fuck her well and proper.
He cupped her breasts and squeezed them gently. She had great teats - large and creamy and tipped by delicate pink nipples. They looked almost edible. So he devoured them. Sansa gasped and gave little sighs as he suckled her teats. Her arms were around him, her hand in his hair. Yet when he tried to put his hand between her legs, her thighs were firmly clamped together. "Spread your legs."
She opened her legs wide, blushing so hard her face looked nearly as red as her hair. Sandor admired the sight exposed to him. He stroked her cunt and found it wet. He'd only ever been with whores before and he'd never felt any desire to put his mouth where hundreds of other men had spent their seed. But Sansa made him want to taste her.
"Oh," she exclaimed when he licked her cunt. She squirmed. Sandor held her thighs to keep her still for him. She moaned when he tried to suck the little nub above her cunt so he did that for a while. "Stop," she gasped. "Too much." He didn't stop. She screamed and her body bucked. Sandor felt quite proud of himself. "Stop now, please. It's starting to hurt," she said.
Sandor sat up and licked his lips. "Sweet you might look, but you taste salty," he told her. He was sure she would have blushed if she hadn't already been flushed with pleasure. His cock was demanding its pleasure. He pulled Sansa's legs up and pushed them forward. He entered her with a shallow thrust, then a deeper thrust all the way in.
"Ah." It was more a sound of pain than pleasure. Sandor was pleased to know he was bigger than she was used to. But he restrained himself, not fucking her too hard. She didn't close her eyes or look away from him once. That was almost was satisfying as the tight clench of her cunt.
When he was finished he laid beside her, simply enjoying the feeling and never wanting it to end. She cuddled against him and put her head on his chest, and he found himself saying, "The Elder Brother said I would be damned if I killed my brother."
"The Elder Brother?" she asked.
"The senior brother at the septry where I spent the past two years."
"You were at a septry?! I'd heard you'd become an outlaw."
"Some outlaw found my old helm and took it for his own."
"I think this Elder Brother was wrong," Sansa declared. "Prince Oberyn of Dorne had already killed Ser Gregor. How could you be a kinslayer for killing a dead man? I think the gods are more like to reward you for putting an end to the unholy abomination your brother had become."
"Spoken like a good, loyal wife," Sandor teased. He was pleased though. "I hope you're not tired, I mean to enjoy my reward some more."
"I'm not tired, my lo- Sandor."
He petted her hair. "Why did you marry me?"
"Because you wanted me, not gold or lands. And because I wanted you to kiss me again."
Again? He was about to ask her what she meant by that, but she draped herself atop him and kissed him, and Sandor lost interest in anything but enjoying Sansa.