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Serpentine - Ch. 11/b
A million thanks to my amazing beta, ownsariver. I could never have finished this chapter without her!!!

This is the 2nd half of my update... Thank you so much for reading!!


The journey took much longer than Sansa expected. She thought it would only take a fortnight to reach the Twins, but when she’d counted 16 days of travel, she asked the Queen if they were almost there. Cersei laughed in her face, and told her they were at least another month away from their destination. Sansa soon came to loathe the close-quarters of the wheelhouse. It took everything inside of her to smile prettily and be courteous when all she wanted to do was scream. She was used to hiding her feelings behind a placid, ladylike mask, but now she couldn’t let down her guard for a single moment, not even at night, because she must share the Queen’s pavilion, too. Being so close to the freedom she had prayed for, for so long, made her days even more of a trial, and the forced inactivity was driving her mad. At King’s Landing, she had become accustomed to wandering the Red Keep, picking flowers in Myrcella’s garden, visiting the wells and the stables, riding her horse in the bailey, and walking to the sept or the godswood whenever she pleased. Even when she chose to stay in her rooms all day working on her embroidery, she was never so sedentary as this. There was nothing to do in the wheelhouse but eat and drink and sew and sleep.

And oh, gods, she missed Sandor. She couldn’t stop herself from thinking about him, about the times they had given each other pleasure in the godswood. She wanted to feel his mouth on hers, his fingers caressing her nipples, his manhood hard between her legs. She longed to unlace his breeches and slide her hand up and down the length of him like he’d taught her, savoring the feel of her fingers wrapped around his… his huge cock… while he moaned and thrust his hips beneath her.

She wanted to do other things too. The thought of giving him pleasure excited her as much as receiving it from him. She imagined all the different ways she could touch him and… and gods be good, taste him… and was quite scandalized at her ability to dream up such wickedly unladylike things. Sansa wished she knew if other ladies had such thoughts, or if she was depraved. She was wet all the time, and the delicious, torturous ache of her desire never seemed to go away. Sometimes she wanted to cry in frustration. She couldn’t even give herself release, because she was never left alone long enough. She didn’t dare touch herself even when she lay awake at night, listening to the deep, even breathing of the Queen and all the maids, in case she made too much noise or any of them was lying in the dark, unable to sleep, as she was.

They finally crossed the Trident just over a month into their travels and would reach the Twins in less than ten days. Sansa’s tummy fluttered with anticipation every time she thought of her wedding, which was constantly. She was so jittery that even the Queen noticed. One day, Cersei, irritated by her fidgeting, ordered Sansa to drink a cup of wine, and when she was finished with that, threatened to make her drink another. “If you cannot stay still, Sansa, I will make you drink until you fall asleep in your cups.” Sansa was extra careful after that, and when she wasn’t able to focus on her sewing, she would simply sit, willing herself to keep her hands still and breathing deeply to try and slow her racing heart.

Time passed more slowly than she ever thought possible, and she counted down the days. Five more days. Four more days. Three more days. Her world had shrunk down to the wheelhouse and the pavilion they slept in at night. She wished she had news of the world outside of the royal procession. No one told her anything, and she wasn’t even allowed outside the wheelhouse or the Queen’s pavilion, so she had no opportunity to overhear any gossip. Two more days. Did Sandor miss her? Did he think of her as much as she thought of him? She thanked the gods they were so close to the Twins. She thought she would go mad if she didn’t see Sandor again soon.

Tomorrow. Sansa was wildly excited about her wedding day, but no one would have ever known. She sat in the wheelhouse, quietly absorbed in sewing the final bit of trim onto her Stark gown, and daydreaming about her husband-to-be. It was late afternoon, and the Queen had spoken hardly a word to her since they broke their fast in the pavilion, before resigning themselves to one more long, dull day of travel. I feel almost like a ghost. Her body was here with the Queen, but her spirit was with her betrothed. She pictured him as she had seen him the day they left King’s Landing, at the head of the column, looking so strong and noble astride his fierce black war horse, with his squires proudly bearing the yellow and black banners of House Clegane on either side of him.

Just thinking about him brought a fresh wave of arousal. Sansa’s breath quickened. She longed for Sandor’s touch and squirmed, remembering the first time she had felt his strong, rough fingers between her legs, how astonished she’d been at the powerful, driving force of her desire when he’d stroked the slick folds of her lady’s place and circled her nub, until she was utterly at his mercy and begged him to take her. He’d often touched her with a delicacy surprising for such a big man, but until they’d become lovers she’d never dreamed of how intoxicating that deft touch would feel on the most sensitive parts of her body. She could feel the wetness between her legs soaking into her smallclothes. She squeezed her thighs together and squirmed again, her breath quickening as the pleasure between her legs deepened. If only she could have a few moments alone, she could touch herself there and—

“Sansa, are you quite well?” Cersei suddenly asked.

Sansa’s head snapped up and she blushed furiously. How long had the Queen been watching her? “Yes, Your Grace. You are kind to ask.”

“You are flushed and restless. Do you feel feverish? Shall I call a maester to examine you?”

“No, Your Grace! I am not ill, I swear to you.” Sansa remembered when Maester Pycelle had examined her after her father died, and shuddered.

“I am glad to hear it. Yet you’ve been as quiet as a mouse for days, and scarcely eat or drink. Is aught amiss?” Cersei spoke gently, but Sansa thought she saw a faint glimmer of amusement in her eyes. She is toying with me again. The Queen took great pleasure in needling Sansa about things—her sewing, her manners—but the subject of Sandor and her wedding seemed to entertain her most of all. 

“I… I am only longing to see my betrothed.” Sansa silently thanked the gods that this day, and this journey, was nearly at an end.

“Ah, yes. I’m certain Sandor Clegane has quite enchanted you. I can see that you are utterly lovesick over him,” Cersei said with a slight roll of her eyes. “You are quite good at saying what people want to hear, Sansa, but you don’t fool me. Nevertheless, I shall grant you leave to see your betrothed on the morrow. You will ride to the Twins together, in the sight of all your future loyal bannermen. It should make a good show for that lot. Wear your Stark dress.”

Sansa lowered her eyes and thanked the Queen meekly, but her heart soared with happiness. She yearned to look upon Sandor’s face even more than she craved his touch. It was his eyes she loved the most. She once thought his eyes were the most frightening thing about him, always so harsh and full of anger. They still were, except when he looked at her. Then she would see the anger give way to a softness that made her feel safe and loved… and desired. When he pleasured her, that softness grew into an intense, smoldering possessiveness that aroused her as much as his touch. And when he found his release, looking deep into her eyes and whispering her name, his face would be for a moment transformed. Sansa knew she was the only person in the world who ever saw him like that, and it made her love him even more.

The evening passed surprisingly quickly. Messages were sent to Sandor and arrangements made for her to be escorted to him after the Queen’s party had broken their fast. Sansa carefully laid out her new gown and chose a plain silver necklace to wear with it. When the cooks brought in the evening meal, she was too excited to eat more than a few bites, but did so resolutely, knowing that it would be impossible to swallow anything when she broke her fast the next day. She did her best to engage in interesting conversation with the Queen, but was too distracted by thoughts of Sandor to do a very good job of it. Cersei finally dismissed her, and she gratefully retired to her corner of the grand pavilion. It was late, but the Queen would be up for hours writing letters and reading reports. Sansa wished she had someone to write letters to, or a friend to talk to about Sandor and her happiness about their upcoming marriage. Her maids undressed her and wrapped her in a warm robe. She requested a small cup of wine and sipped it while they brushed her hair, hoping it would make her drowsy enough to overcome her excitement. It helped, but it was still hours before she was finally able to sleep.

Sansa was so tightly wound the next morning, she could not even manage to sip a cup of milk as she broke her fast with the Queen. She trembled with excitement and anxiety. She hoped Sandor would be happy to see her. What if he was indifferent? She remembered the look in his eyes the day they left King’s Landing, and knew she was being a fool to have such doubts, but she couldn’t help it. Cersei gave her leave to dress when she could see that Sansa would not eat, and she hurried to her corner of the tent to begin preparing for her reunion with her betrothed.  Her maid bathed her quickly, and then brushed her hair until it was smooth and glossy, and gathered it back from her face with two small braids that met at the back of her head while the rest of her hair hung loose to her waist. Cersei lent her another handmaid, who dabbed perfume behind her ears and on her wrists and breasts, and buffed her nails to a lustrous shine with a soft sheepskin.

The women’s attentions did little to calm Sansa’s frayed nerves. She stood in a daze as they began to dress her in the gown she had sewn during the long weeks of travel. It was made of white wool so finely woven she could almost see through it, lined with white silk and worn over a dove-grey silk underskirt that she had brought with her from Winterfell, quilted for warmth. The neck was cut in a deep V down to her waist, and a panel of embroidered silk covered the gap for modesty. Grey fox fur trimmed the neck, sleeves, and hem of the dress, and she wore a black silk sash around her waist. She would wear her soft leather riding boots instead of slippers.

Her maid finished lacing her gown and held up a mirror. Sansa studied her reflection in wonder. Is this really me? She was shocked at how much she had changed since leaving King’s Landing. She looked more a woman now than a girl. She had her mother’s fine, high cheekbones. They seemed more accentuated now, and her deep blue eyes glowed softly, as if lit from within. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement, and her lips seemed fuller and more sensuous. She blushed at the memory of Sandor’s mouth pressing hard against her own during their trysts in the godswood of the Red Keep. 

Her daydreams were interrupted just then, when a page announced Ser Meryn’s arrival. Sansa swallowed and licked her lips nervously, then took a deep breath, threw her cloak over her shoulders, and followed him out of the tent. The camp was bursting with activity. People and animals were milling about like bees in a hive as servants packed chests and loaded horses and wagons and struck tents. Curious glances were thrown her way as she passed, but Sansa scarcely noticed. She felt nervous and shy. It had been well over a month since she and Sandor had seen each other. That was longer than all the time they’d spent as lovers in King’s Landing. She hoped he still loved her, as she loved him.


Sandor brushed and watered Stranger while his men made camp. Tomorrow would be the last day of riding. He was bloody ready for this journey to be at an end. The party had been beset by very few problems, his men got along well enough with each other and never gave him any trouble, but the travel had been grueling nonetheless. He was an accomplished horseman, but it still took some getting used to, to be in the saddle from sunrise to sunset every day. Stranger was a damned good horse, but Sandor would be glad to not even look at the beast for a month after this. In fact he would be happy not to see a single fucking living thing for half a year after this trip was over, except for Sansa. The only time he was by himself was at night, alone in his tent, and even then he could hear his men talking, gambling, snoring, fucking. He was sick of being surrounded by people.

The worst thing was not being able to see his little bird. Sandor wanted Sansa, badly. His cock was hard at sunrise, midday, and night from thinking about her. He couldn’t leave his tent in the mornings until he had stroked himself to release, and couldn’t wait to duck inside it when they’d set up camp at night so he could take himself into hand again. And gods, the camp followers… The camp followers were eager for his attentions, and he would have given a golden dragon to be able to fuck any one of them, his needs were so strong. But he’d sworn to Sansa that he’d touch no other woman but her, and he meant to keep his vow. So he fucked his hand instead, and drank wine to take the edge off of his hunger for her, and counted the days until they reached the Twins.

Sandor took Stranger’s rope and walked him back to the camp, tethering the horse outside his tent. He stepped inside, tied the flap shut, and tore off his swordbelt with one hand as he began unlacing his breeches with the other. Thoughts of Sansa’s soft lips, warm tongue, and full breasts had been torturing him all bloody day long, and he was so hard he knew he would need more than one release tonight. He groaned as he wrapped his hand around his cock and used his thumb to spread the moisture around at the tip, imagining it was Sansa’s tongue instead. He sat in his chair and leaned back, stroking his cock slowly as his pleasure built. Sansa. Memories from the godswood played out behind his closed eyes... Sansa wrapping her legs around his waist when he held her in his arms to kiss her… the feel of her sweet, firm arse wriggling in his arms as she ground her cunt against his belly... the way she’d push her breasts at him when he took a nipple into his mouth… He began stroking himself faster as he rushed to his peak. The last time, when he’d finally laid her down and flipped her skirts up, she’d been so wet for him, begging him to fuck her, and he’d slid his cock along her warm, slick folds, so close to plunging himself inside her, it would have been so easy… Sandor grunted and spilled his seed into a rag, breathing heavily. He wished for the thousandth time that they’d been married before this godsforsaken journey to the Twins. He was so ready for her, he’d likely spend himself on their wedding night quicker than a green boy having his first fuck.

He was lacing up his breeches when one of his squires called urgently from outside the tent. “Milord, there’s a messenger come from the Queen.”

He paused. The Queen hadn’t sent any messages at all to him this whole time. Sansa was traveling with her. Had something happened to the little bird? Sandor cursed and hurriedly stepped out of the tent, fastening his swordbelt around his hips. His squire stood next to a page in Lannister crimson, with the King’s sigil on his breast. Both were looking at him anxiously. He scowled at them and turned to the page. “What is it, boy?” he demanded.

“Her Grace Queen Cersei wishes for Lady Sansa to ride with you to the Twins tomorrow, in sight of all the lords bannermen. Ser Meryn Trant will bring her to you, m’lord. You’re not to start out without her,” the page said nervously.

Sandor felt a rush of relief. Sansa, he thought again. It was past fucking time he laid his eyes on the little bird again. Sunrise couldn’t come soon enough. “Give the Queen my thanks. Tell her I’ll wait.”

His men called out and waved him over, inviting him to sup with them. More often than not he did, even when all they had to eat was dried meat and stale bread. But they’d gone hunting earlier in the day and brought back several rabbits, which they’d roasted on spits above the large fire at the center of the camp. They’d just been taken off the flames. Sandor took one and tore it in half, tossing the other half to his squire; he suddenly felt ravenously hungry. As he ate, he thought about the bannermen, who had begun to arrive a few days ago. The only ones to speak to him, though, were Marq Piper and his father, Clement, of Pinkmaiden Castle, far to the south of the Twins. Their house was sworn to Riverrun before it was given to Emmon Frey and his Lannister wife. They had asked leave of Sandor to accompany him on the way to the Twins, had said it would be a great honor to be the first among the bannermen to welcome Sansa Stark home. Now, great lords and small were encamped along the banks of the Green Fork, come to attend the wedding and pay their respects to Sansa. The Pipers hadn’t seemed particularly put out about Sandor being their new liege lord. He hoped the rest of them were as easy.

Just then, his other squire came running up. This one was a few years older than the other one, and missed supper half the time in favor of fucking one or another of the camp followers. “Milord, there’s someone to see you. He’s waiting at your pavilion. A lord, and two other men,” he said breathlessly.

Night had fallen quickly. Sandor rose and lit a torch in the fire before striding back to his tent to meet the party. The man waiting to speak to Sandor was huge, as tall as he himself was, but bulkier. One of his companions was holding a banner showing a giant holding broken chains against a red background. One of the northern lords. Umber. The Greatjon stood stiffly with his arms crossed over his chest as Sandor approached and looked him over.

“Jon Umber. Most loyal bannerman to Eddard Stark of Winterfell, so I’ve heard,” he stated.

“Aye, that’s true, Sandor Clegane,” Umber said, with thinly veiled contempt. “Lord Clegane of the Crossing.“ He spoke slowly, as if tasting every word. “Most loyal servant to King Joffrey and House Lannister, so I’ve heard.”

Sandor’s face darkened. Bloody bastard. “We’ll talk in private,” he said, nodding towards his tent. “Your men will stay outside.”

Inside the pavilion, Sandor slammed a flagon of wine and two cups on his table. The Greatjon poured for himself and drank it down straightaway, then poured again and pushed the flagon towards Sandor, glaring.

Sandor filled his cup and took a healthy swallow. “State your bloody business, Umber,” he growled.

“I never thought I’d see the day that Sansa Stark, daughter of Eddard Stark and last surviving member of a line 8,000 years old, would marry the Lannister’s dog. Joffrey’s dog.”  The Greatjon’s voice rose angrily as he spoke.

“My own dog now. You think Sansa had any say in the matter? You think the Lannisters give two shits about what Sansa wants?” Sandor’s face was tight with fury.

Jon Umber downed another cup of wine. “The Lannisters are all as bad as Walder Frey and his lot. I’ve heard tales of how gently the Lannisters treated Sansa. Why should I think you’re any better than them?”

“I don’t give a rat’s arse what you think of me. Sansa Stark is safe with me. You don’t know half of what you think you do,” Sandor said, pushing himself to his feet. The Greatjon was standing in an instant.

Lord Jon Umber’s face turned darker, his eyes burning with anger. “I’ll not let Ned Stark’s daughter down, Clegane. But the North remembers. Know that.”

Sandor snorted contemptuously and clenched his fists at his sides. “Fuck your threats, Umber. Tomorrow we reach the Twins. Sansa’s to ride with me. If you want to be part of the escort, be here an hour after first light. If not, it’s no hair off my arse. It will mean a good deal more to Sansa, though.”

The Greatjon stalked out of his tent without another word. Before Sandor tied the flap shut behind him, he ordered his squires to bugger off and not bother him again until the morning so he could drink his wine in peace. He fetched another flagon from his supplies, sat back down at the table, and drank until he was no longer brooding. It was very late when he finally shuttered the lantern and lay down on his pallet, but still, he couldn’t stop thinking. Tomorrow we reach the Twins. Sansa would be riding with him. He’d never thought he could have a beauty like her, even to fuck, much less to take to wife. She was so soft spoken and courteous, a proper little lady. And she always smelled so sweet. Not like him. He hadn’t had a proper bath in days, aside from splashing water on his face and washing his cock and balls. He stank of wood smoke, sweat, horse, dirt, and probably worse. He ought to bathe in the river when he watered Stranger in the morning. He tried to picture himself riding into the Twins with Sansa Stark by his side and the bannermen of the Riverlands and the North escorting them. He’d have to dress the part, as he had done when his lordship was announced. His cock had grown hard again thinking of his little bird, so he stroked himself to release one more time before sleep claimed him.

The morning dawned bright and clear. Sandor bathed in the river while Stranger drank his fill and tore mouthfuls of grass from the lush floodplain of the Green Fork. The water was bloody fucking cold, and Sandor cursed, but he didn’t want to smell like one of the begging brothers when he saw Sansa. He lathered up and scrubbed himself down three times and washed his hair twice just to be sure. When he returned to his pavilion, his squires crowded him, bringing wine and a bit of the roasted rabbit leftover from the night before. He took the wine and waved them away. As soon as he was in his tent, he poured a cup and gulped it down. He hated to admit it, but he was nervous. He pulled on his breeches and boots. What if Sansa didn’t want him anymore? It had been so long since they had seen each other. He donned his tunic and ringmail next. What if the time apart had cooled her passion, even as it had inflamed his? He shook out his surcoat. The surcoat, yellow silk with the three black dogs of his house, had been given to him by Cersei. He hadn’t worn it yet. Now seemed a good time to do so. He buckled his swordbelt over it, combed his hair and fastened his cloak about his shoulders, and went outside to wait for the little bird. His squires immediately began dismantling his tent.

Marq Piper and his father had already arrived and were standing with the Greatjon. The camps along the procession buzzed with anticipation. Stranger tossed his head and stamped impatiently, the excitement of the camp making him restless. Sandor hooked his thumbs on his sword belt and tried to clear his mind of all thoughts, to keep his doubts at bay. The camp bustled and hummed around him, but the noise faded into the distance when his eyes caught the figure of Meryn Trant heading his way with Sansa behind him. He could see her skirts swirling about her feet and her auburn hair stirring in the breeze. Ser Meryn’s squire followed, leading the horse Sansa was to ride.

Sandor leaned to the side, trying to see more of her, to see her face. A few more steps, and Sansa edged away from Trant just enough to be able to see over his shoulder, her eyes scanning the encampment ahead of her. Looking for me. Just then she saw him, and all at once she’d brushed past Ser Meryn and hitched up her skirts and was walking quickly toward him. He strode to meet her, blind to everything else happening around him; none of that mattered because his little bird was here, finally, and she was all but running to him, laughing and smiling with tears in her eyes.

Sandor swept her up in a hard embrace, not giving a shit who saw. She threw her arms around his neck and clung to him, and he buried his face in her hair while she leaned her head against his. “Sansa,” he said in a hoarse whisper, and she turned her head and whispered something in return. “My lord,” it sounded like, but Sansa knew better by now than to call him that. She whispered it again. My love was what she’d said. He pressed his mouth to hers, and all the fires in the seven hells couldn’t have stopped him. She brushed her tongue against his lips, just the slightest touch, and he squeezed her more closely against his body and touched his tongue to hers, too, wishing he could do more, wishing that all the peasants and lords alike who stood there gaping at them like fools would just go bugger off.

He let her down reluctantly and led her to where Piper and Umber were waiting. The look on the Greatjon’s face was worth more than 100 golden dragons. Sandor wanted to laugh, even as he swelled with pride, as he explained that the men were riding as their escorts to the Twins.

Marq Piper bowed deeply. “My lady, it is good to have a Tully back in the Riverlands. I was, and still am, a great friend of your uncle, Edmure. My father and I are honored to be among the lords bannermen come to welcome you home. House Piper will ever be loyal to yours,” he said, nodding to Sandor as well.

The Greatjon put a hand on Sansa’s shoulder. “Truly, the gods are good to let me look upon the face of a Stark of Winterfell once more. Your father is still well loved among the northern lords and clansmen. The North remembers, Lady Sansa. I served your lord father faithfully, and your brother Robb as well. I would give my life to help the cause of any child of Lord Eddard Stark. The swords of House Umber will always be at your service.” He gave Sandor a hard look. “And yours, Lord Clegane.”

“You do me great honor, my lords,” Sansa said. “My lord father and lady mother would have been so pleased to know that their most loyal bannermen traveled so far to welcome me home.”

“It is as it should be, my lady,” said the elder Piper.

Her horse was brought around just then. “Are you ready, my lady?” Sandor asked.

“Yes, my lord.” Their words were formal, but the looks they gave each other were afire with all the love and desire they were holding back for the sake of decorum. He gently lifted her into the saddle, never taking his eyes from hers, and when she was seated he gave her a small nod of understanding and then swung onto Stranger’s back. When the bannermen had mounted their horses, he nodded at Sansa again, and his men fell in behind them as they led the procession on its last day of riding towards their new home.

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Haha yay! I cant wait! :D
But good luck with it and im sure itll be awesome cuz it was written by u lolz
And i hope you become unstressed soon haha
Ps, Luna's a cool fuckin name. Good choice

Edited at 2012-08-13 06:55 pm (UTC)

Thank you! Luna's a cool fuckin' dog, too! She learned how to swim yesterday, all by herself!

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