Chapter Text

Chapter 13: Pawns in the Hands of Gods

Sandor

He was adrift in a sea of black. A calming place without pain or fear. Sandor liked this place, he could stay here for a while and wouldn’t bother him. Yet, it was also a lonely place. One devoid of others, devoid of her. 

A light in the distance glowed warm. Sandor drifted to it, curious as to what it might be. “Take care of her,” a female voice said. “She is all that is left of me on this earth, all that will be remembered.”

“I love her,” Sandor confirmed to the light, holding a hand up to shield his eyes from its sheer brightness. He didn’t have to ask the light who ‘she’ was, deep down they both knew. 

A slight chuckle came from the light, while it began to fade gently away. “Goodbye, Sandor Clegane. I knew you were the right one. The one to set me free.”

Confusion overtook his thoughts, who was he setting free and how? As far as he was concerned he was nothing but a raider who had given more misery to lives then he had taken away. Clearly the light was mistaken, or wrong. 

To be suddenly thrust from the comfort of the darkness caused Sandor’s body to jolt. His eyes popped open and he sucked in a huge breath. It hurt. His lungs were dry, lifeless things being kicked back into the real world. 

A ray of sun shone through the thick leaves of the Old Heart tree, which rustled under the sudden wind. It was a warm wind, one that forced him to suck in more air than he knew he was capable of. Slowly he began to feel the soft, life giving moss, under his hands. It was cool, its dampness seeping into his bones, making them tingle with energy. Sandor’s heart beat strongly in his wounded chest. 

Then the sound of Sansa’s voice filled his ears. He did not know what she was saying, only that she was both surprised and concerned. Sandor could feel her fingers on his chest, the wetness of tears there as well. Nobody had ever cried over him before. That was his first thought whilst he came back to life. He’d long held on to the belief that nobody would mourn his death. If he fell in battle his body would be left in the sun to rot like all the others. 

Yet she cared. Otherwise she wouldn’t be gripping him as she did, nor would she have wetted his cold dead skin with tears of sadness.

Reflexively he gripped her hand, his head turning to her. Sansa’s eyes were wide in shock, her body trembling in disbelief. She looked at the Old Heart tree, took in the leaves moving in the breeze, and mumbled her own private words of prayer to nature. 

Her eyes met his again, “You were dead.”

“I know,” was the only thing he could utter, the pain of his injuries confirming that he had been indeed dead.

She fell upon his chest, and Sandor found the strength to wrap her up in his arms. The more he clung to her the more his pain dissipated. The more she kissed him the more he felt the will to live. A gust of wind blew through the trees, bending the strong limbs of the Old Heart tree and making them form a shield around the pair. Privacy in one of the oldest of northern woods. The moss was soft and cool under his naked body. Sansa was warm. Alive. Willing. His cock was at full attention between them, and Sandor was at a loss for an explanation as to why. 

There was a moment of terror that drifted through his head when she lifted her head from his chest. A moment where he was concerned that the state of his manhood would frighten her, turn her, upset her. And yet, as she beheld his wounded body with curious eyes. He was spread out against the soft green moss, there was nothing to shield his body against her gaze. It seemed she liked it that way. Sandor saw a flash in her eye he had never seen before. A need that she had never shown him. As if she were inspired by his lecherous member. As if possessed by the need to take him as quickly and as ravenously as she could.

Sansa

She was overcome with need for this man. The man who had stolen her from her home, taken her from her family, and saved her life. Here in this wood, he had sacrificed himself so that she might live, so that she might be safe from harm. The only thing that was going through her mind was how much she wanted him to claim her. 

It was inexplicable, like a tiny whisper in her head telling her exactly what she needed to do. 

Her skirts came off surprisingly fast, as did the rest of her garments. The cool wind rustling through the trees made the hot day bearable. As if guided by an unseen hand, Sansa straddled the mighty warrior quickly bringing the tip of his manhood to her slickened maiden’s gift. She moaned.

It was a gift after all, a gift of purity that she was ready to shed. Sandor had shown her love, honor, and above all loyalty. There was no suppressing the feelings that had been building inside her, no denying what she already knew. She would give him the one thing that she could that meant something to her. 

To spill her maiden’s blood would be to never pray at the Sept for the Maiden again. Her patron, her protector. Sansa knew this act would force her to leave this faith behind. She knew that this moment she and Sandor would share under the old heart tree would change everything. 

Yet again, had this miracle not been old magic? What she had witnessed, Sandor’s death and consequent resurrection, was that not the work of the Old Gods? Yes, she could hear a whisper through the trees. Now be with him.

Her lower lips parted, the head of his cock knocking forcefully at her entrance. Sansa looked down at Sandor, cupped his face, and knew how much she loved him. Tenderly she slid herself down his impossibly long manhood, feeling every inch. Her breathing became labored, her face scrunched as she made room for him. Then, a rip. She gasped, her fingers digging into his injured shoulders. Sansa leaned over, her forehead touching his own. Sandor’s hands came to her bum, and on the next breath he sheathed himself completely inside of her. 

She screamed out in pain and in loss, unable to stop her hips from moving back and forth on his cock. Tears of joy and sadness streamed down her porcelain face. There was no going back, no second chances. It felt to Sansa as if a hand caressed her face, the gentle loving hand of a young woman. She could sense joy and sadness. Love and loss. Then it was gone. 

Sandor sat up, and she slid deeper into this lap. Sansa hugged their bodies closer, welcoming the chance to take him deeper inside of her. Slowly her whimpers of sadness turned to screams of joy. Her head tipping back in satisfaction and appreciation for her partner. They kissed, they loved, and they explored the joys of the flesh on the altar of the Old Gods. 

There was a long standing tradition in northern culture that had nearly been rooted out by the worship of the Seven. Sansa had only heard about it from Old Nan, who still kept many of the old traditions. The fact that there could be no life without pain, and no reward without sacrifice was a strong held belief amongst the Northmen. Blood sacrifice to the Old Gods meant a strong connection, a lifelong one. One she had never in her life done, until today.

She looked between them, her maiden’s blood had left streaks on the green moss below them, nectar for the Old Gods. “With this blood, we commit ourselves to you.” The words came tumbling out, as if she had always known what to say. “With this blood, we will keep the faith.”

A small prayer but not without its significance. Particularly now as she and Sandor are locked in a lover’s embrace. Giving themselves freely to one another, and pronouncing their allegiance to those that he kept them together. Her lips met Sandor’s and their bodies moved feverishly against one another. His grey eyes widened, then rolled back and she felt him erupt inside of her. “With this seed, we ask for life. We ask for mercy.” Sansa removed herself from her lover, allowing a mix of blood and seed to land on the moss under the Old Heart tree. It was an offering as old as time, a sign of true devotion.

“We ask for mercy,” Sandor whispered, “for are we not the pawns of the Gods?”

Sansa smiled, pressing her cheek on his and inviting her partner to take her further. He did not refuse. He was a virile man, a strong and capable lover. Sansa gave into the carnal pleasures he could offer her, sealing her pact not only with him, but with those who would keep them safe. 

Unbeknownst to the young lovers, the old woman peaked from behind a lowered branch of the Old Heart tree. She cackled lightly to herself, satisfied with her work now many life times in the making. She tasted the air, felt the years of age and worry lift from her skin as fresh maiden’s blood seeped into the earth, and fresh seed swam over it. There was no life to be had.

“Yes,” she whispered to the wind, “they are perfect for one another. Perfect for us.” She gripped a walking stick and continued to watch them copulate. The old woman, now turning younger, could taste their sweat, even feel their sexual joys just a little bit. The greater and longer their sacrifice, the more she and the other gods would feed. Long since withered, they needed a good feast, a long sacrifice to rebuild their strength.

The woman sent another gust of wind through the trees, ensuring Sandor’s virility would stay as long as they needed, so that the sacrifice would not just sate her and the other gods, but fill them to near bursting.

“They will have many strong children who will keep the faith,” the wind nodded its approval through the leaves of the trees. “And of course, they will tell the tale of the Warrior’s Test. There is no love without tribulation, and no faith without sacrifice. The old ways must be heeded, the pact between men and gods unbroken.” 

The woman, now youthful, smiled and slowly disappeared into the nothingness. And so ends the tale of the Warrior’s Test.