Sandor slowly opened his eyes and was blinded by brilliant golden-white light, so dazzling he immediately screwed them tight shut again. As a kaleidoscope of rainbow colours flashed behind his eyelids he tried to remember where he was and what had happened to him. Deciding to keep his eyes shut for now, he instead focussed on his other senses to try and piece things together.
The first thing he noticed was that he was insanely comfortable. His body was cushioned on something extremely plush and soft, and slightly bouncy. ‘Almost buoyant?’ he thought perplexed as he gave an experimental wriggle and his body lolled first to one side, then the other. ‘Definitely not my bed,’ he realised and tried to sit up to see whose room he was in. He bobbed and bounced wildly as he scrambled to try and right himself, his bulk making it impossible to find stability, in fact he started to feel a little queasy. Deciding it might be best to lay still for the time being he took stock of his body. All limbs were present and he felt incredibly well rested and sated. In fact, he felt like he’d been asleep for a thousand years. Perhaps that explains his complete memory blank.
Minutes ticked by but he had nothing. He could not remember a single thing except for the bizarre dream that he’d had… soft hands stroking his chest, and red, so much red hair and birds. An angel had visited him, she had hair of fire and eyes as blue as the ocean. She had kissed him and touched his cheek, whispering her undying love, that’s how he knew she had just been a dream.
‘Damn it, focus man!’
“My name is Sandor Clegane. I am 38 years old. I live alone with my dog, Stranger, and I am a grouchy, scarred bastard,” he began to recite aloud, hoping that it would trigger his memory. His deep, raspy voice sounded even more so than usual, so much so he surmised that he’d had a fair bit to drink and perhaps even a cigar or two in celebration… that’s it, he almost had it, it was on the edge of his recollection, but before he could follow the thread of thought, it was gone.
He tried rolling from his front to his back to push himself up, but all he managed to achieve was knotting himself up further in whatever it was his body was wrapped up in. In an effort to unknot himself he kicked his legs but only succeeded in bouncing his top half right off whatever it was he was lying on before smacking back down with a loud slap. ‘What in the seven hells is this, a bouncy fucking castle?’ he thought in irritation.
Slowly his other senses began to kick in and he desperately tried to piece things together.
Music. He could hear some kind of music, and running water and the whispering of something blowing in the breeze. But mostly the music.
‘Is that a fucking harp?’. He strained his ears in disbelief but there was no doubt that the gentle strumming and plucking he could hear was harp strings, accompanied by angelic singing. The room was filled with the gentle tones of choral music, not dissimilar to the sort of music he could imagine was piped through speakers at those fancy spas that Sansa like to visit. ‘Sansa,’ he thought like a prayer. He remembered the woman he’d secretly been in love with for the past three years, but couldn’t remember where the hell he was right now. Figures. But then, how could he not remember her; those blue eyes, hair kissed by fire, the crinkle in her nose when she laughed, how beautiful she would sound singing to herself… then he remembered some other less-angelic singing, a fat little man that looked vaguely like Elvis crooning into a microphone, an awful rendition of ‘I’m too sexy’, large hips thrusting lewdly at the microphone stand. By the Crone! Had that been him on a karaoke? He really hoped not. Pink bubbles and amongst it all endless amounts of glitter and confetti exploding over him...
‘Last night… what in the buggering hells had happened?’.
He finally managed to disentangle his limbs from the shroud-like sheet, and the next thing he realised was the fact that he was naked, very naked, stark bollocks naked. ‘How did that happen?’ he thought before he was hit with images of delicate angel hands unbuckling his belt, pushing his shirt from his shoulders, the rake of nails through his chest hair, the whisper of a silky dress falling to the floor, and the slow drag of black lace panties being removed by his teeth…
Huffing at himself he dismissed his fanciful daydreams and instead tried to focus on figuring out What. In. The. Fucking. Hells. Is. Going. On.
Perhaps he was still asleep. It would certainly account for the lack of thudding hangover-head that would usually accompany a memory blank of this scale. It would also explain why he felt like he was floating on a cloud. Cloud! The thought hit him with panic, as vague memories surfaced of the ethereal, angelic being leading him to something white and pillowy, kissing his forehead and carefully wrapping him up in some kind of white sheet. Perhaps it wasn’t a dream! Perhaps he had died and this was the seven heavens? ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ he chastised himself. ‘It’d be the seven hells for me.’ That was how he knew this was definitely a dream.
Sandor wondered if it was possible to dream within a dream. He wasn’t sure, but as it was happening to him he guessed so. Besides it was his dream, he could do as he damn well pleased. So where in the seven hells was Sansa?! Surely his Little Bird should have a starring role. Things just didn’t make any sense. Perhaps he’d been drugged and this wasn’t a dream at all, but instead he was on a crazy trip. Determined to find out one way or the other, Sandor renewed his efforts to get out of the floaty, bouncy sleeping platform. He refused to call whatever this ridiculous contraption was, a bed.
Reaching out to his side instinctively, his fingers landed on more soft silk sheets, ‘softer than a virgin’s thighs. Almost as soft as Sansa’s hair,’ he thought absentmindedly. A vivid flash of his fingers tangled in long, auburn hair burst behind his eyelids. Hair that smelled like lemons and flowers. Hair knotted around his fist as he watched luscious pink lips wrapped around his cock, impossibly blue eyes smiling up at him, ‘Sansa’ he moaned as he watched his cock pulse his load down her throat...
‘Sansa, that’s it!’ That had been the angel woman’s name from his dream. Sansa. So he did dream of her after all. She had been in his arms, in his bed. They’d kissed, touched, fucked. In his dreams.
Feeling only slightly perturbed by the lucidity of his dreams, he nervously licked his lips and found that he could still taste the bourbon he had been drinking the night before… ‘aha, that’s it!’ he thought triumphantly, ‘we were several rounds into Tormand’s stag night and…. and….’. That was it, the memories slipped away from him again, dispersing like wisps of smoke as he tried to grasp onto them.
But mixing with the bourbon he could determine another taste, something slightly salty and musky, something delicious and arousing... a vivid flash of his large hands wrapped around soft milky-white thighs, his nose brushing against glorious auburn curls as he breathed in the heady scent of female arousal, his lips greedily drinking her sweet honey as her hips desperately ground her swollen slit against his mouth, his tongue teasing her hard little nub, ‘sing for me Little Bird’ he growled...
Once again he tried opening his eyes. Everywhere was bathed in golden light. Slowly his eyes adjusted and the fuzzy shapes began to take form. Looking around he could see several tall marble pillars, billowing white curtains and in the centre of the ‘room?’ was a fountain decorated with little golden cherubs. Straight ahead of him was a large opening filled with blindingly white light, a shadowy shape hovering on the edge of his vision just beyond the whiteness. He felt drawn to it and tried to sit up, causing him to wobble violently from side to side.
Finally looking down at whatever fucking contraption he was laying on, he saw that it was white, fluffy and shaped like, well, like a cloud. Seven hells, he was actually on a cloud!
Fucking hells! It all began to fall into place. The cloud, the harps, the white doorway drawing him in and the visions flashing before his eyes. He was dead. Not dreaming or drugged, dead. In an odd contradiction he felt his pulse start to race with adrenaline at the realisation. ‘Odd.’ he thought. ‘And aren’t the visions meant to be flashbacks of my life, not the pornesque reel of filthy desires I had? Not that I’m complaining mind, far rather have visions of angel Sansa sucking my dick dry than remembering Gregor and my hell of a childhood.’
Sandor decided that dying really was nothing at all like he expected. He gave a proper belly laugh at that thought and in so doing finally managed to flop himself off his cloud. He started to scream, expecting to hurtle down through the skies and smash through the Earth’s crust and descend into the fiery depths of the seven hells, but to his great surprise he landed with a large and painful thud on a hard, cold marble floor.
Upon hearing his inelegant dismount, the shadowy figure turned and began to approach, slowing coming into sharper focus as it neared.
It was definitely the Maiden.
He lay there on the floor, open-mouthed, making no attempt to move as he watched her come closer and closer. She didn’t walk, she glided, her sheer white gown billowing around her in the breeze. He could see the shape of her teats, the pink of her nipples… another vivid flash of him kissing those teats, his lips and tongue sucking on her hard little buds as desperate, whimpering cries fell from her mouth and her thighs gripped onto his hips...
A small gloop of slobber dripped from his lips onto his hand and slowly ran off to pool onto the floor.
“Sandor,” the Maiden cooed at him she bent down to him. Her voice was soft and melodic. ‘Yes, that’s exactly how an angel sounds,’ he thought matter of factly. The Maiden was smiling at him, light haloed around her red hair like a golden crown. She looked just like Sansa.
“Sandor… Sandor, don’t scream. Everything is alright. Come with me my love, it’s time….” she began, reaching out to take his massive hand with her dainty one and trying to pull him up and back onto his cloud.
“Am I in the seven heavens?” he asked the angel-woman with the red hair, thinking perhaps it might not be so bad after all, not if all the angels looked and sounded like her anyway.
“Tormand finally killed me didn’t he the mad fuck? Some lethal northern concoction and now I’m dead and you’re the Maiden, come to take me… only I didn’t expect the Maiden, nor the buggering seven heavens if I’m honest, more like the Stranger …” he started rambling.
“Oh Sandor,” she laughed, shaking her head at him.
‘Her laugh is like tinkling bells and her smile is divinity itself,’ he thought, only mildly irritated at his subconscious for spouting the sort of romantic twaddle that he despised and ridiculed when alive. ‘That’s your punishment you old fuck, sounding like a nonce for all eternity and acting like a love-struck bloody girl’
“Sandor. We’re in Las Vegas, the Kings Landing Hotel and Casino, and to be precise the Lion Honeymoon Suite.”
The what? He’s where? He just stared at her stupefied. He wasn’t sure if he was more relieved to be alive or disappointed that he didn’t have Sansa angel sex last night.
‘By the Crones Teat get a grip man,’ he chastised himself.
“Don’t you remember? We got married last night! You proposed when you won at the blackjack table so we went to the Little Chapel and were married by Elvis. Afterwards we drank pink champagne at the glitter bomb bar. You sang wonderfully on the karaoke, my love. Then you brought me to this hotel because it had a gigantic cloud shaped neon sign advertising ‘the biggest water bed in Las Vegas, it will take you to heaven or your money back’, you seemed quite excited by the challenge my love. Then when the concierge booked us into the Lion Suite, you very loudly told everyone in the lobby they would ‘hear you roar all night long’,” she tittered at him as she made air quotes.
He didn’t! Please say he didn’t say that. But with heat burning across his cheeks he knew that he had. Because as Sansa had very succinctly described the preceding evening’s events, his memories had hit him full force. Not only had he semi stripped in public, high on champagne and love and glitter, he also recalled saying ‘Fuck the King’ to his wedding celebrant when he had tried to chastise Sandor for trying to kiss his bride in an ‘inappropriate place for chapel’. He might also have taken the Lion theme a little far; repeatedly asking Sansa ‘can you feel the love’ as he prodded her with his dick, and literally shouting ‘roar’ at the top of his lungs when he filled her with his seed. He couldn’t be sure if that was the first or second time, or every time.
Wait! He was actually married to this glorious creature. ‘Sansa’, he kept pinching himself. He was married to his Little Bird, Sansa. And if his filthy flashbacks were anything to go by, they had consummated their marriage very thoroughly indeed. But just in case, he thought he ought to err on the side of caution; he reached for Sansa, capturing her lips in a bruising kiss as he pulled her to straddle his lap, grinding his already hard cock against her.
“Yes Sandor, I can feel the love,” she giggled before sinking herself down onto him.
They then proceeded to consummate their marriage one more time right there on the marble floor. And again in the shower. Then on the balcony. And one last time on the cloud. After all it’s better to be safe than sorry he reasoned.