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“Out of all the stupid ideas you’ve had, this is the stupidest one yet.”
Sandor lifted his eyes and glared at the sixteen-year-old girl who looked absolutely nothing like her sister. “Shut your mouth or I'll lock you in the bathroom and you can celebrate the new year there.”
She scowled right back at him. “Then who will light your stupid fireworks?”
“I can pay that kid who lives down the street from you to do it," he said, carefully setting the rockets inside the box. "What’s his name...Patrick?”
“Podrick,” Arya corrected him, rolling her eyes. “No, I'll do it. I want to be there when you propose to Sansa so I can laugh in your face when she says no."
When she snickered like some demon child straight out of the gates of hell, Sandor considered locking her in the bathroom of his apartment after all.
"Who the shit proposes to someone after six months anyway?” said Arya, practically asking to be locked away.
“I do!" he spat. "Now shut your fucking mouth!”
Sandor checked once, twice, three times that the fireworks inside the box were in order. Twelve rockets, twelve letters. And at twelve midnight, the night sky would be lit up by those twelve letters, those three words.
And those three words wouldn’t spell out ‘Happy New Year’, but instead, ‘Marry Me Sansa’.
As long as Arya doesn't fuck it up.
He could not say why he had asked the little sister for help. Initially, Sandor planned on asking Sansa's eldest brother, Robb, until he learned he would be leaving town with his mates to celebrate New Year's Eve. Then, he thought about asking her step-brother, Jon, but Sandor could not bring himself to trust someone who looked like they knew nothing. Her younger brothers were not old enough to drive out to the location where he would pop the question, but even so, he could have found someone, anyone, besides her.
Too late now. Sandor had asked the girl for help, she had accepted, and now the two were inside his living room discussing the plan for the night.
At midnight, as one year ended and a new one began, Sandor would propose to his girlfriend, Sansa Stark, after the best six months of his life.
As long as Arya doesn't fuck it up.
The little sister picked up the box of fireworks and took it out to her car. As he watched her from his window, she gave him the evilest, most insolent smile he had ever seen and shouted from the parking lot, "See you later!"
Sandor could not remember the last time he had felt so terrified.
Later that evening, he took Sansa out to her favorite restaurant, the box containing the engagement ring burning a hole inside his pocket the entire time.
As he watched her eat dessert (lemon cakes, her favorite), he wondered if he should pop the question then rather than put all his trust in the little sister.
No, Sansa loves New Year's Eve and fireworks. She told you that herself. Everything will be fine. It will all be fine.
As long as Arya doesn't fuck it up.
Proposing would be the easy part. It was shopping for the ring that had been the hard part. He knew nothing of cut, carat, color, or clarity. He knew even less about what ring style Sansa would like best. Based on her personality, Sandor guessed that she would want something elegant, but simple. Pretty, but not too flashy. Luckily for him, Sansa had left her laptop open one evening while taking a shower after a sweaty fuck in the sheets. He never snooped through her things, never, but when he saw a collage of dresses and animals and jewelry practically gazing at him from the screen, he had decided to take a look.
'Pinterest' - that was the name of the website. And he was looking at something called a board that was titled ‘💕Cute Things💕’.
Only a cute thing like Sansa Stark would have an organized collection of cute things.
Fuck, he needed to marry her.
When he had taken a gander through it, none of the images were engagement rings, per say, but the rings he did see all had one thing in common: pear-shaped jewels.
Fuck yes.
After having learned the preferred cut, it had been up to his wallet to determine the carat and clarity. Sandor had decided he would stick with the status quo and go with a colorless diamond. There were no yellow jewels on her ‘💕Cute Things💕’ board, so he hadn't dared take the chance on one of those yellow diamonds he had seen at the jewelry store.
Aside from the style, there had been the issue of not knowing what size to get her. So, when she had still been taking a shower, Sandor had swiped one of her rings from her jewelry box and took it into the jewelers the next day to learn the size.
She was a size six. So small.
Budget-wise, he was willing to spend. He wondered what Sansa might think should she learn he’d be saving for a ring since their second date. Before her, he never envisioned himself getting married. Before her, he never even envisioned himself having a girlfriend. But, fate brought the two of them together - the best thing to ever happen to him - and Sandor wanted to be with her until his dying breath. A girl as perfect as her, as smart, as kind, as sweet, as beautiful, she deserved it all.
And Sandor wanted to be the one to give it to her.
In the end, he ended up with what he hoped would be Sansa's dream engagement ring: a one carat, colorless, nearly flawless pear-shaped diamond, set in a band of white gold with twelve brilliant pave diamonds. Sandor knew nothing of jewelry but even he could admire its beauty. And the price, it was the best part, until he had learned the price was for the setting only. When the price was updated, reflecting the addition of the diamond…
Well, let's just say Sandor’s bank account would never recover.
But it would be worth it.
As long as Arya doesn't fuck it up.
After dinner, he and Sansa drove out to High Heart, the tallest hill in all of Westeros and only a thirty-minute drive from where they lived.
And within the first minute of that drive, Sandor realized he had royally fucked up by placing the ring box inside his front pocket.
Sansa placed her hand on his thigh, just one. fucking. inch. above where the ring was located.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Sandor could feel his rapid pulse in his throat. "What are you doing, little bird?"
"Oh nothing," she simpered, then started to caress his thigh, moving her hand left and right.
Not up and down. Not up and down. If she lowered her hand one inch, she'd feel it. What in the seven hells would he say then? He couldn't propose to her inside his truck. As more caresses followed, he thought, How does she not see it?
Sandor took his eyes off the road for one quick second. That was all it took for him to answer his question.
She didn't see it because she wasn't looking at where her tender hand was massaging his leg like a goddamn professional. No, instead, Sansa was staring at him, at his face. And not only was she staring at him, but she was doing that little thing she would always do with her lips just before sucking him dry.
Oh fuck.
Before Sansa would lean over and place her face right on top of where the ring was resting, Sandor grabbed the hand that was groping his thigh and placed it to his lips.
Sansa giggled. "What was that for?"
"I just love you so much," he said nervously, kissing her fingers as he drove down the dark road. "Hold my hand."
"But I want to hold something else."
Sandor looked over at her and watched as she grabbed the pink, fuzzy hair thing out of her purse to make a ponytail. She only ever took that out for one thing and one thing only. The association he had with it instantly made him hard, but he couldn't risk it. There was no way in the seven hells he could get away with receiving road head without Sansa feeling that box inside his pocket.
He kissed her hand again, the very same finger he'd slip the engagement ring on later that night.
As long as Arya doesn't fuck it up.
"Later, little bird," he said, then placed her hand onto her lap.
Sansa gave him a curious look. That wasn’t surprising. When the fuck did he ever turn away her advances? "Do you feel ok?"
"I...ate too much," he lied. Fuck, he hated lying, even the white lies felt like poison on his tongue.
The little vixen to his right sighed. "Oh, alright. We can just go home if you want."
"No!" he all but cried out. "No, I'm fine."
She smiled, but he could see the disappointment in her eyes, so visibly let down from not being able to have his cock down her throat.
He needed to marry her.
Sandor placed his hand on her thigh; he knew exactly how to cheer her up.
By the time they had reached High Heart, he had fucked Sansa with his fingers until she came.
Twice.
The hill was the place to be that night. It was absolutely fucking packed with people wanting to celebrate the New Year. What better spot to watch the fireworks than from one of the highest peaks in Westeros?
Sandor checked his phone for the time. Forty-five minutes until midnight. Forty-five minutes until he'd pop the question.
As long as Arya doesn't fuck it up.
Once he and Sansa walked up the steep hill together and managed to find one of the last vacant spaces to lay out a blanket and sit down, Sandor had no choice but to tell her another white lie so he could find Arya and ensure the fireworks were ready to go.
“I think I forgot to lock the truck, little bird,” he said, so awkwardly it would be a miracle if she couldn’t tell that he was up to something. “I’ll be right back.”
Thankfully, she didn't seem to find it suspicious at all. That might have been due to the fact she was still in a state of euphoria from her earlier two orgasms. Sansa kissed him, then said, “Hurry back, you don’t want to miss the fireworks.”
Oh, I won't.
He hauled ass down the hill. Once at the bottom, he took out his phone and called Arya.
"You better fucking be here," he rasped, after she had answered on the very last ring.
"I'm right behind you, stupid."
He turned around and there she was, the box of fireworks set down on the ground beside her feet.
Maybe she won't fuck this up after all, he thought, until he noticed Arya biting her lip as he approached.
Seven fuck me.
“I dropped the box.”
Had they been on top of the hill, Sandor would have thrown her right off. “YOU DID WHAT?!”
“I didn’t mean to!” Arya shouted back over the hundreds of drunken voices all around. “You put them in this stupid box that has no handles!” She kicked it with her foot. “Who the fuck does that?”
“Stop kicking it!” Sandor crouched down and inspected each of the rockets using the flashlight on his phone. “Did you get all of them? All twelve?”
Arya knelt down beside him. “Yes, can't you count?" she asked, grimacing. “Your breath smells bad.”
“Shut your fucking mouth and help me set them up.”
Sandor got into a literal fistfight with another man in order to claim one of the best spots at the foot of the hill, amusing Arya. From there, the letters would shoot into the sky with the bright, pale moon in the background.
It was going to be fucking beautiful.
As long as Arya doesn't fuck it up.
Once all twelve rockets were set in a straight line, Sandor told the little sister once more not to fuck it up before hauling his ass back up the hill. He'd never say it, but he was grateful for not needing to be the one to light the fuses.
He and fire, well, you know.
Sandor returned to his (hopefully) future fiancée and sat beside her on the blanket. Every minute that passed made him more anxious. The proposal was supposed to be the easiest part, but now his hands were sweating and he could feel his heart skip over its own rhythm each time he rehearsed the words inside his head.
'Marry me, Sansa'.
Twelve letters, three words. It's so fucking easy. You can't fuck it up.
And neither can Arya.
When only one minute was left, Sandor took her hand.
"Are you sweating?" she giggled, so prettily.
He needed to marry her.
"Look north, little bird," he said, pointing in the direction where Arya better not be fucking up right now at the foot of the hill.
Sansa did.
Now that she was no longer looking at him, Sandor slowly reached into his front pocket with his free hand and furtively removed the box. It felt as heavy as a stone.
Everyone sitting atop High Heart hill began to count down in unison. "FIVE....FOUR....THREE....TWO....ONE....HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!"
The fireworks came, as bright as the morning sun, in every color and size - a dazzling display. And in the sky beside the moon where his proposal should be were not three words, but alphabet fucking soup.
First came a 'M' and then a 'R', followed by another 'M'. Then there was an 'E' and a 'S', and then another 'S', followed by an 'A' and a 'N'.
As they faded, golden sparks falling from the sky like a thin mist, four letters shot up all at once.
✨A✨ R✨ Y✨ A✨
Sansa tilted her head against his shoulder. “Does that say... Arya?”
The box fell from his hand and tumbled onto the ground. Sandor wasn't sure whether he wanted to laugh hysterically at that moment or sob until he fucking died.
“She fucked it up," he murmured to himself.
“What?"
As the demon child's name turned into smoke, creating a thin veil over the moon that was once so beautiful, a plethora of other fireworks continued to go off, red and green and yellow and blue. Sansa was staring at him, he could tell. He could see her out of his peripheral vision, likely wondering what the fuck was going on. He didn't know what to do, he didn't know what to say. But then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a small child running towards them.
Not any small child, but the sixteen-year-old girl who managed to fuck it all up.
Arya was covering her mouth with both hands, though Sandor knew it was not out of fear or shock. It was because she was clearly trying not to laugh her ass off right in front of him.
He stood up, causing a scene. “YOU SPELLED YOUR FUCKING NAME?!”
She lowered her hands, her mouth agape. “I swear it on all the gods I didn’t do it on purpose!”
“Arya?” said Sansa from the blanket, bewildered. “What are you doing here? I thought you were staying home tonight.”
“They didn’t go off at the right time!" Arya quickly explained, ignoring her sister. "I think some got messed up after I dropped them!”
“I knew you’d fuck it up!" Sandor seethed. "I should have paid Patrick to do it!”
“His name’s Podrick, stupid! ”
It was a long roll down High Heart hill, and Arya Stark was about to find out just how long it was. “I’m going to-”
He was interrupted by the softest, sweetest, most beautiful word he had ever heard in his life. Somehow, despite all the commotion on the hill, the fireworks, the drunk men and women ringing in the New Year with shouts, Sandor managed to hear his girlfriend say, "Yes."
He turned around, discovering Sansa with tears in her eyes, and the ring box that had fallen on the ground now cupped in her hand.
And it was open, the pear-shaped diamond ring inside coming to life with the millions of colors and sparks dancing in the sky.
He fell down on one knee, then said in a single breath, "What did you say?"
Sansa leaned forward and pressed her lips to his, his first kiss from his new fiancée in the new year.
“I’ll marry you, Sandor."