Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/989626.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin, Game_of_Thrones_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Sandor_Clegane/Sansa_Stark
  Character:
      Sandor_Clegane, Sansa_Stark, Cersei_Lannister, Joffrey_Baratheon, Tywin
      Lannister, Tyrion_Lannister, Shae_(ASoIaF), Varys_(ASoIaF), Margaery
      Tyrell, Dontos_Hollard, Petyr_Baelish
  Additional Tags:
      Blackwater_AU, Romance, Underage_Sex, Dubious_Consent, Orgasm_Delay/
      Denial, Dom/sub_Undertones
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-10-03 Updated: 2013-10-16 Chapters: 4/? Words: 26798
****** Acts of Generous Cruelty ******
by broomclosetkink
Summary
     Joffrey the Bastard King is not known for his acts of generosity, but
     when he endeavors to both disgrace Lady Sansa Stark, the daughter of
     a traitor, and punish his once-faithful dog, Sandor Clegane, he
     inadvertently gives them the greatest gift of all: each other.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
***** Chapter 1 *****
Chapter Notes
     Beta'ed by the living embodiment of perfection that is Manniness.
Stomach taunt with anxious nerves, Sansa moves through the path made for her by
the courtiers who have come to witness their boy king's notion of justice. They
take care not to touch neither her nor the fabric of her fluttering silk gown,
as though afraid a traitor's blood may be passed through contact.
 
Few of them are brave enough to catch Sansa's gaze. When they do, she smiles
and tips her head in greeting. A cold, hard part of her – a part that is snow
and ice and entirely Stark – says, I hope it shames you, how you flinch from
the eyes of a powerless girl like me.
 
Ahead of her, Joffrey sprawls on the Iron Throne, lacking both grace and
dignity. He looks a spoiled little boy playing pretend, and it gives Sansa a
small measure of strength she desperately needs; he may appear to be a foolish
brat in cloth of gold and a stupidly crooked crown, but she is a lady in truth.
He is only a mummer's farce of royalty.
 
“Lady Sansa,” Joffrey calls, his worm lips wisted in a smirk that makes Sansa's
stomach cramp painfully. “We are glad to see you've come to humble yourself
before your King.”
 
“It always my pleasure to do so, Your Grace.” Curtsying deep and low, with a
straight back and arms held just so, Sansa burrows down to find the numb spot
inside her chest. It helps her keep her tongue in line and tears at bay.
 
Looking up, Sansa can see the Queen, stiff and thin lipped, with hands knotted
angrily in her lap. The sight makes hanging onto the numbness hard. This is the
look the Queen wears when Joffrey has defied her commands, and there is nothing
to be done for it; she had made him into what he is, and now not even she can
control him.
 
It should make Sansa happy to see the Queen suffer after all her cruelties,
great and small. Instead it only scares her, right down to the very marrow of
her bones. Whatever has so angered the Queen cannot be good for Sansa.
 
“Do you know, Lady Sansa, that my small council has spent hours and hours
debating over what should be done with you? You are no longer my betrothed;
instead you live off the kindness of the crown and my family, even though you
are the daughter of a traitor and should by rights be in a cell to ensure you
are not allowed to go the way of your father.” Joffrey's smile is sharp and
brutal, green eyes glittering with malice as he laughs. “It's absurd, in all
truth; you nothing more than a stupid little girl, and yet you cause such
trouble for my advisers.”
 
Terror crawls up her throat, thick and acidic. Wetting her lips with the tip of
her tongue and grappling for words, Sansa's fingers twitch against her skirts.
She wants to cling to them as she has nothing else to hold. “I am sorry, Your
Grace,” she says, voice gone thin in fear. “I am unworthy for you or the
council to think on. I know that, and I am ashamed to have caused you
displeasure.”
 
They are pretty words. Words that reassure Joffrey of his power over her make
him happy.
Sansa knows this well, and when she flicks her eyes up, she can see it in his
smug gaze. He sees her fear, and it pleases him; he knows that under her
fragile restraint and well-trained courtesies, she is far too close to falling
apart.
 
“Fortunately, I am quite willing to settle the matter for them. I have decided
–”
 
Lord Twyin steps forward, bending ever so slightly. His face could be that of
statue's, blank and emotionless, if Sansa hadn't been able to see the throb of
a very red vein at one temple. “My Liege, I think it would be best if we
discussed this –”
 
“I have decided!” Joffrey snaps, narrowing his eyes and puckering his mouth in
a way that is both cruel and impossibly childish. When my advisers bicker over
simple tasks, it falls to me to judge what should be done, in my infinite
wisdom as the King. Return to your post, Lord Hand.”
 
Stiffly moving back into his place just behind the throne, Lord Twyin Lannister
has a look in his eyes that suggests he may well begin belching dragonfire from
the force of his fury.
 
“Since you were once my lady, before your family shamefully turned against the
throne, I will be merciful, Lady Sansa –”
 
Gods be good, Sansa thinks desperately, her ears beginning to buzz, he's going
to kill me like he did Father.
 
“Since you came south to be wedded and bedded, you shall be. Though instead of
the King, you will be wed to his dog.”
 
For a moment, no one speaks. Instead, Joffrey watches Sansa, grinning in
anticipation of her reaction. The crowd at her back has gone completely silent.
Not a single whisper emerges through their shock as as the eldest Stark
daughter is given to the second son of a minor lording that isn't even a
knight.
 
Her eyes turn to the Hound. A new white cloak adorns his broad shoulders,
replacing the one he left Sansa on the night of the Battle of the Blackwater.
He stands, as always, at the foot of the throne. His eyes are as wide and
shocked as Sansa's, his mouth parted as he attempts to absorb what he has just
heard.
 
Twisting, cloak swirling and armor clanking, he barks, “The fuck did you just
say?” Then, grudgingly, he spits out, “Your Grace.”
 
Joffrey – who has an inordinate amount of fondness for this scarred, brutal,
and brutally honest man that has always done his best to shield Sansa from the
very worst of the King's violence and rages – bursts into laughter. The queen
swells like an angry bullfrog and Lord Tywin's entire head has turned the color
of his crimson doublet, but Joffrey is laughing so hard he's got an arm around
his stomach. He bends so far that his crown comes close to falling off, and the
whole time Sansa watches, lightheaded and strangely … hopeful.
 
As his laughter winds down, Joffrey stands, wiping tears of mirth from the
corners of his eyes. He makes short work of the steps leading down from the
throne, and soon has his hands tucked behind his back while he circles his
faithful servant.
 
“Did you think I never saw?” he asks, voice low enough that only the nearest
courtiers – including Sansa, and the King's small council – will hear him. But
that is enough, Sansa knows; soon his words will spread across the whole of
Westeros. “How you watch her. How you skulk after her like the dog you are. It
is pathetic.Your actions at the Battle of the Blackwater disappointed me, dog;
in truth, they were as pathetic as the way you lust for the Stark girl. The
only explanation is that her traitor's blood has infected you. Well, here is
the cure. You'll take this northern whore in hand and see her for what she
truly is.” Joffrey appears positively thrilled with the idea – so much so that
his eyes have gone fever bright, his cheeks flushed and his breathing rapid.
 
Sansa knows little about the marriage bed, but she knows this look. Joffrey
wears it when he has his Kingsguard beat her, when he is cruel and she cries;
most especially when she bleeds. He thinks the Hound will hurt her, Sansa
realizes, perhaps badly enough to kill her.
 
He has no idea how wrong he is, and while Sansa is suddenly gulping back tears,
she knows they won't be seen for what they are. Relief and joy and thanks, to
both the old gods and the new. She will not be a princess or a queen, and her
husband will be crude and rough and drunk … but he won't hurt her. Not like
Joffrey and his knights would.
 
The Hound looks to Sansa, mouth so tight she imagines she can hear his teeth
grinding together. He is angry, so angry, and she wants to reach out to him and
gentle his rage. She wants to tell him how happy she is, how thankful; he is
not the knight of her childhood dreams, but that is a good thing, she thinks.
 
“What say you, Hound? Are you pleased with my gift?” Joffrey smirks up at
massive man. “You'll be removed from the Kingsguard, of course, but you never
did take your vows. I don't suppose it will matter much.”
 
“As Your Grace commands,” the Hound finally says. His eyes are on Sansa, and
she can hear his voice in her mind – bugger this little fucker, he's out of his
mind – and just thinking of those words makes her face go up in a blush so hot
and bright she wonders if her skin will burn away.
 
Rounding on her, Joffrey moves in, far too close for comfort. “And you, Lady
Sansa. Tell me of your pleasure for this match I've made for you.”
 
Fighting back the urge to flinch away, she curtsies, keeping her head bowed. He
mustn’t see her true feelings. Anything that brings her even the slightest
glimmer of happiness is nothing His Royal Highness wants. “I am well pleased so
long as Your Grace is happy,” she murmurs, a little bird singing from her
gilded cage – and just this close to finally escaping.
 
“Stupid girl,” Joffrey whispers, his words for Sansa alone. “He's going to rip
you apart. I think I may watch him bed you the first time; in fact, I may have
you after.”
 
Joffrey laughs his way back onto the Iron Throne, eyes once again wet with
tears of amusement.
 
 
 
 
                                   ----X----
 
 
Tywin Lannister is not a kind man, so this is not the reason that Sandor
Clegane goes to him on the evening his betrothal is announced before the court.
No, he seeks an audience with the Hand of the King for the simple reason that
the man is both pragmatic and power-hungry; if there is any way Sansa Stark can
be saved from marriage to a landless, title-less brute of a warrior, it is
through Tywin's desire to keep her an easily accessible pawn in this game he
plays so well.
 
“Clegane,” the Hand greets with dispassion. Unfurling a hand in the direction
of a chair, he watches Sandor with unreadable eyes as his man-at-arms bows
before taking a seat. He pours two generous goblets of wine, passing one to
Sandor, before reclaiming his own chair; it is as straight, hard, and
unyielding as the man himself.
 
“I suppose you have come to discuss Joffrey's latest folly,” says the Lord of
Casterly Rock, his green eyes unblinking as they dissect Sandor.
 
“Aye,” Sandor confirms, the ruined side of his mouth twitching hard as he
fights back a snarl of rage. Strong fingers tighten on the goblet, and it is
only a supreme act of will that keeps him from hurling it across the room in a
show of rage.
 
In the hours since the announcement had been made, Sandor has hardly been able
to breathe past his wrath. If the boy were not the king, if Sandor did not know
that doing so would sentence his little bird to death, he would have torn
Joffrey limb from limb in front of the entire court. In truth he still aches
for it; he longs to feel the cruel bastard's blood hot and slick across his
face as he his sword clean through the boy and spills out his guts.
 
He can imagine the look on the boy king's face as his faithful Hound betrays
him. As well as the wails of that cunt Cersei. Few things could bring him
greater joy.
 
“When the unwashed masses revolted and attacked on the day little Myrcella was
sent to Dorne, you saved the girl.” Tywin speaks with the same precision that
he always does, head tipped ever so slightly as he studies Sandor.
 
Scowling, Sandor downs the rest of his wine. At a gesture from the Hand, he
refills the goblet, fighting hard not to shout. “Aye,” he finally answers
tersely. “Someone had to.”
 
“Tyrion ordered your then remaining brothers of the Kingsguard to go out and
find her. They refused, claiming their orders came only from the king; Joffrey
refused as well, out of spite. Or so Tyrion tells me. And yet you were already
outside the gates of the Red Keep, hunting her down. An intelligent move, on
your part; had Joffrey's negligence allowed the Lady Sansa to be ruined as the
Stokeworth girl was, her value would have been diminished. Not that it matters
now.” Tywin drinks, still watching his family's well-trained Hound.
 
Again Sandor's self-control is tested; spitting in Twyin Lannister's face would
not aid his cause at all.
 
“The Kingsguard guards the royal family,” he rasps instead, “at the time the
girl was Joffrey's betrothed. I did my duty, nothing more.”
 
“Mm,” Lord Tywin answers wordlessly, eyebrow lifting in the imperious way only
high lords and royalty can manage. “That is how it appears, doesn't it? And
yet...the Spider and I spoke at length in regards to Joffrey's plan to wed you
and Lady Sansa. He informed me that you have many times done what you could for
the child in the face of my grandson's humiliation of her. More than that, he
claims that you have, quietly and privately, attempted to guide the girl in the
best way to handle both her position at court as well as Joffrey. Wisely, he
said; I believe his exact words were, 'he told the sweet Lady Sansa to sing
brightly and prettily in her gilded cage.' I could be wrong, however; when the
good Lord Varys finds it in him to wax poetic over his whispers, I have a habit
of imagining cutting out his tongue as his cock was cut off, and enjoying the
silence.” Tywin's smile is small, merciless, and only faintly amused.
 
He does not wait for Sandor to reply before continuing on. “It was even brought
to my attention that when the girl flowered for the first time – panicking so
badly that she attempted cut the stain from her mattress – it was you who
calmed her and brought her to the Queen. A fact that I find most interesting.
You see, Clegane, Varys believes the Hound has fallen in love with this Stark
girl. Or is infatuated, at least. I found the notion ridiculous, and told our
Lord Spider as much. And do you know what he said? 'I could be wrong, of
course, but if that fearsome dog comes to speak to you, attempting to snarl and
bite his way out of a marriage that would be most fortunate for a man of his
position and holdings, then I do believe you will have the answer for
yourself.' Just as Varys predicted, Clegane, you have given me an answer
indeed.”
 
Rage and something quite close to fear makes Sandor hum with tension, a buzzing
in his ears briefly deafening him to anything else. He knocks back the
remaining wine, a much better vintage than he used to although it is utterly
wasted on him. He cannot even taste it in his current state.All he can do is
glower back at the high lord whom he serves, furious and utterly unable to do
anything.
 
“If you believe that whoreson eunuch, then you're getting soft in your old
age,” he snarls. “I've been your man for more than half my life, my lord, and I
should think you would know me better than to believe me stupid enough to –
love,” he sneers, “useless trash.” It isn't a lie. The romantic drivel the
bards praise is useless claptrap. A mummers show made up of tin crowns, built
with magic that is nothing more than clever little tricks and sleight of hand.
 
He does not love Sansa Stark. He ragesfor her. For all that he has allowed to
happen to her After all the evil he has done in his life, she is the one thing
he must protect.
 
“Love. I would sooner eat shit and call it a feast before I would sink to such
idiocy.”
 
A rare sight: Tywin Lannister laughs, eyes crinkling and mouth curling as the
unexpected mirth is thrown forward. The sound is short-lived, and though he
doesn't smile afterward, there is something amused and mocking in his eyes.
“And yet here you are, which does lend some credence to the Spider's words.”
 
“The buggering hell am I supposed to do with a wife? Much less a highborn one?”
Barking out the words in absolute frustration, Sandor's palms itch and ache to
wrap around any available throat and squeeze. “I will end up breaking the child
before she can be of any use to me.”
 
A lax shrug lifts the lord's shoulders. “Your brother has had three wives, now.
Or four, I may have lost count. There is little point in keeping track. Take
the wealth and titles the Stark girl affords you, and if she does end up
broken, find another more to your liking. Or not.”
 
Bile bubbles in the back of his throat. Your brother has had three wives, now –
aye, and those poor highborn cunts are all dead. He can clearly imagine the
horrors they experienced before death, and it makes Sandor too ill to think of
them. Now when he thinks of Gregor's wives, each and every one of them a
different version of his precious and fragile Sansa Stark. He imagines the
torture and pain and indignities. A girl like his little bird would be ripped
to pieces, crushed beyond recognition. Imagining that, he comes far too close
to vomiting across his Lord's table.
 
“What Joffrey needs is to be strapped bloody, until he realizes it is in his
best interest to obey his elders. In lieu of this – ” here Tywin frowns. “ – we
give in to a few of his desires to get what we truly need. I need him not only
to marry the Tyrell whore, but to rein in his less becoming impulses. To keep
him from harming her until she is well wedded, bedded, and has given the
kingdom an heir. Your marriage to the Stark girl is one way I will appease him,
and my mind will not be changed, Clegane. Do not bother with trying.”
 
He nods, obedient above his skin, roiling with fierce rage and a kingdom
crumbling disgust underneath. “As my lord commands,” Sandor intones, just ashe
has on too many occasions to count.
 
“Think of it this way,” Tywin adds as Sandor stands to leave. “If Joffrey's
treatment of the girl has displeased you, at least now you will be able to
offer her some measure of protection.”
 
Tywin Lannister is not a kind man. This is not why Sandor had come to him.
However, he does remember when the Lady Joanna had died, and how Sandor's late
father had hung his head and sighed.
 
“It may be our sweet Lady Joanna they're putting in the ground,” Father had
said, “but it is Lord Tywin's heart that died.” Sandor remembers this and hears
an echo of the widower's words – at least now you will be able to offer her
some measure of protection– and thinks maybe, just maybe, the cold son of a
bitch understands. At least in some way.
 
“Some measure of protection,” he repeats scathingly, one hand on the door
latch. “Doesn't matter if she married you instead of me, Lord Tywin; she'll
never be safe so long as she's in King's Landing. Good evening, my lord.”
 
                                   ----X----
 
 
Shae comes too close to pulling a knife on Sansa's future husband when the
Hound – Sandor, she thinks, ashamed that she must make these mental reminders,
his name is Sandor – enters her room following a quick knock. Ignoring courtesy
as he always does, Sandor does not wait to be invited. Her maid is breathing
like a winded bull, eyes bright and truly fierce, as she tries to block him
from entering the small bedchamber.
 
“What do you think I'm going to do, woman, fuck her?” Clegane growls, the
ruined side of his face twisted as he bares his teeth. “I'll be having her
maidenhead in a fortnight, anyway, so get out of my bloody way.”
 
“She is a little girl!” Shae hisses, jabbing a finger angrily at the not-a-ser
that Sansa has grown so terribly fond of. “And the king may yet change his
mind. Now get out!”
 
“I need to speak with her.”
 
“Whatever it is can wait until tomorrow, when she can be properly chaperoned.”
 
“Seven bloody hells, you buggering bitch, I will throw you out this gods damned
window if –”
 
“Enough.” A lady does not shout, and Sansa always does her best to be a lady.
Instead she attempts to mimic the snapping whip of her mother's voice when she
had growntired of listening to Sansa and Arya bickering (gods, what she
wouldn't give to fight with her stubborn little sister again), or when the boys
had grown too rowdy. Her voice isn't as terrifying as Mother's had been, but it
is close enough that the eyes of both her betrothed – I'm looking at my
husband! – and her maid snap to her.
 
Shoulders pulled back and hands curled gracefully in front of her, Sansa takes
a step forward. “Shae, wait outside. As it happens, I wish to speak to my lord,
as well.”
 
Though her eyes and scowl are utterly mutinous, Shae gives a truly messy curtsy
before stomping out of the room. She doesn't slam the door behind her, but only
because she has no desire to draw attention to her lady.
 
“She's very protective of me,” Sansa hears herself explaining once the door is
shut, gesturing weakly. Is she blushing? It feels as though she is; gods,
sometimes she thinks she really is as stupid as Joffrey and the Queen claim.
“The way...the way Joffrey is to me, how he has the Kingsguard...what he makes
them do...she doesn't want to see me hurt.”
 
“I suppose you'll be wanting to keep her.” Clegane sighs. Through his
exasperation, Sansa notes a sort of approval in his eyes. “Sit down, little
bird. We need to speak.”
 
She successfully resists the urge to scamper to the nearest chair. The subject
of Ser Dontos and their meetings in the godswood, his promises to be her
Florian and take her away weigh heavy on Sansa's mind. The knight turned fool
had done nothing to truly aid her in all the time they have been meeting, and
she has now decided to tell him that she wishes to obey King Joffrey and marry.
The worry that Dontos may resist her choice is a pervasive one, however, making
Sansa pull up her courage so she can explain Ser Dontos's plot, and ask Sandor
for advice on freeing herself from it.
 
Her husband-to-be is exceedingly clever, his mind as sharp as his sword blade,
though few have noticed it. That in combination with all his many efforts to
aid and assist Sansa over her time in King's Landing reassures her that he help
her find the correct path.
 
Oh, the Hound is not kind to her in ways she'd once thought were kindness – in
truth, he can be hateful and incredibly crude – but he has always given her
nothing but the truth. It is a rare gift for anyone to be truthful at court,
Sansa is learning. More than that, he is gentle. Roughly so, which is odd and
contradicting, but it makes sense in a way that is unique to this man, and
Sansa likes it.
 
After the Blackwater, when he'd come to her in the night and asked to take her
away – Sansa had wanted to go. She had. But the Queen's men would have found
them. They would be drug back to King's Landing and thrown before Joffrey...oh,
Sansa couldn't have endured to see him beheaded as her father was. She knows
they would have made her watch. And after...they wouldn't have killed her. Not
at first. Joffrey would have kept her, a toy to be used and discarded at his
whim. He would hurt her, more than he ever had, and that would be worse than
death.
 
So she had sung Clegane the Mother's Hymn, humbled and awed and so very sad
when tears ran down this brutal but terrified man's cheeks. After, as she'd
wiped away the blood and tears and soot, she'd quietly begged, “Fight, my lord.
Please. They'll kill us if we run, you know they will. If Stannis wins … Ilyn
Payne has been ordered by the Queen to take off my head. She won't let Stannis
take me alive. I am … I am sorry to ask, but I … I don't want to die.” More
tears had come, burning Sansa's already raw eyes.
 
He had kissed her. Quick and hard, his lips on her own, his tongue brushing
across her lower lip and making Sansa shudder even while her knees had
threatened to turn to jelly. He had then left without a word, and it was only
later that Sansa had learned he had obeyed her request, bursting back into
battle with a ferocity the Hound had rarely shown before.
 
It is the only reason he hadn't been executed as a traitor.
 
“If it wasn't for Clegane, the Mud Gate may well have been breached,” Tywin
Lannister had said to Cersei during a private, 'family' dinner; Joffrey and his
little brother, Cersei and Twyin...and Sansa, who had been only days away from
(thankfully) being replaced by Margaery Tyrell.
 
Since that night, since he had stayed and fought on Sansa's behalf alone, her
feelings towards him have been...difficult to define. He is no knight, but now
she remembers that her father had not been a knight, either. Ned Stark had been
the most honorable, respectful, kind, generous, and gentle man Sansa had ever
known, and no ser had come before his name; in this Clegane is like her father,
and that is a nice thought. He is honorable in his own way, though he would
probably become apoplectic with rage if she told him so.
 
“I am sorry, little bird.” His words draw Sansa's attention. When she looks up,
she finds him glaring a hole into the wall above her head. He looks out of
place and uncomfortable in her room, awkwardly perched on the frilly little
chair that looks like a toy. When he finally returns her gaze, he appears
almost as defeated as he is angry. “Lord Twyin refused to change Joffrey's
mind.”
 
“You...went to Lord Twyin? You asked him to break our betrothal?” To her own
ears, Sansa's voice is terribly weak, a china cup cracked, though not yet fully
fractured. Something in her ribs aches horrible.
 
“Stupid girl,” Sandor snaps hatefully, big hands balling into huge fists. “Of
course I did.”
 
Tears come. Her despair is almostas thick and choking as when she had seen her
father's murder. She had been so pleased at the thought of marrying Sandor
Clegane; oh, the little girl she had once been would be horrified, but the
woman Sansa is becoming … she treasures the thought of safety. Her parents
marriage had been arranged. She had thought that maybe, in time, she and her
husband could become what Ned and Catelyn Stark had been: devoted, loyal,
adoring, passionately in love. Now she hears this, and it is yet another
beautiful dream cruelly shattered.
 
“You don't want me?” Despite Sansa's best efforts, a tear escapes, rolling down
her nose before dripping off. It lands on her hand, which clutches its
counterpart in her lap. The dam breaks.Tear after tear spills free, and sobs
strangle her. Sansa abandons her flawless posture to curl her shoulders, and
buries her face in her hands.
 
What she does not see is this: Sandor Clegane, mouth agape, with hands
outstretched and hovering in mid-air. Horror widens and fills his eyes, as well
as disbelief at what he sees and cannot fully comprehend. “Stop crying,” he
orders desperately.
 
Her sobs are small and gut wrenching, more childlike than either of them would
care to admit.
 
“No buggering crying!” he roughly begs.
 
His chair bounces off the floor, toppling as he stands. One step takes him
around the little table, and a half step more brings him in front of Sansa. She
looks up when he takes her hands in one of his own, but with such gentleness
that it only makes her want to cry harder.
 
Crouching down in front of her, hunching his shoulders and back so they are on
eye-level. It is a first, given how utterly massive Clegane is. His free hand
takes Sansa's chin and forces her to look at him. Not in anger, not to make her
face his scars, but to see him.
 
“There isn't a man alive that wouldn't want a sweet little bird like you for a
wife,” he says in an even deeper rasp than usual. Though his face is forever
trapped in the dusk ofa nightmare, and though he is still crude and rude and
mean, Sansa finds him rather handsome in his own strange, rough way. “But you
deserve much better than a dog like me, girl. Do you understand? You deserve so
muchbetter.”
 
“A prince?” she asks, turning her hands in his grasp, clinging to his thick
fingers and wide wrist. “To become a queen? I wanted that once, my lord. I
received that wish, and found the songs are not as sweet as I was led to
believe. I was humiliated, beaten, bloodied, stripped before the entire court;
that is the life of a queen-to-be, and I do notwant it. I want to be safe, my
lord. I feel I am with you. You said yourself, you will not lie to me, and you
have always been as kind as you possibly could. You're the only one who tried
to make me see what Joffrey, the court, and this life really is.”
 
“I am no knight from one of your fucking stories, my lady.”
 
Realization dawns, bright and heady for Sansa. Sandor'sanger is how he protects
himself, a protective shield that is much the same as her courtesies.
 
“My father was no knight,” she answers gravely. “He was the best man I've ever
known.”
 
For a moment Clegane only watches her, lips parted, the burned side of his
mouth twitching. He whispers, “Little bird,” and it is an endearment to Sansa's
ears. He releases her chin to wipe the wetness from her cheeks with rough
fingertips … and he is as gentle as he knows how to be. “I'm going to do
everything I can to keep you safe.”
 
“I know,” she answers. It may only be the firelight from the room's tiny
hearth, but it almost looks as though the Hound has tears in his eyes.
 
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
     I'll just leave this here...
     Beta'ed by Manniness, who is just...ugh. I don't even have words for
     her perfection.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Stripped of the white and cloak the duties that go with it, Sandor sinks into
the wine soaked and whore infested pits of King's Landing. He spends three days
drinking, fighting, and fucking (red haired whores, fucking them too hard while
hissing my pretty little bird,singfor me), and he has no idea of when or how he
and returned to the Red Keep.
 
He wakes smelling as though he rolled in a gutter, which he admittedly maybe
have done. Head throbbing, stomach rolling, and extremities trembling, Sandor
drags himself to the bathhouse. The heat makes him vomit, which helps clear his
head, and he scrubs hard with cheap soap.
 
“Fucking worthless dog,” he snarls at himself, attempting to wash dried vomit
from his dark hair, “you're not even worthy to look at her. You dirty,
buggering whoreson.”
 
I want to be safe, my lord. I feel I am with you.
 
Sandor drops back into the hot water. He closes his eyes, and considers never
coming up for air. No matter how much wine he had drunk, Sansa's words had
stayed with him. Her tears had unmanned him. Her level, serious expression as
she gazed upon him without so much as a flinch with his hideous face so close
to her own left him in awe. But it was her words(I want to be safe, my lord. I
feel I am with youand you have always been as kind as you possibly could and
most especially my father was no knight. He was the best man I've ever known)
near killed him.
 
And yet he does not die. He lives, and he will be wed Sansa Stark, yes, but how
is he going to shield her from the fucking Lannisters? How in the bloody
buggering hell is he supposed to place his cloak around her childish shoulders
and draw her into his bed, fuck her as he longs to and refuses to consider
because she's only a little girl? After he taking her maidenhead, how will he
look her in the eye again, knowing he has ruined her for the life she deserves?
How is any of this going to happen?
 
He was made for war, not for marriage. This will kill him, Sandor is sure of
it.
 
Clean and in fresh clothing, Sandor exits the bathhouse to find that fiery maid
of Sansa's awaiting him. A Lannister man is limping away, tossing evil looks
over his shoulder; Sandor thinks he sees blood dripping down his fingers, and
he doesn't bother to bite back a laugh.
 
“Did you stab him?” he asks, jerking his chin towards the sullen, retreating
solider.
 
“I only cut him a little. Still he practically cries for his mother; what a
pussy.” She's a brazen thing, meeting his gaze and thrusting out her chin, with
her arms folded under her breasts as she stares him down.
 
Sandor is suddenly glad she's with his little bird. This woman will put up a
hell of a fight to protect Sansa Stark, and she has always attempted to protect
the girl as best she could. He knows she threatened one of Sansa's bedmaids
with a knife when her moonblood had came, and he'd honestly thought she might
attempt to slit his throat the moment he realized that Sansa had flowered.
 
Seven hells, he still can't think of that morning without his gut rolling.
Sandor has seen more blood than Sansa could ever bleed out in her entire life,
but her bloody nightgown and sheets, fuck, that had nearly ended him. Standing
over that mattress, listening to his little bird weep as though she were being
killed, all Sandor could imagine was Joffrey rutting on top of her. Hurting
her, cutting her, hitting her; planting his bastard seed in her sweet womb, and
making her birth his horrid bastard spawn.
 
“Come with me, Hound.” The maid's accented words break Sandor from his
unwelcome memories.
 
He almost balks – a dog he may be, although he doesn't take his orders from
maids – but with a sigh he follows. Head still aching, Sandor simply doesn't
have it in him to fight at the moment. At least not with words. Give him a
blade, or even just his fists, and he'd gladly kill as many men as would dare
to face him.
 
The woman leads him to the godswood. Sunlight falls through the leaves,
dappling the ground in pretty patterns, and he can't help but notice that this
woman is beautiful. Dark and ripe and alluring, and Sandor thinks how easy it
would be to want her. To fuck her. Not too long ago he would have; but her hair
is not red, her skin not as pale as crushed pearls, her eyes are not so blue
and precious that his heart seizes when she looks at him for too long...
 
“My lady is a sweet, innocent maid. This whole fucking court and city have
tried to ruin her, as though they hate a little girl for being a little girl.
That son of a bitch that sits on your Iron Throne, he hurts her because he
likes it; you guard him, so you know. Did you see the whores Lord Tyrion sent
him? Have you heard what he made them do?”
 
Teeth bared in an ugly smile, Sandor leans forward. “Saw them? Woman, I stood
outside that door and listened. When it was over, I carried the whore to the
Lord Imp to show him what Joffrey did to his gift. I've killed men, women, and
children. But even I have done nothing so brutal as filthy as the boy had
done.” All he says is true. In all the wars and riots and fights just for the
fucking fun of it, in all the sins he has committed and will commit again, he's
seen few things as terrible as that whore Joffrey had torn the woman open for
his amusement.
 
Not so deep down, it scares him. The things Joffrey would like to do to
Sansa...
 
“Then you know she's not safe, here. Your king, he might be marrying another,
but he'll use her. Even if she becomes your lady wife. The boy will call for
her, and if you deny him, you will be punished. Possibly killed. And he will
take my lady Sansa and hurt her. If the gods are true, he will kill her.
Because I don't want her to live through what he would do, I wouldn't wish it
upon even the people I hate.” Tears glint in those fierce black eyes, making
them shine in the mid-morning sunlight.
 
Fists clenched tightly at his sides, Sandor has to breathe deeply to keep from
roaring. “What is the point of this, woman? I know better than anyonehow at
risk your lady is.”
 
She approaches inch by inch, until he can feel her heat and smell the strange
spice of her scent. Thrusting her chin up, she doesn't even pale when so
closely faced with the ruins of his face. “I've seen the way you look at her,
how you follow her and try to help her. You care for her, and I do as well. We
both very much want to see this girl made safe, and that, I think, makes us
allies.”
 
Saying nothing, Sandor waits, as stoic as he has forced himself to be so many
times when standing before the Iron Throne.
 
“I have a friend who is very rich and powerful, and closely connected to Lord
Tywin. If through him I can arrange for you and Sansa to be given an escape
from this place after the wedding, will you take it?”
 
If she were anyone else, Sandor would bash her skull in and be done with it.
Courtly intrigues and mysteries have never interested him, and he wants no part
in them now. But he has watched for long months as this maid has grown closer
and closer to his little bird; becoming one part sister and another part
mother.
 
“Aye,” he finally answers, nodding. “I don't have any idea how you could, but
aye. You find a way for us to leave without the king coming after her, and I'll
take her away.”
 
Quick as a snake, the woman has Sandor's hands in her own. When she smiles, she
is even more beautiful than before. She cannot be that much older than his
little bird, but in experience she is ancient compared to Sansa, who has been
brutalized but is still so innocent that he fears to touch her.
 
The woman's smile is bright and sweet, and her mouth is wet as it brushes his
jawline in a sweetly chaste kiss of thanks and joy. “I am Shae,” she says,
beaming. “And I'm going to help you protect her from now on.”
 
 
                                   ----X----
 
 
A week after the announcement, and a week before the wedding, Sandor knocks at
the door Sansa Stark so often hides behind in an effort to avoid the cruelties
of her captors. Shae opens it, which is no surprise. Behind her are several
fluttering, twittering bedmaids. They belong to the queen herself, placed with
Sansa only to spy on the little bird.
 
“I need to speak with Lady Sansa.” The words come out stiffly; as with anything
that involves his little bird, Sandor would much rather not have an audience.
The badly stifled shrieks and giggles of the bedmaids grate on his nerves, but
Sansa crosses the room, beaming as though she's been given a gift of gold and
jewels. It steals his breath and weakens his knees.
 
A fourteen year old girl has stolen his strength. Who could have possibly
imagined this?
 
“Shhh,” she quietly orders the twittering women, waving a hand in an attempt to
bring silence. Then her smile is aimed at Sandor once more, bright and sweet
and so innocent it makes Sandor's heart throb. “My lord, I am pleased to see
you.”
 
“I'm not a lord,” he grumbles, irritated and out of place and so fucking ready
to be rid of these stupid, giggling wenches.
 
Sansa blinks big, blue eyes and laughs. “Not yet,” she admits.
 
“The King has summoned us. We're to go to him immediately.”
 
Paling, Sansa sways, quickly clutching the door to steady herself. Shae is
quickly at her side, squeezing her arm and whispering in her ear. Whatever she
says makes the girl nod. A faint smile graces Sansa's lips as she touches her
maid's hand in gratitude. “Of course, my lord. As always, I am at the King's
disposal.”
 
She takes his arm, her little handcurling in the crook of his elbow, and Sandor
feels like a gods damned aurochs at her side. Already tall for a woman, she is
still so much smaller than he is, gently bred and refined. It makes him want to
curse, but he bites his tongue and stays silent.
 
“Do you know why we've been summoned?” she asks. Fear lurks in her eyes.
 
“No,” he answers shortly. No words of comfort are offered; Sandor knows they
would most likely be lies.
 
Joffrey receives them in a private audience chamber off the throne room. It
boasts a long table and chairs, and a ostentatiously gilded chair on a small
dais. He perches there like a brightly colored carrion bird, a vulture with
emerald eyes and blonde curls. Sandor quickly slips on an emotionless mask to
protect he and the little bird.
 
“Your Grace,” he rasps, while Sansa says the same much more softly. He bows
stiffly and she curtsies prettily at his side. As soon as the motion is
complete her hand returns tohis arm. Unseen in the fabric of his tunic, her
fingers cling desperately.
 
“Lady Sansa, you already look a blushing bride. Are you very eager to wed my
dog?” Joffrey laughs. His eyes are bright, seeming almost manic in his
enthusiasm.
 
Sansa blushes and bows her head. She smiles and keeps her eyes hidden under her
lashes, though her grip has tightened to the point that Sandor is honestly
shocked at the strength in her slender fingers. “I am, Your Grace. As you know,
I have long looked forward to becoming a wife and mother. You were wise to give
me to your Hound, as you are in all things.”
 
“I am wise, aren't I? I think you're growing smarter, Lady Sansa. Finally.
Well, Clegane? Are you looking forward to the bedding?” Joffrey leers.
 
Sandor contents himself with imagining smashing the boy's nose into his skull
before he strings him up and guts him. He's never had any use for torture, but
for this boy...for this twisted little fuck who so delights in tormenting
Sandor's little bird, oh yes, he would put Gregor to shame with the things he
would do to Joffrey if given the chance.
 
“I don't imagine noble cunt is any different than a whore,” he says with a
shrug. At his side, Sansa stiffens.
 
“Ha! You're right, Hound. One cunt is the same as any other. Beddings are
important, though. Very important. If you don't consummate the marriage, it can
be annulled. I had thought I might watch, just to make sure it's done properly
–”
 
Sandor locks his knees to keep from bolting across the room and crushing the
little shit's throat.
 
“Mother says it would be most unseemly, however. But I want to know it has all
been properly done, dog.”
 
Sansa vibrates with tension.
 
“As I said, Your Grace, one cunt is no different from any other. You know my
nature.”
 
“Indeed I do, dog. But it pleases me to see this all done right, and so the
sheet will be brought to methe morning after, and not my mother. Moreover, Lady
Sansa will be attended to by a septa, to prove her maiden's gift has been
taken.” Smile as wide and dark as a shit stain, Joffrey chortles before
propping his chin on one hand. “Try not to savage her too badly on the first
night, Hound. I wouldn't want to give a septa nightmares.”
 
Sansa is very nearly in tears by the time they reach her room. “How will...how
will the septa prove I'm no longer a maiden? Will...will she have to...” It
seems the girl cannot finish the thought. Instead she swallows hard, and Sandor
honestly fears that she may faint.
 
“She will examine you,” he answers roughly, pushing open the door to her
chamber. It is blessedly empty. He follows her inside, needing time to collect
himself before going back into public.
 
Once the door is shut and bolted, he hisses, “Gods be damned,” before viciously
slamming his left hand against the wall. There is a small cracking sound;
perhaps a broken bone, or only a strain. This little pain is good, though, as
it helpsto draw Sandor's focus and push the rage back down.
 
Sansa cowers beside her bed, twisting her hands together. “M-my lord?” she
stutters, and for the first time since the night of the Blackwater, Sandor
turns to find she cannot look him in the face.
 
He's frightened her again, and it only serves to make him ache for violence.
 
“I was going to leave you a maid,” he admits hoarsely, moving to the foot of
her bed. He sits heavily on a wide wooden chest, rubbing a hand over his face.
Calluses catch on his scars and coarse stubble, and quite suddenly he is so
weary that even his bones hurt. “After a few years, I thought you could seek an
annulment. Mayhaps you could find a knight or highborn lord, and make a proper
marriage.”
 
A sharply indrawn breath draws his gaze. Sansa has gone terribly still, and is
pale as death once more. “Don't...don't you want me?” she asks for the second
time, lips trembling. “I mean as a – as a man wants a woman – I-I know I'm not
very … round… but I thought, maybe ...” Curling in on herself, Sansa appears
positively heartbroken.
 
“You are a child.” This statement is made harshly, and with a cold sort of
strength. “It doesn't matter if I want or not.”
 
“Is it because I'm not very pretty?” Timid and sad, Sansa blinks. Two fat tears
roll down her cheeks.
 
Suddenly, it is all too much. Therage, sadness, and fear. His yearnings to do
the honorable thing by this one girl. His lust for her body and mind and soul.
Most especially the urges he chokes down, the ones he's never had before
doesn't understand now:
 
The desire to wake up with Sansa's head on his chest.
 
A longing to hold red haired babes, fragile little lives safe in his huge
hands.
 
To worry over pretty daughters and sturdy sons.
 
The need to become a man who deserve these things, it all combines and Sandor
snaps like a bow string pulled too tightly. With a snarl he is across the room.
His hands wrap tight around Sansa's waist, lifting her feet from the floor to
press her against the wall.
 
She is gasping and gaping up at him, eyes wide and shocked and so fucking blue
it hurts. Sandor leans into her, nudges her knees apart to settle between soft
thighs. He curses the fabric of her skirts, which are thick between them.
Tangling a hand in her hair, Sandor curls his fingers into the thick mass and
forces her too keep her head tipped up, to make her look at him.
 
“You ignorant fucking girl – you want to know if I want you? If you're pretty
enough for me?” A ragged inhale, and Sandor becomes lightheaded from the scent
of her. “Thoughtsof you keep me awake at night, and before I can sleep I have
to fuck my fist and think of you. Your hair and mouth and high, pretty teats; I
buy whores with red hair and take them from behind, because with their hair and
white skin I can pretend it's you I'm fucking raw and gods be damned, just the
thought is so good I'm turned into a green boy again. I want your mouth and
hands and teats and cunt; I want to fuck you so hard and deep you'll always
have a part of me in you, always.I want to make you beg for me, cry and plead
and sing your pretty little songs until I've driven you as mad with wanting as
I am. I'll drink from that sweet little cunt, drink until you drown me and
you've lost your voice from pleasure, and then I'll plant my seed in you and
watch you swell with my child. And then everyone will know, Lady Sansa, know
that behind closed doors you open your legs and ask for me.” Winded from the
release of these words, from the power they have over him and the images they
bring to mind. Aching and only just clinging to restraint as he pins Sansa to
the wall, he comes to know the feel of her chest heaving against his ribs.
 
He's said too much. But she had pushed too far, and he has been tempted far
longer than she knows. Joffrey's orders and taunts, Sansa's innocence and
smiles and happiness upon seeinghim, Sandor's long unseen desire to be a good
man; all of these things and more leave cracks and holes in the sturdy fortress
he places between himself and the world.
 
“Oh,” she says, and it is a soft, breathless noise. It makes shame rise in his
chest even as his cock throbs. Seven hells he can imagine her making that same
little sound as he slides his fingers up her thigh for the first time. So
focused on trying to make his fingers release Sansa, an animal growl ekes out
before Sandor can contain it.
 
But then, like a gods damned miracle or a line from one of her buggering songs,
soft hands are cupping his face. Both sides, ruined and plain, are caressed.
Her thumbs rest beside his mouth, and long fingers are cool and tender as they
stretch up into his hair to whisper like warm sunlight over his terrible scars.
Sansa smiles gently, and Sandor forgets how to breathe because no one – no one
–has ever looked at him this way.
 
She kisses him with damp lips and a youth's artlessness. Her lips remain closed
but she is humming behind them, a soft noise of happiness that Sandor wants to
take into his own body, to pull inside and keep in his chest like a gentle fire
to warm him when the winter of his pain and rage becomes too much.
 
“There will be no annulment,” she serenely informs him with her feet nearly a
foot from the floor and her arms now wound about his neck. “I wouldn't want
one, even if you didn't take my maidenhead. We're going to be very happy, my
lord, as my parents were. They didn't know each other at all before they were
wed, but love came. We will be the same.”
 
Stunned, he lowers Sansa to her feet. She pats his face and chest reassuringly,
sliding away to twitch her skirts, removing the wrinkles. Sandor tracks her
movements, stricken silent as she makes her way to a little desk.
 
“Could you do something for me?” she asks. Shooting him a nervously hopeful
smile over one shoulder, Sansa a seat.
 
“Aye,” he assures her gruffly. At this moment, she could ask him to run Joffrey
through in front of the entire court, and he would gladly do so.
 
“If I write a letter to my mother, will you send it for me? I'm watched, you
know, and not allowed to send anything...but I would like her to know I'm to be
wed. But only if it won't get you in trouble,” she rushes to add, flushing.
 
“Write your letter,” he tells her. Moving to a too-small chair at her little
table, he hopes she doesn't notice the fine tremor of his fingers and the
weakness of his usually strong legs. “I'll see it sent.”
 
She says, “Thank you,” before blinking at him as though she's been caught doing
something terribly naughty. Her face flames, nearly as red as her hair, but she
squares her shoulders and stiffens her back. “Thank you, Sandor.” Sansa appears
impossibly pleased and thrilled, grinning widely at him before turning back to
parchment, quill, and ink.
 
Dazed, Sandor watches the sunlight on her hair and the way she wrinkles her
nose and bites at her lip while thinking. He wondersat his blessings, and the
price he will have to pay for them.
 
 
                                   ----X----
 
 
Four days before her wedding, the Queen summons Sansa.
 
As pleased as she is at the thought of marrying Sandor Clegane – a baffling
thought, when she thinks of how she had once feared him (but that was before
she had learned that monsters are often golden and pretty, all the better to
lure in little girls) – Sansa has been teetering on the brink of an almost
hysterical terror since the decree had been given. If Joffrey should ever
suspect that she is looking forward to life as Lady Clegane, the most well-
protected woman in all of Westeros, she knows he will take this unintentional
gift away. Joffrey craves Sansa's fear, not her happiness.
 
“Lady Sansa, Your Grace,” Ser Osmund Kettleblack announces, stepping aside and
holding the door to the Queen's sitting room open for Sansa. He had spoke at
length to her on their way to the Queen; asking about the details of the
wedding, gently teasing her about the bedding and laughing at her rosy blushes,
even giving her a short but kindly intentioned review of Sandor's nature.
 
“He's a rough man, my lady, no denying it. But he is just and honorable in his
own way; I imagine that as your husband, he will respect and honor you well.”
 
Sansa had thought it so gallant that she had squeezed his arm, delighted that
despite Sandor's fearsome reputation, others had seen the bits and pieces of
goodness in him that she now does. Of course, this is not something Queen
Cersei would ever attempt to understand.
 
“Thank you, Ser Osmund.” Cersei stands in front of large windows, the glass
thrown open to allow the cool wind to sweep in off the water. She is tall,
beautiful, and as imposing ever. She wears emeralds at her throat, in her hair,
at her wrists. The shade is mimicked by her gown and her stunning eyes.
 
Walking forward, the Queen extends a hand. Once, Sansa might have thought her
smile warm and welcoming. Now she clearly sees the ice in her eyes and has to
fight back a chill. “Please sit, Sansa. Your dress is lovely, little dove,
though I don't recall such fine embroidery on it before.”
 
Sansa answers quietly, “I worked the embroidery, Your Highness.”
 
“I shouldn't be surprised. You are a girl of many talents, are you not?”
Cersei's smile is sharp and mocking. She pours two glasses of wine, sitting one
in front of Sansa before taking a seat for herself. She is so close that when
she crosses her legs, her foot bumps Sansa's knee. “Tell me, child, does being
the betrothed of a dog suit better than that of a prince?”
 
Bile burns hot and sour at the back of Sansa's throat. Careful, she thinks,
drawing in a short breath. This is a double-edged sword.
 
“I mourn that the acts of my traitorous family tore me from the King, though I
know that for the good of the kingdom and his own happiness he must have a
queen worthy of him, and I am not. However,I am honored that he made a match
for me, Your Grace, and will do everything I can to be a loyal and loving wife
to my lord husband once we are wed – just as he is a loyal and loving servant
to your family.” Sansa takes a sip of wine, knowing it will help ease her way
with the Queen.
 
One sharp eyebrow arched up in what can only be amusement, possibly even
mockery, the facade cracks and Cersei laughs. It is an ugly sound, though she
cuts it off by taking a long pull from her glass. “Oh little dove, how you have
learned to sing,” she chuckles, shaking her head. The light catches on her
golden hair and it glows. “There is no need to lie to me on this account, girl;
any woman would be unhappy to be wed to either Clegane. Be glad it is the Hound
you've been given to and not the Mountain. His wives do not last very long, I
fear, and you would go quicker than any of them, I'm sure. In this, you are
lucky.”
 
A pause. The Queen watches Sansa, who laces her fingers tightly around her
glass and shifts uncomfortably. Sea birds cry and scream from the harbor, and
the salty wind also carries in the scent of the flowers that crawl up the side
of Cersei's tower.
 
“I assume you know little about what happens in the marriage bed. I will tell
you this now, and remember it well: it is not magical. Women can have pleasure,
yes, but I somehow doubt the Hound will bother with yours, so do not expect or
ask for it. He will demand you that demean yourself, and you must, or he will
hurt you. Do you understand, Sansa? This is no story or dream or song, you are
being wedded to a man who can snap your neck with one hand, and if you deny him
in the bedchamber he may well do so. It would be within his rights, as women
are easily replaceable.” Scathing for a woman's role in the world drips from
the Queen's words. “So give him what he wants, girl. Whatever he wants, however
he wants it, whenever he wants it.”
 
Sansa wants to cry. Is the Queen trying to scare her? Or is she speaking
truthfully? She can't imagine Clegane – Sandor, gods be good, she must use his
name more easily! – hurting her. Not like that. With his words, yes, as they
are often barbed and offensive. But his touch is often reverent, and even when
he might have taken her by force, he had not.
 
Easily, her mind goes back to the riot. He had saved her from those brutes who
wanted to hurt her for no other reason than she was a highborn girl at their
mercy. She still has nightmares … that cold stone floor she had been pinned on
– the sour reek of the old straw – the inescapable strength of their hands upon
her limbs. The sound of her dress ripping – a chorus of rough laughter in
response to her struggles – the whisper of breaches lacings being undone. Most
especially she recalls the one between her thighs, the way he had rubbed his
man thing against her before Sandor had pulled him away.
 
Sansa also remembers the rage in Sandor's eyes when she had first caught sight
of him, and later the way he had banded an arm over the back of her legs to
keep her over his shoulder. “We're almost to the Keep,” he had kept telling
her. Sansa had cried and clung to him, while men had died trying to tear her
from his grasp. “Hush, little bird, you're safe with me. You're safe.”
 
Looking back, Sansa realizes how utterly shaken he had been when she was
brought back to the Keep. She had heard it in the tremor at the edge of his
words, his nervous movements as he had directed her maids, “Little bird's
bleeding. Someone take her back to her cage. See to that cut.”
 
With these things in mind, Sansa cannot believe that Cersei is correct.
 
“There it is,” the Queen says with a terrible sort of vicious pity. “I can see
the understanding in those pretty, blue eyes. It is a woman's lot in life,
Sansa, to be used by our men when they want us, and to stand aside when they
desire something else. But I will tell you something more; you are maiden and a
stupid little girl, but I am a woman grown. I know the way the Hound watches
you when he thinks his master's eyes are averted. He wants you, girl, in all
the ways a man can want a woman. So when he comes to your bed and takes his
desires out on your body, do not just lie there and let him. Kiss his mouth,
touch his face – yes, child, that ugly face you will wake to every morning for
the rest of your life – kiss his scars, and smile for him. Tell him you love
him. I doubt any woman has ever done such a thing, and if you do this, well,
you may gain a woman's power over him.”
 
Revulsion washes over Sansa, thick and heavy. Cersei would have her build her
marriage on a foundation of lies and a struggle for power. It makes her stomach
revolt just thinking of telling Sandor such a cruel lie as I love you if she
doesn't mean it.
 
The Queen can see how Sansa feels, that is clear. It is good for Sansa to
appear unhappy with her marriage. The older woman clearly seems to it as
disgust towards Sandor Clegane, and the thought of sharing his bed.
 
“Thank you for your advice, Your Grace,” Sansa mouths thickly, her voice
hollow. “You are much wiser than I. I am glad that now I will know what to do.”
 
“I survived Robert,” Cersei tells her, draining the last of her wine. “You may
yet survive Clegane. Come, now; you may be marrying a monster, but you will be
a pretty little bride. The seamstress is waiting for us to try on your new
dresses.”
 
 
                                   ----X----
 
Not long after her meeting with the Queen Regent, Sansa is waylaid by Margaery
Tyrell. Lurking near the near the courtyard where Sandor is training, Sansa is
huddled behind a spear rack. She watches as Sandor practices, in awe of his
strength and skill. She can't say why the need to see him has come on her, but
her conversation with Cersei had left Sansa feeling … unclean.
 
“Yoohoo, Sansa!” Margaery seems to materialize out of thin air to dart toward
the shocked girl.The overly-loud greeting gains the attention of the men
training in the yard.
 
Sandor turns, gaze quickly finding Sansa. His opponent attempts to take
advantage of the Hound's distraction, lunging from the side with an upraised
sword; Sandor casually whacks him across the throat with the flat of his blunt
tourney blade, leaving the other man to collapse, choking and wheezing, at his
feet.
 
Sweat drips from his hooked nose and has flattened his hair, Sandor narrows his
eyes on Sansa. She does her best to melt into the stonework of the wall behind
her, fails horribly, and suddenly finds herself arm-in-arm with a laughing
Margaery. Dark curls and silk trailing along behind them as she pulls Sansa
into the open.
 
“Sansa, darling, how adorable! You're actually watching him train!” Margaery is
kind enough to keep her tone low enough so her words aren't carried out to the
men in the yard, but Sansa would still very much like for a hole to open up and
swallow her. “His face may not be much, but he is quite fearsome. Oh, he's
still watching us. Wave to him. Wave!”
 
Margaery waves excitedly. Sansa follows suit, wondering if death by blush is
possible, or if she'll survive her embarrassment. She suspects death is
possible. It certainly feels eminent.
 
A few of the other men begin to jeer Sandor. Not loudly enough for Sansa to
hear their words, but she can surmise the gist of it. Sandor turns very slowly,
head tipped to one side as he eyes a particular Lannister guard who is having
trouble speaking around his laughter. Another man points to the women on the
sideline, makes a truly vulgar series of gestures involving some shameful and
cringe-worthy (on Sansa's part, at least) thrusting, braying like a donkey.
 
“Oh dear, I think they've made him angry.” Margaery sounds positively pleased
at this development. “My goodness, for such a large man he is very quick.”
 
“Should we try to stop him?” Sansa asks worriedly, biting at her lower lip.
 
Shaking her head, the future queen appears amused. “No, darling, of course not.
He's defending your honor, I'm sure...and showing off, at least a bit. I've
always liked watching my brothers and guards train. It's so interesting, seeing
the men in their natural habitat. Mother's mercy, look at all that blood!”
 
“Don't kill him,” Sansa whispers, eyes round. “Don't kill him!” she begs
louder, pressing a hand flat to her stomach. Oh, she wishes Margaery hadn't
shouted and drawn their attention. Margaery pulls her away, though Sansa looks
back several times to watch Sandor efficiently pulverize the guards who had
mocked Sansa and Margaery.
 
The rest of the afternoon is spent pleasantly in the Tyrell overtaken portion
of the Red Keep. Gossip is shared and too much wine is poured, leading to a
pair of incredibly loosened tongues. Margaery insists that if Sansa is willing,
her marriage may be a good one. Sansa knows she says too much when “I have high
hopes for it.” passes her lips.
 
Margaery's eyes are far too sharp and keen, and Sansa squirms under the
suddenly understanding gaze. She thinks a rain of questions must be coming, but
instead the future queen directs their conversation to a mercifully different,
though equally uncomfortable topic: children.
 
“A son learns from his mother, and I plan to teach mine much,” she says slyly,
nibbling at fruit. “He will be a great king and a good man, like my brothers.
Mayhap I'll find his queen from House Clegane, hmm, Sansa?”
 
Sansa chokes on her cider. Margaery laughs so hard she turns red and splatters
fruit juice on her silk gown, which only serves to make her amusement grow.
Their talk turns to lighter fare, clothing and wedding planning and how they
both agree that autumn is nearly upon Westeros.
 
Margaery showers Sansa's cheeks in quick, happy kisses when their time draws to
an end. She tucks a yellow rose behind Sansa's ear before allowing her to
leave. Waving goodbye, framed by the afternoon sunlight with the sapphire sea
at her back, the future queen is a picture of joyous beauty. Sansa's heart is
warm, pleased that she has finally found a true and honest friend.
 
On arriving back at her room, Sansa sends Shae to bring up dinner for two.
“Tonight we'll sup together, in private. I'm too relaxed to attend dinner in
the small hall.”
 
After Shae has gone to fetch the food, Sansa falls onto her bed. Humming, she
lazily plucking pins from her hair, allowing her elaborate up-do to topple.
Thinking on Margaery's words regarding children makes her blush, though not
entirely with shame. What will her future daughter look like? Dark haired like
her father, or will Sansa pass on her Tully coloring? And their sons, what will
they be like? Large, Sansa thinks with a giggle, big and strong. Honorable like
Robb and Father...and even Sandor.
 
Lost in her thoughts as she is, it takes Sansa a moment to notice the sound of
parchment crinkling. Sansa sits up, having reclined onto her pillows as she
daydreamed. Curiously reaching under them, she finds smooth parchment. Dread
knotting her stomach, she slowly unfolds the note.
 
Meet me in the godswood, my lovely Jonquil.
 
Ser Dontos. Sansa knows she should have somehow contacted him to explain she is
going through with her marriage to Sandor, but there has been so little time.
And in truth, she simply hoped that Dontos would give up and forget the whole
mess. He certainly hadn't rushed to rescue her before her betrothal was
announced, so what is the point of bothering now that she is going to be wed?
 
“I'll explain,” she announces firmly. “He will understand. I'm sure he'll be
pleased.”
 
The memory of Ser Dontos's sloppy kisses, always aimed for her mouth or neck
and never her cheeks, mingle with that of his eternally moist hands. They grab
more often than not, sliding too low or high to be proper. The memory of these
actions take the strength from her conviction, and Sansa suddenly feels empty.
Aching with the loss of her previous happiness, she resolves to go to the
godswood directly after dinner and wait for Dontos.
 
 
                                   ----X----
 
 
Sandor ignores the light, persistent rapping upon his door for as long as he
can. It is long past sunfall and the Lannisters can go fuck themselves, he is
no longer a Kingsguard or personal guard. The knocking persists even after he
hurls a dagger and several curses at the door. Giving in, he opens the door on
a snarl of, “The fuck is it?”
 
It is the last person he’d expected to see on his threshold is Sansa Stark. His
betrothed. Faintly stunned, Sandor blinks in shock before his expression slides
back into his habitual scowl.
 
A flash of pleasure at knowing she has sought him out strikes. It fades,
however, as soon as Sandor truly looks. Her hair is wild, leaves caught in the
tumbled twists. Dirt streaks across one high, smooth cheekbone. Sansa's narrow
shoulders tremble with each short, ragged breath she draws. Tears glint in her
eyes, and her dress is torn. All of this Sandor absorbs in a split second, all
while she is still opening her mouth and attempting to speak. Taking her
fragile wrist in hand, he tugs her inside.
 
“Was it Joffrey?” he asks, but only after the door has fallen shut. Sansa
shakes her head, tears streaking down her dirty face. “One of his Kingsguard? A
Lannister guard?”
 
“No, i-it was – it –” Sansa is obviously on the verge of breaking down. Despite
the glaze of shock in her eyes and the bubble of hysteria that curls around her
gasped words, it is equally obvious that she is fighting like a starved wolf to
maintain control. Taking in several more breaths, she finally meets Sandor's
gaze. “Gods have mercy on me, but I t-think I've killed him.”
 
Torn between bafflement and pride – little bird has talons, does she? – Sandor
takes a moment to watch this cowering girl cover her mouth with a trembling
hand. Choking on a sob, she shudders.
 
“Sit down,” he orders, pushing her into a chair. She falls into it, too shaken
to fight. Sandor is quick to snag a wine skin, pulling the cork out with his
teeth before pressing it into her hands. “Drink. No, girl, I said drink, not
sip. Another. One more – burns, doesn't it? Good. Now, tell me what the
buggering hell has happened.”
 
“I think I killed Ser Dontos in the godswood.” Sansa pushes the words out in a
rush, as though terrified armed guards are going to spring out of the walls and
take her away the moment she has confessed. Once the words are spoken and no
hammer falls, she releases a long breath. Lifting a hand to rub her forehead,
she marshals up that quiet strength Sandor has come to so deeply respect. “I
told him I wasn't going with him – I explained that the king ordered me wed and
I would do my duty, but he kept insisting and then he got so angry … he grabbed
me and pushed me down, and I didn't know what else to do!”
 
There is a story here, Sandor concludes, and he already mislikes the sound of
it. “Why were you with that fool of a fool in the godswood?”
 
Sucking back tears, Sansa gives him the tale: Ser Dontos, acting as her Florian
after she had saved him from death, and how he was biding time while promising
to take her away. Not even an hour ago Sansa had met Dontos and explained that
she would no longer be a part of his plans – and he had not been able to sweet-
talk her out of it – the whorseson had attacked her.
 
“He knocked me down, going on about his money … he wasn't going to lose it
because of me. There was a rock beside me. I grabbed it and I hit him.There was
blood, and he fell, and I think he's dead …I don't know what to do! They're
going to kill me, aren't they? Joffrey is going to kill me for this …”
 
“Do you have a brain behind that pretty little face?” he hisses, throat aching
with the need to shout. Taking her by the upper arms, Sandor gives her a sharp
shake.
 
Sansa's battle with her tears are lost, and she practically wails. Sandor's
arms and proximity keep her from hiding behind her hands, so she hangs her
head, weeping.
 
“He was playing you – no doubt he's working for someone. Gods be damned, Sansa.
Fuck.” Releasing her, Sandor shoves his hands through his hair. His teeth are
tightly gritted, mouth locked in a snarl.
 
“Stop crying,” he finally snaps, though by now one hand has reached out –
almost of its own will – and is softly wiping moisture from her flushed,
swollen face. “I doubt you killed the bastard. We're going back to the
godswood, and I'll get the story from him. If he has an ounce of sense, he
won't try to give me the same lies he fed you.”
 
Sandor takes only enough time to strap on his sword belt and shove a spare
cloak at Sansa before they leave. By some miracle they encounter no one, though
Sandor's neck prickles with the sense of being watched. The walls and streets
of all King's Landing have eyes and ears that go right back to Varys. This only
serves to make him angrier. Gods know what that fucking eunuch will do with
this information if he receives it in full.
 
The damage could be enough to have Sansa killed for treason, and it makes red
spots flicker at the edge of his vision. Over his cold dead corpse will he let
Joffrey take his little bird's head off; if it means fighting his way out of
King's Landing, so be it.
 
Sansa leads him into the godswood, to the massive heart tree. Despite not being
a weirwood, a face was long ago carved upon it. It seem to watch Sandor,
weighing his sins through the smokeberry vines that fall, hairlike, into it's
eyes. Before the sacred tree is Dontos, hair sticky with blood and a stained
rock beside his head. “Wait here,” Sandor orders, striding over to the fool.
 
He kicks the disgraced knight (but then, what knight isn't a disgrace?) in the
ribs, heard enough to roll the fat man over. He groans and belches, one hand
rubbing at his no doubt aching head.
 
“He's alive!” Sansa gasps, sounding positively overjoyed.
 
It is probably best not to tell her how unlucky this is for Dontos.
 
Bending, Sandor grips the fool by the front of his motley, hauling him upright.
Dontos struggles weakly, toes just barely scraping the forest floor as he
squeaks and squeals like a captured pig. “Gods be good!” he cries, releasing
his bladder. “Hound!”
 
For Sandor, intimidation comes easy. Massive height and thick muscles combine
with deadly skills and a savaged face, making a man that many others have night
terrors of meeting on the battlefield. Expression twisting into a mask of
furious bloodlust, Sandor pushes his gnarled visage close to Dontos's own. The
man has more to fear than most, given how he had lied to Sansa, used her, and
dared to attack her.
 
Sandor says nothing. He doesn't have too – Dontos begins babbling almost
immediately.
 
“I-I'm sorry! I didn't do anything – I was just trying to help the girl – she
asked me to, yes, poor little thing, all alone. She needed a friend, how could
I say no? So I told her – I told her lies to make her happy, yes, to make her
feel better, how could I not? Poor girl, poor girl...”
 
“I never. I never asked you for anything! You sent me that note and bid me meet
you in the godswood! You promised to help me get home. I never asked for you to
do any of it, ser!”
 
“Children lie. Poor girl, can't blame her. She is scared, of course, who
wouldn't –”
 
“If one more lie concerning the girl leaves your mouth, I will cut off a
finger. For every lie you tell, I will cut off another, and another, and
another. Should we run out of fingers, we will go on to toes. And after that,
you have three more chances to tell it true; two balls and a cock.”
 
In the pale moonlight, with his back to the heart tree of Sansa's old gods,
Dontos's tears mingle with the sweat pouring down his swollen face. For a
moment his mouth works soundlessly, and he looks remarkably like a fish flung
onto land. “It was Littlefinger!” he finally gasps, and Sandor is filled with
disgust as the fool shits himself in fear. “He said that – that I owed the
girl, since she was the one who convinced Joffrey to spare my life and make me
a fool. All I had to do was meet with her, talk with her, let her know that
preparations were being made for her escape. I was to be her Florian! It was a
kindness, a kindness, I swear!”
 
“Kindness? You are so craven you aren't even a man, and you expect me to
believe you were doing this girl a kindness? What did Littlefinger promise
you?”
 
“N-nothing!”
 
“What did he promise you?” Another hard shake. Sandor's arm is beginning to
ache dully from holding the fool aloft.
 
“Ten thousand gold dragons!”
 
Sandor drops the man, leaving him to crash down at his feet in a stinking heap.
He looks very much like an overgrown, sobbing infant. “At least you know how
much you are worth, little bird: ten thousand dragons.”
 
“I … I don't understand …” Looking far younger than she has since her father
had been beheaded, Sansa slowly shakes her head. “Why would –”
 
“Lady Sansa Stark,” Sandor rasps fiercely, chest aching with how entirely
innocent she is. Even after all this time, all that has been done to her, she
has no idea what men are willing to do for power. “Heir to Winterfell and the
North. Your brother is making war, girl, and if he dies there, the North goes
to you. If you are under Littlefinger's control, he can marry you to someone of
his choosing, someone under him. Or to himself, and then he is Lord of
Winterfell, and he has the daughter of the woman who spurned him, a younger and
prettier replacement.”
 
Understanding blossoms over Sansa, darkening her eyes and paling her face even
further. For a moment she seems likely to crumble, to collapse under the weight
of the injustices of the world. Sandor fears this – he is a warrior, not a
healer, and he could never hope to help her mend from these kinds of wounds.
But before him a change comes over the girl. Suddenly she is less child, more
woman, and utterlyNorthern. She is ice and snow and frozen strength, back
straightening and chin lifting to an imperious angle.
 
“Thank you for helping me understand,” she says softly, but with a thread of
steel that Sandor had often heard in her lord father's voice. “What shall we do
with this...man, my lord?”
 
Pride heats Sandor's innards. It brings a grim smile to his face as he surveys
his little bird. Something tickles at the edge of his mind, a notion caught
somewhere between an idea and a foretelling. It whispers that one day this girl
will be a woman to be feared.
 
“We take him to the Lannisters. You'll cry, little bird, and sing a pretty song
… he came to you several times in the godswood, attempting to convince you to
escape with him. You denied him each time, but were too afraid to tell anyone,
until this evening when youcame to me. Understand?”
 
Sansa's nod is small but firm.
 
Dontos weeps.
 
Chapter End Notes
     I don't know, was I too hard on Dontos? I don't think so, but then
     again, I want to string him from my ceiling and use him as a punching
     bag, SO. Meanwhile, Shae is Shae from the show not the books, as book
     Shae is also on my Hate and Loathe and Want To Murder List, so you
     know. It happens.
     Updated too soon, because I have zero self control and I am eyeball
     deep in this fic and having too much fun writing it. So much yet to
     come. A wedding, the bedding, and...oh, you thought I was going to
     tell, didn't you? SILLY BIRDS; TRICKS ARE FOR KIDS. Wait. Wrong
     story. What were we talking about?
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Notes
     Beta'ed by Manniness, who went ABOVE and BEYOND the call of duty as
     an International BFF to whip my ass and my writing into shape.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
“She asked me to take her away, she did, she did, only I didn't know how to say
no –”
 
“Clegane.” Lord Tywin rubs two fingers against his temple, mouth pinched in a
taunt line.
 
A boot to the gut and the fool curls up on the floor, gagging on blood and
vomit. Perhaps Sandor's smile is a bit too feral at the sight of this man's
pain, but if so, no one comments on it.
 
Gathered in the Tower of the Hand is Lord Twyin, Queen Cersei, Lord Varys,
Sansa, and Sandor. And Dontos. But given the way he is currently wallowing on
the floor, dripping tears and snot and stinking like a privy, he's hardly human
enough to be counted among them.
 
“You should have come to me immediately, Sansa. You stupid girl, I can't
believe –” Cersei's spewing is cut off by an upraised hand from her father. The
Queen huffs in annoyance, folding her arms under her breasts and glowering.
 
“Your Grace, I beg pardon, but perhaps it would be wise to consider that Lady
Sansa is still quite young. Of course she is wary of involving herself in
anything that may make her sound a traitor, as her father sadly proved himself
to be.”
 
Sandor loathes Varys, hates the bald, plump, not-a-man fiercely. Not because he
was cut, this Sandor could have forgiven (he knows of what it is to be made
into something against your will, after all), but because of the eunuch's
actions. He spies, lies, and spins needlessly intricate webs of deception. For
a man of Sandor's nature, a creature like Varys is unforgivable.
 
“How is it that our Master of Whispers did not know what Littlefinger was
doing, or that Dontos was causing the girl so much trouble? One of your little
birds should have flown to you and sang a pretty song about it.” Cersei appears
furious enough to tear out Varys throat. Sandor suspects it is because she was
woken from a wine-induced stupor; having been her personal guard for several
years, he can see the signs.
 
“As a matter of fact, Your Grace, I was going to bring this to your attention
as soon as I had gathered more information. I knew that Dontos had been
visiting the godswood when Lady Sansa went to pray, and that she often left
appearing upset; but alas, my birds never seem able to penetrate this last
southron holdfast of the old gods.”
 
He lies, Sandor thinks, wariness tickling his spine. Why? What gain can the
Spider have in protecting Sansa?
 
Bowing, Varys lowers his head. “I am sorry, my Queen. I should have come to you
immediately.”
 
“Yes, Varys, you should have.” Ruffled and irritated, Cersei rubs a hand across
her eyes tiredly. “Baelish must be dealt with. Hound, I want his head. Now.”
 
Sandor thinks is an excellent plan. Lord Twyin, it seems, has other ideas.
 
“No. Clegane, you will remain. We must deal with Baelish carefully.”
 
“We would not have to deal with him at all if he were dead,” Cersei snips
plainly, and while Sandor has no love for the woman, he agrees with her. He
longs to gut Baelish for tempting his little bird into danger; the thought of
what Sansa may have been subjected to. Had she allowed Dontos to take her to
Littlefinger … there would have been nowhere in the vast, wide world Peter
Baelish could hide if he had taken Sansa. Someway, somehow, the Hound wouldhave
taken up his scent. And in retaliation for whatever schemes Baelish put his
little bird in the middle of – for whatever perversions he might have pressed
on her – Sandor would have killed him slowly. Inch by slow inch, until Baelish
begged for mercy.
 
The moon rises to its zenith and begins to fall as the Lannisters and Varys
talk and plot. They say one thing while meaning another, which makes Sandor's
head ache fiercely. Dontos moans and cries softly, while Sandor stares into the
distance and yearns for a skin of sour red. Sansa sits with her hands neatly
folded in her lap, eyes lowered. They are finally dismissed with little being
resolved, as far as Sandor can tell. It is clear that Sansa is in no trouble.
The queen's ire is up, but Cersei is always looking to find fault with the
girl.
 
What matters is that Lord Twyin had believed Sansa's story, and so she is safe.
 
Rubbing a hand over his lower face, stubble and scars alike, Sandor again finds
himself pining for wine. “If you find anymore fucking notes in your bed, burn
them.”
 
At his side, Sansa winces. She walks with her head down and arms folded around
her stomach, the posture of a beaten animal instead of a young lady. Sandor
bites his tongueto keep from cursing. He aches to wrap her in cotton wool and
tuck her away, out of sight of the court and the world as a whole. On the other
hand, he knows that protecting Sansa will not truly help her. She must learn to
see the horrors, plots, and lies, or else she will end up dead by them.
 
The thought of Sansa Stark dead, the light gone from her eyes and never a chirp
to pass her pink lips again nearly cripples him. Better she fear his words and
learn the truth, rather than have poetry and songs and never see the axe coming
for her little neck.
 
“I'm sorry,” Sansa whispers once they are outside her door. Placing a soft hand
on his wrist, she looks to him with swollen eyes and an exhausted gaze. Her
lower lip swollen and chaffed from the worrying her teeth have done to it.
Sandor's gut clenches hard and fast. The lingering need for violence, the
remnants of his rage swirls and morphs into lightning strikes of lust. “I'll
never be able to properly thank or repay you for all you've done for me.
I...I'm sorry I've been so much trouble for you, Sandor.”
 
The girl is too young and blind to see that he does not want repayment or even
thanks for the things he has done. Or perhaps he does, Sandor admits; thanks
given in the form of his name falling from her tongue with caring. He wants her
hands on his shoulders as she pulls him into her bed … most especially he wants
her smiles.
 
Sneering at his own desires, Sandor barks out a rough laugh. “Trouble, is it?
Aye, you're trouble.”
 
Recoiling as though he has hit her, Sansa presses a hand to her throat.
 
Belatedly he realizes that she has no idea of his thoughts. or of the fact that
he would do nearly anything to please her. “Stop that,” he commands, stepping
close. Too close, honestly; Sansa's back is against her door, and her breasts
brush his chest with each inhalation. Without making a conscious effort to do
so, he realizes his hand is at her waist. Strong, blunt fingers splay over her
side and back as he palms the sweet curve of her young hip.
 
“You are trouble, little bird, I won't deny it. I can't say I'm a man that has
ever walked away from such...more that I'm the sort who seeks it out.” Sandor
cannot hide the gruesome smile he wears.
 
Once Sansa has digested his words, she beams. And it is far, far too much for
Sandor; her hand on his wrist, her warm gaze and happy smile. Leaning forward,
Sandor presses her flush against the door. A groan pushing through his teeth as
his cock nestles against her soft stomach.
 
He kisses her, and it is not short or sweet or gentle. It is hard; he scrapes
his teeth across her upper lip, and when she gasps he invades her mouth with
short, searching strokes of his tongue. He kisses her as a man would kiss a
woman grown. Barely more than a child, Sansa should not keen into his kiss,
neither should she yield with such eagerness. It is too quickly paced and rough
for her to truly respond. Despite this she follows his actions as best she is
able. Quivering, whines of lust pushing up her slender throat, Sansa is happily
devoured.
 
When his hand travels to her backside, cupping it through the many layers of
fabric between their flesh, she mewls. Pulling Sansa onto her toes, Sandor
presses hard against her, while knotting a hand in her fiery hair. But it is as
he lifts her --  takes her feet completely from the ground (stooping is putting
a terrible crick in his neck) and pins her against the door -- his thoughtless
display of strength allows Sansa to overpower him. She opens her thighs, those
sweet virgin thighs, cradling Sandor's hips between them.
 
“Oh, oh gods,” Sansa breathes, once his mouth is at her jaw and traveling down
her throat. His hips press forward while Sandor groans, setting his teeth hard
against the skin of her neck. Sansa twines her arms around his shoulders and –
ever so slightly and hesitantly – mimics his desperate thrust with her own
hips. The cry she gives is wordless and shocked; Sandor very nearly peaks,
panting into her throat as he presses against her once more.
 
“Fuck,” he grits out, and then again, “fuck, Sansa.”
 
Behind her door is a bed, only steps away. He could take her inside, strip her
bare, lay her down and have her. He doesn't think she would stop him. Not with
all her little sounds, her fingers in his hair and the way she pushes against
him as he ruts againsther like an animal.
 
It is this thought that stops Sandor – or him cools, rather, nothing but being
inside Sansa and spilling his seed could truly stop his wanting now. The
thought of taking her like the helpless dog he is, only days away from their
wedding. Truthfully, Sandor could not possibly give less of a fuck in regards
to her being a virgin on their wedding night, but he knows highborn girls are
taught to place the majority of their worth on their intact maidenheads. Taking
this away from Sansa, sweet little Sansa who does not even truly understand
what they are doing … who smiles and says thank you so when he has done
something only passingly kind … who has kissed him without revulsion and said
we are going to be very happy without a doubt to be had ...
 
Sandor is not a man of honor. But for her, he can try.
 
One last kiss. It is almost gentle and not nearly deep enough, but Sansa makes
those pretty, needy sounds and he thinks she is smiling against his disfigured
mouth. Carefully he places her back on her feet and backs away, hands balled
into fists. “Go inside,” he commands, “and bar your door.”
 
She flushes, biting her lip even as she twists her hands into the fabric of her
skirts. “Your cloak –”
 
“Doesn't matter. Go, little bird.”
 
She fumbles with the latch, but inside she goes. Pausing with the door almost
shut, only half of her face visible in the moonlight from the window at the end
corridor. She shyly whispers, “Goodnight, Sandor.”
 
He waits until he hears the bolt being slid into place before he leaves.
 
 
                                   ----X----
 
 
Joffrey had insisted that the wedding be held in the great sept of Baelor the
Blessed, and Sansa had not attempted to fight him. Still, she wishes for summer
snow and the heart tree at Winterfell; she imagines green moss and grass made
icy in a cold snap, and instead of a marble floor she would walk on fallen
leaves the color of blood. Her cheeks would be rosy from the wind, and Sandor
would stand before the face of her father's gods, serious and upright, in the
flowing yellow cloak Sansa had embroidered.
 
Robb would take the place of their father, and Catelyn would weep. They
wouldn't understand, not at first, how happy Sansa is to be tying herself to
this rough man, but in time they would respect him as she does. Perhaps Jon
would come down from the Wall to see her wed; Sansa would kiss his cheeks and
hold his hands, sit him at the high table and proudly say, “This is my
brother,” even if it caused her mother to grow sullen.
 
“My lady?” Tyrion Lannister speaks softly, snapping Sansa from her fantasy. The
younger Lannister son was grievously injured in the Battle of Blackwater Bay;
in truth, she cannot understand how he is not being heralded as a hero. When
Sandor had left combat, driven away by the sight and stench of men dying in the
embrace of poisonous green flames, Tyrion himself led a sortie out to defend
the Mud Gate.
 
Despite being a dwarf, the men say he fought bravely and well. Many died by his
axe, and while his face is now a ruin – even part of his nose is gone – he
managed to survive when so many others did not. If he had acted so bravely
under her father's command, Eddard Stark would have honored and thanked him.
Sansa does not think Tyrion's lord father has even acknowledged his efforts to
help win the battle.
 
“I'm sorry, my lord,” she says softly, a bittersweet sadness filling her heart.
“I was thinking of Winterfell. We might have married before the heart tree, as
Starks have done for centuries. Even my own parents, after Father came back
from the war. Robb was already born, but Father insisted. Mother thought it
queer, but...” Sansa trails off, blinking back stinging tears.
 
There is no point in dwelling what she cannot have ... and there is no excuse
for making herself appear so weak in front of a Lannister, despite how small he
is.
 
The dwarf's eyes hold pity. His short fingers are gentle as they grip Sansa's
own, squeezing softly. “If you were at Winterfell, you would not have to marry
Clegane at all,” he whispers, and there is a spark of anger there. “I am sorry
that my nephew is disgracing you like this, Lady Sansa. You deserve much better
than you have been given.”
 
Is it a trick? Is he playing her? In truth, she doesn't think the Imp is; he
has always been kind to her. Still...
 
“I am glad to serve the King in any way he wishes,” she dutifully responds, her
smile becoming small and false. “It is an honor to marry his own guard, who has
long served your esteemed family.”
 
“You are such a clever girl, Lady Sansa. I thank the gods that my sister never
realized it, but I have always admired it.” This admission is heartfelt, and
brings a wide smile to Tyrion's face. He looks like a monster when he smiles,
worse than ever before with his new scar and missing nose. Once she pushes past
her initial revulsion, Sansa finds herself accepting of his visage.
 
He did not ask to be ugly. Besides, Sansa has grown quite fond scars, even the
disfiguring sort. She thinks they are more marks of strength and bravery than
something to feared. Her father had worn scars, some small and some large,
though none savaged his face. Eddard had born the signs of a warrior's life
with pride.
 
One door to Baelor's is pulled open from the inside, just enough for Loras
Tyrell to slide through. The tight passage rumples his fine tunic, which he
straightens before bowing. “Lord Tyrion. I hope you won't mind, but I requested
the honor of escorting our fine Lady Stark to her groom, and King Joffrey was
kind enough to grant me this request.”
 
Tyrion looks nearly as relieved as Sansa feels. The dwarf had been ordered to
walk Sansa down the asle in place of her father, but only to humiliate them
both. Margaery must have had some hand in this, especially in Joffrey's
acceptance.
 
“Gladly, Ser Loras. I understand that your family will be standing up for Lady
Sansa?”
 
“Indeed. We have all grown so fond of her that we couldn't imagine being
anywhere else on this happy day. Margaery loves her as she would a sister, and
our grandmother thinks she is as sweet as she is beautiful.” Flowery words
given with a saccharine smile, Loras waits until Tyrion has waddled to the
doors before moving to Sansa and kissing her cheek.
 
“Thank you,” she whispers, throat squeezing with emotion.
 
“I know I am not at all a replacement for your father, Lady Sansa, but I
visited the godswood this morning. I asked your father's gods to send his
spirit to be with me as I took you to your husband this day, and in truth I
feel him with us now.” A surprisingly cool gust of wind picks up. For a moment
it smells of summer snow and sentinel trees, the sulfur of the hot springs and
the particular scent of rotting leafs from the weirwood. The breeze tugs at her
maiden's cloak, ruffling the Stark colors.
 
Gone white, Loras blinks several times.
 
“The old gods hear our prayers,” Sansa says softly. Loras' face blurs, but she
is quick to blink the tears away. She may take Sandor's cloak today, but she
will always be a Stark, and Starks do not weep before the entirety of their
enemies.
 
When the doors to Baelor's open, her hand is on Loras' arm and he has recovered
his smile. The entire court has come to see the Stark heiress wed the Hound.
Their gaze isa heavy weight, heavier than the silver chain fastening her
maiden's cloak, heavier even than her jewels and elaborate dress. Whispers run
up and down the asle, running mouth to ear and back to mouth once more. Sansa
does not need to hear their words to understand the uneasy tone of the crowd.
 
The nobles mislike a girl of her station being wedded to Sandor, who is lowborn
and a second son. If Robb dies he will hold Winterfell through her, will become
a high lord though he has no idea of what being a lord actually entails. They
think him a brutal butcher incapable of higher thought, and imagining him as
Warden of the North … it stirs the ire and trepidation of many.
 
This knowledge coaxes up Sansa's smile, a secretive curl of her mouth that
lights up her eyes. Let them dwell on this, add it to the list of other sins
Joffrey has committed and will continue to commit. They will revolt sooner or
later; as Tyrion had reminded his nephew, the Mad King had once thought he
could do anything he pleased. The world knows how that story ended.
 
“Luck,” Ser Loras whispers when he kisses Sansa's cheek. He passes her hand to
Sandor, who takes it tentatively, as though afraid he may break her.
 
Some of the tension in Sansa's shoulders and neck leaks away after taking her
place at Sandor's side. Despite being in front of so many, a snickering Joffrey
included, she feels much safer with him than she would be alone.
 
The ceremony takes too long. Sansa's gown is heavy and her pearl encrusted
maiden's cloak is heaver still; trapped beneath it, her hair long hair is loose
and it sticks to the back and sides of her neck as she begins to sweat. Still,
she keeps her fingers tight on Sandor's wrist and speaks her vows clearly when
the time comes. It is a physical ache when her maiden's cloak is removed, the
Stark colors and direwolf swept away by Ser Loras.
 
Do all women feel this hurt of displacement? Sansa wonders, thinking on all
those who have come before her, the daughters which will come after. She had
been born a Stark, and it is the blood of the North that pumps through her
veins and will be passed to her children. The Lannisters wish to do more than
take away the colors and sigil of her house. They want her to become the wife
of their sworn servant, which is a slap in the face to her brother Robb and his
own kingship.
 
She turns her back to Sandor, breathing deeply as, for a brief moment, she is a
free woman. Not Stark nor Clegane; neither daughter nor wife; she is only
Sansa, unburdened and unencumbered by the restrictions of her birth and the
curse of her captivity. If there was ever a time to flee, it is now. She could
barrel Ser Loras down – he would topple in his shock – and Sansa would dart out
a little side door. Selling her jewels would give her money, and she could hire
someone to take her to Riverrun and the remains of her family.
 
Or she would be caught and punished, possibly killed. But she would be free.
 
A deep inhale, air stirring around her sweat slicked neck. Behind her comes the
sound of Sandor shaking out his cloak – her cloak, now – and it stills Sansa's
feet. Her limbs cease their quivering with the urge to bolt, and serenity falls
over her as softly as the first winter snow. Light silk is draped over her
shoulders, and she helps pull it in place.
 
My choice, she thinks, and something in her heart is soothed. I choose to stay
with him, to not run away or fight this. Joffrey has nothing to do with this,
now.
 
Arms coming from behind her, Sandor fastens the cloak at her neck. He is close
enough that his body heat throbs against her back, even through so many layers
of fabric. When she looks down, it is to see his strong, nimble fingers
shaking. Before entirely withdrawing his hands, Sandor pulls Sansa's hair from
under the cloak, leaving it free to flow and softly curl across yellow silk and
its three black hounds.
 
With the first deep breath of her new life, Sansa turns and lifts her gaze – so
far up, sometimes she forgets how large he is – heart lodged in her throat.
“With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband.”
 
A small, almost unnoticeable pause comes here. Gray eyes flicker over Sansa
from head to heel, taking her in; how does she appear to Sandor? Flushed from
more than the heat and wrapped in his family cloak … she cannot read the
expression in his eyes, cannot begin to guess his thoughts. The only thing she
is certain of is that the rage he always burns with has fled, and the trembling
of his fingers is mimicked in the small tremor of his lips before he speaks.
“With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my wife and lady.”
 
The kiss is brief, and yet Sansa is hyper-aware of its many parts. The scratch
of his beard and the way her lower lip fits between both of Sandor's, as though
it had been madeto settle there; the notched gap where the fire had burned away
the corner of his mouth, and how he tries to angle himself so this ruined part
does not touch her (she must find a way to make him see that she doesn't mind
it at all); even his steadying hand at her hip as she stands on her toes to
receive him.
 
As they part, Sansa opens her eyes to discover that she and Sandor are bathed
in the rainbow light of the septon's crystal. Loudly he speaks the final words;
“We stand here in the sight of gods and man, to witness this union; one flesh,
one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one that comes between
them. I do solemnly proclaim Sandor of House Clegane and Sansa of House Stark
to be man and wife.”
 
“Is it binding when he's missing a good portion of his flesh?” Joffrey jests
too loudly, and is discretely hushed by his mother.
 
Sansa ignores the jape, curling her arm tight around her new husband's to keep
his focus on her. He gives a small nod, an acknowledgment of her intent, but
his jaw is tight and his eyes have grown fierce. Therage has returned.
 
The feast – most especially the free flowing wine – lightens the mood of the
lords and ladies. Sandor and Sansa sit below the royal table, alone. “I wonder
how long we're expected to stay?” Sansa asks quietly.
 
Snorting, Sandor lifts his goblet, taking a long drink of rich red wine. “Until
the first of the lords begin passing out in the plum pudding,” he answers,
remaining eyebrow quirking up. “So eager for the bedding, little bird?”
 
She can feel the flush overtaking her entire face, trailing down her neck and
the exposed portion of her chest. “Mayhaps,” she answers daringly, wondering if
she can shock him. Her laughter is bright and loud as Sandor sputters on his
wine, blinking incredulously.
 
“Keep at that sort of talk, girl, and you'll be carried out of here over my
shoulder.” He leans close – much closer than is proper, even for husband and
wife – teeth flashing as he leers. It makes Sansa's stomach jolt, her toes and
fingers tingling. She thinks of his kisses and his rough words when she thought
he did not want her that way, and how they made something deep and low inside
her clinch and ache. It happens now and provokes the strangest noise of wanting
to escape her throat as her mind turns to thoughts of being yanked up and
publicly hauled away.
 
“I wouldn't mind,” she admits, finding herself out of breath. Her words seem to
hit Sandor with the force of a physical blow, widening his pupils even as he
gives a soft, ragged groan. On the arm of his chair his hand flexes, long
fingers clenching and unfurling. Sansa almost whimpers when her attention falls
to arm. Dark hair curls lightly on his knuckles and the back of his hand, and
before she is even aware of the movement, Sansa finds herself trailing her
fingertips over the bulging veins and the knobs of his knuckles.
 
“Little bird,” he rasps shakily, booted feet bracing against the floor, pushing
back his chair.
 
He's going to do it, Sansa thinks giddily, he's going to carry me away before
the feast has finished and we've had a proper bedding.
 
“Oh, Sansa, you look beautiful!” Margaery appears without warning, swooping
behind the table to perch on the arm of Sansa's chair. She wraps her arms
around Sansa's shoulders, squeezing tightly before peppering her face in quick
kisses. The improper behavior isn't at all fitting for a queen-to-be, but Sansa
adores Margaery for showing her such kindness. She does wishes it had come
earlier, so Sandor could have swept her away. They could even now be close to
their bedchamber, and the thought makes her ache with a new, strange longing.
 
“Thank you, Lady Margaery,” Sansa answers, blushing from more than the
flattery.
 
“None of that lady nonsense,” Margaery decrees, nose wrinkling. “We are
friends, aren't we? Who cares if someone hears us being friendly? Oh, here's
Loras; Loras, isn't Sansa the most beautiful bride you have ever seen in all
your life?”
 
Ser Loras Tyrell is so handsome that he himself seems something out of a
fairytale. Sansa remembers the Hand's Tourney and when he had given her a rose,
and how she had been overwhelmed with adoration for the the handsome knight.
Now she feels only a fondness for him as he, too, comes behind the bride-and-
groom's table.
 
As Margaery has taken the arm of Sansa's chair, he hoists himself to the table.
Dark curls fall into his face as he beams. “Indeed she is, my dear sister. You
glowed as you wed your husband, and even now I see the blush of love on your
cheeks. I'm surprised Clegane hasn't swept you away already!”Loras laughs
brightly.
 
The look Sansa shoots her new husband is guilty, thrilled, and longing. His
eyes still burn right through her, and as he removes his goblet from his mouth
and licks a droplet of wine from his lower lip, Sansa becomes lightheaded.
 
The arrival of the first course draws the Tyrells back to the royal dais,
leaving Sansa and her new husband alone. It may kill her, Sansa decides, but
she is absolutely going to be the perfect picture of a lady during her wedding
feast. Sandor deserves more than a gaping, blushing, eager to be swept away
little girl as his wife.
 
 
                                   ----X----
 
 
The wedding feast does not end with a bedding.
 
“A toast!” King Joffrey calls, gangly arms failing as he finds his feet. “A
toast to the Hound and his Lady Whore!”
 
Sandor can feel the muscle in his jaw jumping in rage. He is a heartbeat away
from pulling the dirk from his boot and throwing it; he longs to watch the
blade sink into one green eye, and see the boy king fall back, dead. Fingers
and muscles flexing, he contents himself with the satisfaction the dream brings
without acting upon it.
 
Joffrey, roaring hysterically at his own joke, is rendered speechless. Rather
than by his dog, he has been slain by his own wit and snorted wine out of his
nose while cackling. Cersei, flushed with rage and drink both, pulls at his
arm, no doubt trying to force the drunken boy back to his seat.
 
“Did you hear, Mother? Lady Whore!” Collapsing into another fit of giggles,
Joffrey turns to his mother seconds before his laughter dies and a strange look
crosses his face.
 
“Joffrey?” asks the Queen, worried. Her son heaves, vomiting a belly full of
Dornish red and what seems to be pease across her lap. Cersei shrieks. Tywin
Lannister begins ordering the Kingsguard to take the King away, and Joffrey –
fifteen and wine sick for perhaps the first time in his life – gives a snorting
chortle before passing out.
 
His head slams against the table edge as he falls, leaving a smear of red blood
on the white linen.
 
Ribs aching from sucking back his own laughter, Sandor takes Sansa by the hand.
“Hurry,” he orders, pulling until she stands and follows him. The gathered
courtiers are too involved in the mockery the King has made of himself – some
genuinely concerned for his welfare and the rest all but rolling on the floor
in hysterics – to notice the newly wedded couple sneaking away. Or perhaps a
few do, and simply have no interest in attempting to strip the Hound's new
wife, or the Hound himself.
 
Outside the hall, Sandor scoops Sansa up, moving quickly. She is trembling ,
hissing and squeaking as she attempts to silence her giggles. By the time they
make it their new rooms (as a married couple, their former residences in the
Red Keep would be much too small for the both of them) she is biting her
knuckles.
 
Sandor busies himself with setting Sansa on her feet. After he bolts and bars
the door, bracing one hand on the wall before he dares meet her gaze. Sansa
makes that strange little hiss again – water coming to boil and half-choked
giggles combined – while he gives a guffaw loud and deep enough to rattle the
stones of the Keep. After this there is no holding it back; he collapses with
his back against the wall, weakened by the force of his amusement, while Sansa
leans heavily against his chest, tears of mirth dribbling from her eyes.
 
“We – shouldn't – laugh –” Sansa forces out between gales.
 
“Bloody hell we shouldn't! That was the best wedding gift I could have ever
received.”
 
“Did you – see his – face? He sort of –” Mimicking the look of idiotic bliss
the king wore before he fell, Sansa has to curl an arm around her stomach. “Oh
– oh this isn't lady like – I shouldn't – but he was sick on the Queen!”
 
A fresh wave actually weakens Sandor, forcing him to slide down the wall until
he sits. Sansa comes with him, ending up half-between his knees and half-on his
lap, clinging to his shoulders and actually sobbing with laughter.
 
Sandor doesn't think he has ever laughed like this in his life. Even as a
child, when his sister had been alive, Gregor had abhorred noise and punished
them for laughing too loudly. In truth, there has been tragically little to
laugh about in his life. Though he may be wine-and-mirth drunk, Sandor hopes
that this is a sign of their coming life together. He wants this for Sansa
always: laughter and cheer, happiness and peace. Safety above all else, and
freedom from Joffrey, the Queen, and the court.
 
“Oh, little bird,” he sighs, a strange, soft smile curling his mouth as pushes
hair away from her glowing face. She tips her chin up, radiant. Smooth skin
rubs, feline-like, against his rough palm and fingers before she nestles the
side of her face into his hand. There is no fear in her eyes; they shine with
warmth. She smiles for him, all wine-stained lips and trust, and Sandor is
crushed under the weight of his realization.
 
He loves Sansa Stark (Clegane, he reminds himself in both awe and pride, she is
mywifenow), but not in the way the court would find acceptable: falsehoods
presented to satisfy a fleeting lust. What he feels for Sansa is more than
that. More than had he ever thought could be real.
 
Fingertips running along his ruined jawline take him by surprise, and Sandor
cannot stop his instinctive flinch. Though he catches her wrist, Sansa easily
pulls out of the loose grasp, resuming her exploration of his scars.
 
Shame very nearly overwhelms Sandor. It doesn't matter how fierce of a warrior
he is, how loyal, how much he cares for her, or even the lengths he is willing
to go to keep her safe … he will never, never be enough for this beautiful
girl. The Hound is a ruined, scarred, ugly man that kills in the manner of a
rabid dog, and the fact that she is forced to face him nearly breaks his heart.
 
“Do you know,” Sansa speaks lowly, jerking him from his thoughts. He can feel
little through his scars, though he knows her touch is there. A pressure more
than a sensation. “I've found myself beginning to think you handsome.”
 
Jerking his chin up, fury wells in his chest. How dare she mock him –
 
“Shh,” she soothes, pulling his face back down. A wiggle and push finds her
higher in his lap, legs astride his hips as she takes his face between both her
delicate little hands. “I'm not being cruel, I swear. Just as you are, scars
and all … you are handsome to me, Sandor. Because of all you've done for me,
and how good you are to me, and even how I...I feel for you. When Ser Loras
removed my maiden's cloak today, I thought, 'I can run.' I could have. I don't
know if I could have even made it out of the sept, but I could have. I think
Joffrey would have killed me if I'd been caught, would have cut off my head and
mounted it beside Father's, but I wouldn't have minded. It would have been my
choice, do you see?
 
“I have so few choices left. The queen orders my clothing. Joffrey tells me who
to wed. I eat when and what they give me, and even sleep in a bed they provide.
But today I had a choice, to stay or to run as I was uncloaked and belonged to
no one but myself. I was only Sansa. I chose not to run; not out of fear,
certainly not out of pity … I chose to stay with you because I care for you. I
am glad I married you today, and will continue to be glad of it for the rest of
my life.” Looking down, Sansa rests her forehead against his blunt chin.
Nervous, self-deprecating laughter wells out of her throat. “I'm sorry, I know
I must sound like a silly little girl –”
 
“No,” Sandor cuts her off hoarsely. Pushing a hand into her hair, filling his
palm and fingers with slick, perfumed copper tendrils, he gently pulls until
she looks up at him. “You don't sound like a little girl. I've never heard you
sound less like a child than you do now.”
Sansa Clegane kisses her husband for the first time – of her own free will, out
of her own desire to touch him– and to Sandor it is an irrevocable brand across
his soul: I belong to her, it sears, and she belongs to me.
 
 
Chapter End Notes
     *dodges rotten fruit* SMUT NEXT CHAPTER I PROMISE PLEASE DON'T KILL
     ME.
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Notes
     Seven hells, but the tension headaches this fucking chapter gave me.
     I wanted their first time to be brilliant and wonderful and still be
     a first time, with all the hitches and false starts that comes with
     losing your virginity. I'm not sure that I captured everything I
     wanted to, but with Manny's careful guidance I'm as close as I'll
     ever be.
     Speaking of Manny, she has done things for this story that I didn't
     even know were possible. Not only is she an absolutely AMAZING
     friend, she's the finest editor a girl could ask for. Even though I
     do spend revision time sullenly muttering, "I liked that comma." (In
     the end I delete the commas, because they really aren't needed and I
     need to join a 12 Step Comma Addiction program.)
Sandor sits on the edge of his marriage bed, trying to remember how to breathe.
How had he gotten here? A bout of laughter, a confession, a kiss, and then...
Oh, yes. His little bird had taken his hand and tugged until he'd stood,
angling him away from the table beside the warm hearth. His own feet had done
the rest, choosing their destination: the bed. No, their bed.
 
Sansa stands between his spread knees, the waterfall of her copper hair pulled
over one slender shoulder. The fabric of her dress– the silk and lace she'd wed
him in – fills his vision.
 
“I'll need your help with the laces,” she says, blushing like the maiden she is
before presenting her back to him.
 
Sandor grunts, the corner of his mouth twitching in irritation: highborn cunts
wear the most complicated structures Sandor has ever seen.. It isn't that
Sandor cannot undo the series of cinchs; neither is it that he cannot undo the
lacings once they are revealed to him.
 
What is absolutely baffling is that Sandor every right to undress Sansa. A
blessing, yes, one he never thought he’d have... Sandor willtake her to bed.
Not because she is his wife, not even because he wants her (though there is no
question in regards to denying the depth and breadth of his lust for this
girl), but because he must. To protect her from Joffrey's wrath, he must bed
his little bird. Strip her bare, reveal every inch of milky white skin. Touch
her. Kiss her; not just her ripe mouth, but everywhere. The bends of her elbows
and knees. Under her arms. The tops of her feet, as well as the arches. Every
ridge and knob of her spine. The delicate skin under her jaw. Her thin eyelids.
 
A short, shuddering inhale – all he can smell is Sansa – a rough exhale.
 
He reaches out.
 
He curls one hand over her hip as he deftly frees the first cinch. The second,
the third, the fourth and final. He smooths the fold of fabric back, exposing
the laces beneath. Bugger all – Sandor has seen holdfasts with fewer
fortifications.
 
One tug, and the knot at the base loosens.
 
A second and it falls apart.
 
His fingers hover over the smooth leather thongs like brutish invaders on the
verge of conquest. A man such as Sandor should not so much as lay eyes on
something so finely crafted. His touch does not belong here... except by some
miracle, it does. He'd draped his cloak of protection across Sansa's shoulders
in the presence of her gods and mortal men alike, and now the bindings that
shields her skin from his touch is his to undo.
 
Drawing in yet another shuddering breath, Sandor struggles against his baser
urges. If he's this worked up over untying a fucking knot, he's going to spend
himself across her thighs as soon as he settles between them.
 
The force he uses to pluck at the thongs is minimal. He fears busting them or
somehow hurting Sansa with his strength. However, the leather is strong and the
laces are much tighter than he'd imagined.
 
The flood of irritation dampens his lust. “Why did that foreign wench pack you
in this thing like a bloody sausage?”
 
Flinching at his harsh tone, Sansa looks over one round shoulder. “What do you
mean?” She blinks, as though genuinely baffled.
 
“Your laces, girl. You're tied in here like a buggering –” Sandor grunts in
frustration. “They're too tight for you, little bird. Are you hurt?”
 
Breathless giggles are Sansa's first response to his question and it frustrates
him. Does she think being trussed up like a war captive is amusing?
 
“Sandor...” She shakes her head, shoulders trembling with unreleased laughter.
“Shae tied them looser than normal today, so I wouldn't grow faint.”
 
“Looser – are you out of your buggering mind, woman?” Continuing to attack the
laces, Sandor slides his free hand follows his progress upward. Stiff ridges
run through the bodice, up and down. There is no way she can move with any sort
of ease in this contraption.
 
A pale, elegant hand takes hold of Sandor's own. She moves his fingers to one
hard line, which he briefly traces before she drags them over the softer fabric
between each. Although his erection had flagged at the thought of her pain,
this intimacy makes him throb. And the girl has no idea of what she is doing to
him.
 
“It's boning,” she explains.
 
“What's it for?”
 
“Well, it's meant to trim a woman's shape. And keep her from slouching.”
 
Sandor digests this information, eyes narrowing. “That's fucking ridiculous,”
he announces. He pulls the fully unlaced bodice away, and hurls it across the
room. Surprised, Sansa steps further into the protection of his embrace. “No
more of that shit, do you hear me? I won't have it.”
 
Sansa's nod is lost on him as he finds himself face to fine silk. Her shift is
the purest white and sweat dampens it in patches: the small of her back,
between her shoulders, and a spot just above her left hip.
The moisture makes the fabric nearly translucent and Sandor clenches his jaw to
stifle a rough noise of hunger.
 
Redirecting her gaze from the furiously discarded bodice, Sansa turns fully
around, giving Sandor a wry look. “Will you be dressing me, my lord?” Her tone
is light, teasing. “Every morning from now on?”
 
A muscle ticks under Sandor's eye. A low buzzing fills his ears. Is Sansa still
speaking? He thinks she may be, but her words, “Every morning from now on?”have
filled his mind to bursting with flashes of the future: Sansa in the gray
stillness before dawn, still asleep and pressed against him in along line of
silken flesh and trust; soft sounds rolling from her throat as he runs his hand
down her side and across her stomach; her sighs and moans when he lowers his
mouth to her breasts.
 
“Have you lost your fucking mind?” Sandor hears himself snarl, and suddenly he
is pulling and she is falling. Tightening his legs, he traps her thighs; one
hand he presses to the small of her back, holding her against him. “Dress you?
Woman,I'm going to burn every scrap of fucking fabric you own and keep you in
my bed.”
 
Sansa's breathing comes in short, heavy bursts. She twists her fingers into the
tunic he still wears. “I could always wear your clothes.”
 
The thought brings a feral smile to Sandor's face. “Oh, aye,” he agrees,
chuckling darkly. “I'd like to see you wandering about the Red Keep, wearing my
tunic as your gown. The things they would say about us, little bird…”
 
When she shrugs, he can feel the muscles in her back flex. “I wouldn't mind.”
 
The thread of Sandor’s control, already frayed, snaps. Sansa squeals as Sandor
twists, lying her down across the width of the the feather bed. Straddling her
legs, one knee on the mattress and one booted foot on the floor, he looms over
her.
 
By all rights she should be frightened – she must remember the night of the
Blackwater, his knife against her throat as he had demanded a song. She hadn't
understood then… and she still doesn't, not entirely. Sandor will be
enlightening her very shortly.
 
“You promised me a song, little bird. Have you forgotten?”
 
“I will sing it for you gladly,” Sansa answers, an echo of the not so distant
past. Her hand explores his face, tracing the unnatural lines and crags of
scars as contentedly as she might touch a handsome man's brow, cheekbone, and
strong jaw.
 
Sansa meets his gaze, a smile turning up the corners of her mouth.
 
Sandor Clegane kisses his wife as a starved man would attack a feast. And he is
starved. He hungers for the way she whines into his mouth. He laps up every
touch of her shy little tongue as it follows his own, eager to learn. He basks
in the frustrated wriggling of her body beneath his. He savors the feel of her
hands threading through the fine, black strands of his hair, clutching with
every tug and nip he lavishes upon her lips.
 
Still, all this is not enough. He is greedy, so fucking greedy, and he needs
more. More, more, more: more skin, more sweat, and more of Sansa's urgent
whines. Gods aboveand hells below, Sandor needsmore of her, his little bird,
his wife...
 
He hungers for the feel of skin sliding against skin, and hercunt – wet and hot
– wrapped around his cock. The thought of being inside her (and knowing he soon
will be) is enough to make him groan andnearly peak in his bloody breaches.
 
He tastes the skin of her neck and presses his tongue to her pulse. It is rapid
and hard, echoing his own escalating heartbeat. Sandor shudders, biting down to
clench the vein between his teeth. Never before has he so completely slipped
into his Lannister-given identity: a dog. An animal. Primal, feral, holding his
little bird in place and taking her life between his sharp teeth.
 
Before Sandor can worry that he is moving too quickly and treating her too
harshly, Sansa begins fighting the constraints of her skirts. One leg is all
she manages to lift, but soon enough that single foot is hooked behind his knee
and she's arching into him. Sansa gasps, jerks, and battles against the heft of
her skirts.
 
“Sandor,” she mewls. Coming off her tongue his name is a prayer, a hymnal of
lust and desire. Sansa plucks and tugs at his tunic until her hands push inside
his collar. She clings to the sideof his throat as though desperate to feel his
skin.
 
Bracing himself on one forearm, Sandor releases her to burrow his free hand
under Sansa's supple back. He gropes for the laces that hold her skirts in
place. If he doesn't have the knot in his hand within the next two seconds, he
is taking his knife out and cutting the buggering obstacle open.
Sansa would chirp in outrageover the loss, but he is so close to genuinely not
caring that it doesn't matter.
 
The leather thong snags on his rough fingers and with a sharp jerk the fabric
sags her waist, loose enough for Sandor to slide a hand in side. He is so close
to his goal. So close!Before he begins pawing at her in a mindless hunger, he
breaks her grip and stands. Sansa protests with a wordless whine before pushing
up on her elbows. She actually pouts.
 
Wearing a ferocious grin. Sandor takes fistfuls of the fabric and, with a hard
wrench, her skirts are yanked past her knees. Sansa fights free of them,
digging her heels into the mattress. She pushes fully onto the bed so that her
feet are no longer dangling off the edge.
 
Sandor crawls after her, hemming her in with his thickly muscled arms and legs.
 
“And what now, wife?” Teasing her satisfies some urge Sandor hadn't realized he
possessed (or perhaps it is more than he possesses it only with Sansa). The
flush covering her face and neck heightens, and he takes the time admiring the
effect he has on her.
 
“Now?” she repeats, looking rather lost. “I, um... I don't ...”
 
He kisses her, and it is a light, fleeting thing. Pride swells in Sandor's
chest as, when he pulls away, Sansa tries to follow him.
 
“What do you want, little bird?”
 
Sansa shivers, her pupils widening to black voids surrounded only by only the
thinnest ring of brilliant blue. “I don't know,” she deflects, but her gaze is
flickering over the breadth of his shoulders and across his barrel chest in a
most telling manner.
 
“I told you, girl, hounds can smell out lies.” To prove his point – to relish
in the slide of her smooth skin over his scars – Sandor buries his nose in her
neck. “You want, I know you do. I can near taste it.” His tongue touches her
neck, a brief flick to taste the sweat gathered there.
 
Sansa moans. “I don't know. But I like – I like your kisses.”
 
Sandor shudders. Beside Sansa's hip, he balls one hand into a tight fist. Oh,
aye, only in all his wildest dreams he had fantasied of hearing the beautiful,
innocent Lady Sansa Stark saying such things... and truly meaning them. But he
never expected that those dreams would become reality.
 
He has never been genuinely desired before. And for Sansa to be the one who
wants him...
 
“Do you?” He presses an open-mouthed caress to the hollow of her neck,
breathing hard through his nose as he fights to keep his composure. “What else,
little bird?”
 
“I – I like –” Sansa's head turns away in shame. One graceful hand lifts,
covering her eyes before she blurts out, “I like how you feel on top of me,
like this.”
 
The muscles in Sandor's jaw strain. These simple words have driven him to his
figurative knees far more effectively than any sword ever has or could.
“Anything else?” he somehow manages to rasp out.
 
A small nod. She does not remove her hand from her eyes, but Sandor decides to
fight that battle another time; for now, he wants her admissions. It will take
another level of time and experience for Sansa to unabashedly offer her own
longings and desires to him.
 
“I want to feel your skin,” she admits in a frantic rush, trembling in a mix of
anticipation and shame. “Please. If – if that is acceptable.”
 
For a moment, Sandor is struck dumb. She wants to feel him? He cannot
comprehend why, and his shock nearly boils into anger. It is a knee-jerk
reaction for Sandor to attack first and ask questions later.
 
He draws a deep breath. Then another, and another, and one more. An extra, just
for good measure. Frightening her would ruin all the progress they've made –
and he doesn't want her associating bed play with one of his rages. So he bites
it down, accepts his shock (and under it, the acknowledgment of how incredibly
humbled he is), and kisses her. Deeply.
 
“You'll have me bare soon,” he attempts to tease, though his words end on a
groan. Taking the hand from her eyes, Sansa begins to play with the ties of his
tunic, nibbling at her lower lip. “Though not yet, little bird.”
 
Smoothing the hair from her face, Sandor draws Sansa into a series of long
kisses. She responds beautifully, pulling at his neck and remaining ear,
pressing against his chest and even – much to the determent of Sandor's intent
to go slowly – tentatively shifting and rolling her hips. It drives him mad,
pushing him beyond logical thoughts. He has only needs and desires now, and all
they are focused on seeing Sansa entirely nude. To learn the secrets of her
body and discover what will bring her the most pleasure.
 
Sandor drags in heavy, rough breath while fisting his hands in the delicate
silk of her shift. Ittakes only a small show of strength to rip it down the
center.
 
Sansa yelps, hands fluttering nervously. “My lord!”
 
“You'll use my name, Sansa,” he hoarsely commands, his gray gaze locked on the
pale, flesh exposed between the two ragged edges. Her navel is of particular
interest. How will she react when he dips his tongue into it? “Or 'husband.'
Aye, that will do fine.”
 
With one hand, Sandor pushes the torn silk aside. Her teats are bared to his
gaze now, and never has he seen a woman so finely made. Dragging in a heavy
breath, he lightly trails his fingers over the flesh now at his mercy. The
softness makes him want to weep. She is so delicate, so fragile...he can hardly
believe that Sansa is real. Briefly, Sandor is overwhelmed with fear; nothing
this pure and wondrous can survive his fierce lust.
 
Sansa tries to fold her arms over her chest in an attempt to protect her
maidenly innocence. Uttering a low, soothing sound in the back of his throat,
Sandor captures her wrists. He pushes them down to the mattress, shaking his
head slowly. “Don't hide,” he rasps, swallowing hard. “Never hide. Not from me.
Gods be damned, little bird, you're perfect,” he swears.
 
Shock is written clearly across Sansa's expressive face, and it quickly morphs
into pleasure. She's blushing again, so fiercely that it extends down to the
tops of her breasts. Watching her strain upward with a pursed mouth, it takes
Sandor a moment to comprehend that she wants a kiss. He willing gives it,
releasing her wrists to thread to their fingers together.
 
Holding tightly to his hands, Sansa begins to scatter kisses over the parts of
his face that she can reach. “My husband,” she sighs contentedly, rubbing the
tips of their noses together.
 
He needs a moment to gain control. She is innocent, Sandor forces himself to
remember with every beat of his heart. He must go slowly. Maidens experience
pain, and Sandor does not want to hurt her. He wants her pleasure, yearns to
bring her such bliss that she spends the rest of her life demanding he pleasure
her again and again and again.
 
And he will. Gladly.
 
He softly kisses the underside of her breast, and each that follows is
lingering and warm as Sandor slowly worships small bits of flesh. First his
scars and then his stubble rasp against one taunt nipple when he moves just so,
and each time Sansa's breathing hitches. Soft, breathless sounds of wanting
well out of her, a bubbling spring of desire. He licks, tasting the the
sweetness left in the wake of her perfumed soap. He scrapes his teeth across
the exquisite flesh that is now his to enjoy, laughing lowly when Sansa's hips
jerk involuntarily at the sensation.
 
By the time he has worked his way in, by the time his mouth hovers over the
rosy bud of her nipple,
Sansa is one tug away from pulling a handful of his hair out. He lifts his
gaze, pinning her with his hot, gray stare watching as he swipes his tongue
across the taut peak.
 
Sansa sobs, twisting and rocking closer to his mouth. “Again,” she begs,
“Please, again. Please – Sandor – oh –”
 
Sandor feels more powerful than any king as he brings her pleasure. A shiver
crawls up his spine, and Sandor fights for breath. She is innocent, his
heartbeat recalls. She is innocent. Slowly. Go slowly.
 
He gives the same tortuous treatment to the opposite teat. Sansa bucks,
struggles, and contortsall in an attempt to bring his mouth to where she wants
it. Sandor again captures her wrists with one large hand and pins them above
her head. He uses his legs and the weight of his body to better hold her in
place. Sansa hisses in frustration.
 
Finally, he sucks her waiting nipple into his mouth. Sansa chokes on words that
sound very much like thank you,her nubile body vibrating with pleasure. This
simple touch is such a little thing, and yet it drives her mad. It's a reminder
that no one, no one, has touched her like this before. Joffrey had been cruel
to her, aye, and he'd had his buggering knights beat Sandor's little bird. The
brat may hold Sansa's fear and pain, but her pleasure belongs to Sandor and
Sandor alone. Each sigh, cry, and breathy beg; every push of her body and each
restless squirm – all of this is his, and it is a much finer kingdom than the
shit hole that Joffrey rules over.
 
“May I touch you now, Sandor? Please?” Her wrists twist in his grasp.
 
He reaches the absolute limit of his patience. Still, Sandor fights to keep a
domineering hand on a portion of his control. Conquests are not often won in a
single fell swoop, but in smaller battles and skirmishes. Ground is lost, but
double or triple is regained.
 
For the second time, Sandor leaves the bed. By the time he has stripped his
tunic away and has begun to hastily kick and fight his boots off, Sansa has
only just sat up. “Off,” he growls. “Take that buggering thing off.”
 
A squirm, a wiggle, and Sansa holds the remains of her silk shift in her hands.
This vision of her in only her small clothes and stockings, is one he will
carry into the hells themselves.
 
Sansa looks around in a daze, as though confused as to what to do with the
ruins of her shift.
 
“Throw it,” he orders, moments after freeing himself from one boot. She doesn't
comply quickly enough, so he reaches out, yanking it from her hands, tossing it
blindly over his shoulder.
“Head on the pillows. Go. Now.”
 
Sansa scrambles to obey, flushed and shining with sweat in the hearth-light.
Sandor watches her lie down at the head of the bed, visibly unsure of what to
do. Her hands flutter helplessly. Finally they settle on her stomach,
agitatedly caressing just above the drawstring of her small clothes.
 
That single, seemingly innocent gesture sets fire to a great many of Sandor's
designs. The only reason he does not lose the last shreds of his restraint is
because of the glint of confusion in Sansa's eyes. She is aroused, yes, there's
no doubt of it; but she doesn't understand. Not fully.
 
Returning to the bed once his second boot has been toed off, Sandor gently
stretches out on top of her, once again enjoying how perfectly her soft body
fits and welcomes his own harder, larger shape. Though this time there is
nothing but his breaches and her small clothes between them; this time, there
is so much more skin to be explored...
 
“Do you hurt, little bird? Show me where – is it here?” he asks, replacing the
hand on her stomach with his own. He can span the entirety of it with his
massive paw. It should make him feel like a brute, but it doesn't. Not in the
least. Never has he felt more of a man than he does now with his fingers and
palm spread out against her soft, round belly from hipbone to hipbone.
 
After a moment, Sansa nods. She's biting at her bottom lip again, nervous or
abashed. Sandor isn't sure which. Perhaps both.
 
“Aches, doesn't it?” Sandor's hand moves deliberately downwards, until his
smallest finger rests under the band of her small clothes. “It's because you're
empty, girl. Empty here.” His hand moves further, and hair coarser than that on
her head tickles two of his fingers. He exerts a slight pressure on her pelvic
bone, mouth twitching as she moans.
 
“Don't fret, little bird. I'll be fixing that soon enough.” It takes an iron
will to free his hand from the soft fabric concealing her cunt, and an even
greater one to move down to her ankles. Sitting back on his haunches, Sandor
places Sansa's narrow foot on his thigh.
 
He takes the time to admire the shape of her leg and how it looks encased in
embroidered silk. He palms the rondure of her calf. He cradles her slender
ankle between his thumb and forefinger. She's so fucking dainty.Sandor wonders
how she has survived court life and Joffrey... and him. Gods, how the buggering
hell is she going survive being his wife?
 
Sansa regards Sandor in silence as he completes his survey, her graceful
fingers curling into the bedsheets. Sandor can't say why he does it, not
really, but he gives her a smile. Seven hells, he must look like a gargoyle,
but his little bird appears delighted.
 
Rolling the stocking down her leg is an act of torture for Sandor. Has he ever
done this with a whore or a kitchen wench? No. He has never wantedto. He takes
care not to tear the sheer fabric. Why? To prove he can. To assure them both
that he is fully in control, both of the situation and himself.
 
Flicking the wad of silk away, he gives the opposite leg the same treatment.
Sansa's eyes flicker between his face, his hands, and his chest. Goose bumps
break out over the skin he touches, and so he takes care to skim the tip of a
finger in the bend of her kneeand rub his thumb reassuringly against the dip of
her ankle.
 
She sighs when the stocking is gone.
 
Only one thing left, now. The last barrier between Sandor and the entirety of
his little bird. Leaning slightly forward, Sandor curls the drawstring of her
small clothes around his index finger before giving a firm tug. The knot falls
away easily, and the fabric loosens. A heady rush overwhelms Sandor, and he
rumbles with approving laughter. This is the very same feeling he gets on the
battlefield, cutting down knights and sers left and right, overwhelming them
all to stand victorious while they fall under his blade.
 
Sansa instantly presses her knees together. Something new enters her eyes – a
glint of fear.
 
“None of that,” Sandor admonishes, but softly. He isn't angry; a maiden is what
she is. Itcan't be helped. Not the first time, at least.
 
His free hand pushes between her knees. They clamp shut against his invasion,
but he strokes her, soothing her as he would any other frightened animal. The
panic in her gaze lessens, and while she has to look away, Sansa allows the
muscles of her thighs to relax.
 
“Is this…” Sansa pauses, teeth sinking into her bottom lip. The tapestry across
the room becomes the object of her gaze. It is seemingly fascinating, given the
way she refuses stop staring at it. “Is this normal? To be… entirely… bare?”
 
“Aye, it is,” he answers. “Didn't your septa explain?”
 
“Um, well, not… exactly.”
 
Of course not, Sandor grimly realizes. The idiocies they fill a girl's head
with – so little of it of any actual use. It's all to keep a girl from
expecting toomuch from her husband; high lords take from their women whatever
they please. A wife is only a broodmare, after all. A whore paid in titles,
furs, and position. And children. Sons who will one day treat a woman as his
mother had been, and daughters who will sing pretty bird songs and never
question why they are caged.
 
Not his wife. Never for Sansa. He doesn't want her caged – he wants her free.
In all the ways she possibly can be. He knows what it is to be locked in
servitude, to be less than a person. The Hound is for killing enemies, a
glorified sword. A wife is for fucking, prized only for the sons her womb will
carry. Sansa is more than the sum of her parts, and Sandor will see her treated
as such. She has given him the chance to be a man;he must prove himself as
such, and give her the chance to be a woman.
 
Sandor abandons the last barrier, and moves up in the bed to lie on his side
beside his wife with his head propped upon one hand. She curls towards him,
shyer than she has been the entire night. As the heat of passion cools, Sandor
rubs a hand up and down her arm, hoping it comforts her. “What were you told of
the marriage bed, girl?”
 
Sansa shifts onto her side as well. Not even a hand's width exists between
their bodies.She takes hold of Sandor's free hand, playingwith his fingers,
exploring each old scar, ridge, and line. She speaks without look at him, but
for once it doesn't provoke Sandor's anger.
 
“My mother told me that when I was wed, my lord husband would guide me through
what he expected of me. She warned me that the first few times would hurt. And
to expect blood.”
 
“We'll, that's a fucking encouraging talk,” he angrily grumbles. Do the
highborn want their women scared of dick? “And your septa?”
 
Sansa is flushing Lannister crimson now. “Septa Mordane said… she said I am to
lie back and allow my husband to perform his duty. I am to think of the Seven
and of the sons I will provide.” Both of her hands are busy with Sandor's. She
strokes his palm while one thumb rubs circles on the thick knob of his wrist
bone. “I suppose I've been doing it all wrong, haven't I? I am sorry, Sandor.”
 
Sandor wants to dig that fucking septa up and kill her again. Seven hells, but
his palms itch to hold the weight of a blade.
 
Freeing himself from Sansa's increasingly desperate grip, Sandor reaches up. He
takes a firm, though not painful, hold on her chin, and coaxes her to lift her
face. Still her eyes remain downcast. She begins to fidget, even folding her
arms in an attempt to hide those wondrous teats.
 
“Look at me.”
 
She shakes her head.
 
Sandor sighs heavily through his nose. “Sansa, look at me.”
 
Sansa obeys with a cringe, though it is not for his face. No, she looks as
though she expects to be hit or cruelly admonished. The sight of it is a knife
between Sandor's ribs. Her fear does not belong in their bedchamber.
 
“Your septa was a cold fucking fish, who didn't know shit about what she was
talking about,” he announces. “I don't want you to lie back and think of the
Seven or sons or anything else, do you hear me? You've done nothing wrong,
little bird.”
 
“But… but ladies don't...” She gestures helplessly. The wings of her
collarbones draw Sandor's attention as they shift beneath her skin, and he
wants to lavish attention on them. Not yet – they need to clear this particular
matter up first.
 
“They do,” he refutes bluntly. “The lucky ones, at least. You're no whore,
Sansa, fucking isn't your job. Even if it is fucking to have an heir. But this
isn't about lying back and doing your duty, either. You want me, little bird,
and that's a good thing – the best thing – as I want you, too.” Fiercely,he
doesn't say, wary of frightening her. More than air, more than blood on my
blade, more than life do I fuckingcraveyou, my little bird…
 
“I'm going to tell you what is going to happen.” His hand drops from her chin
and moves to her throat. He strokes, then sweeps his palm over her shoulder and
down her bent arm. Gentle pressure at her elbow unfolds it, and he follows the
slender limb down to her wrist. “I will touch you, little bird, as I was
before.”
 
Her breath hitches, and her eyes take on that particular shine of lust Sandor
is becoming so incredibly addicted to. “Where?” she asks, voice throatier than
he has ever heard it.
 
A shaky breath. Control, he urges himself. “Everywhere,” he answers roughly.
“Your neck. I'll lick all the way down your spine and back up again. Your arse
– oh, scandalized, are you? None of those dewy eyedknights never told you what
a fine, lovely arse you have?” He takes a handful of it, forcing a yelp of
shock to escape her.
 
In an attempt to wiggle away from his hand, she pushes further into his body.
Sandor grins, ducking his head to lavish attention on her ear, her jaw, the
delicate underside of her chin. Restless movements overtake Sansa's limbs, and
soon she presses close. The feel of her delicious teats stiffening against his
coarse, dark hair reawakens his cock.
 
“And then?” Sansa asks, breaking Sandor from his haze. She has curled an arm
over his ribs, and is now digging her fingers into the thick muscles of his
back. The wool of his breaches is the only thing that keeps his cock from
nestling needfully against the soft flesh of her stomach, and he cannot help
but thrust against her, seeking relief.
 
Sandor groans from deep within his chest. “I'll kiss that pretty cunt,” he
hoarsely answers. Her small clothes fold and wrinkle when Sandor begins to rub
up and down Sansa's side, from her ribs to her knee. She sighs, rubbing her
cheek against his shoulder. At this, he takes a firm grip on the back of her
thigh. One swift tug brings her leg over his own, and leaves her open to his
searching touch.
 
Pressing her face against his chest, Sansa's entire body jerks and trembles
when his fingers find their way between her thighs. Sandor's temples throb with
the beat of his heart when he discovers damp linen awaiting his touch.
 
Crying out in astonishment, Sansa's nails dig into the flesh of his back.
 
“Shh,” he soothes, pushing fingers into her hair to grip the back of her head.
“It's alright.”
 
“Sandor –” she whimpers, the leg tossed over his own curling in an involuntary
movement. “I don't – I've never –”
 
“I know,” he assures her, fingers scrabbling to find their way past her small
clothes, which end up bunched awkwardly around her thighs. It is enough. He
palms her, sinking his fingers into damp curls and wet flesh.
 
Sansa rocks into his grip, and it is a smooth, slick slide. Sandor’s carefully
laid strategies incinerate. A rush of movements and the shriek of tearing
clothing rends the air. Sandor sinks down between her bent knees, sliding along
her warm frame until her tight copper curls catch on his beard.
 
“Mother's mercy,” she sings in desperation, voice rising and wavering as he
opens his mouth on her. “Gods, oh gods, Sandor –”
 
He could not hope to describe the taste of her, heavy and thick, as her flavor
slides past his tongue and down his throat. His shoulders brace her thighs
apart while his thumbs carefully open her delicate folds. She is especially
beautiful here, as startling as a lush oasis in the Dornish desert.
 
Sandor explores her with a dedication that surpasses even his devotion to the
warrior's arts. Every lad knows of the little nub of nerves that is the center
of a woman's pleasure. Even Sandor. Though paying attention to it had been a
moot point with whores. With his little bird it is another matter:
with a curl of his tongue and a scrape of his teeth, he can make her howl like
a wolf or beg like a wanton.
 
And he does, over and over again– until she screams as though he has run her
through. Until he is drenched in her wetness, and she is on the brink of her
first peak. When he pulls back she wails, a thin noise of thwarted pleasure.
 
“No,” she cries. A hand tangles in his hair, pulling and pressing in a vain
attempt to guide him back to her cunt. Sandor laughs against her thigh, kisses
the flesh and watches her shiver and flex asshe falls away from the yearned for
pleasure.
 
“Not yet,” he says roughly, rubbing her trembling stomach. “Poor little bird.
Aches even worse now, doesn't it?”
 
Sansa nods, eyes glazed and hair sticking to her sweaty face. “Something was… I
don't know, but something was happening…”
 
Sandor chuckles, awash in a smug male satisfaction he has never quite felt
before. “Oh aye, it was. But as I said, you'll not have it yet.”
 
A whimper, long and high, escapes her throat. Her hips move restlessly. “When?”
she pouts.
 
“When I allow it,” he answers. His forefinger runs down the wet center of her.
Sansa moans, her head dropping back weakly.
 
He watches her face intently as he presses that finger to her entrance, gauging
her reaction. She twitches at this new feeling, hazy eyes finding his gaze. The
smile he gives her is feral.
 
Slowly he pushes, the bottom dropping out of his stomach and goose bumps racing
up his back and arms, even flowing over his scalp. She's so tight, so hot, so
very fucking wet. Above him, Sansa is gasping and sighing, fingers jerking and
grasping hard at the sheets, in her hair, against her own skin.
 
“What…” she tries to ask, but he is knuckle-deep now and she's never been
filled like this before. Her voice dies in her throat, taken over by a hard,
shuddering exhale.
 
“This is for me,” he explains roughly, fighting for a lungful of air. Slowly he
pulls out, watching as Sansa presses her heels into the mattress and lifts her
hips. Again he pushes back in, and Sansa moans, her internal muscles clamping
down hard on the intrusion of his forefinger. “I'll fill you here, little bird.
I'll make you whole.”
 
He sets a slow pace that pushes deep, stretching muscles and flesh that have
never been tried in this way. Sansa rocks with his hand. Quietly, breathlessly
she chants, “Please, please Sandor – help me – don't stop, please, don't stop –
Mother's mercy, it's good, it's so good –” Her mindless string of pleas and
praises drives Sandor's lust to a fever pitch.
 
The addition of a second finger is a shock to Sansa. She catapults into an
almost upright position, propped up on her arms as her chest heaves and her
eyes widen dramatically. Sandor stills his hand, allowing her to grow
accustomed to the feeling.
 
“Do you hurt?” he asks, trailing his mouth over her hip bone.
 
Shaking her head, trembling like a leaf in a strong wind, Sansa answers
negatively. “No. I don't – I don't think so – it's good, but strange – I can
feel you inside – your fingers –” With anotherdesperate clamp of internal
muscles, she he pushes against him. “Move again. Please? Please, Sandor? It
feels so – it feels – oh, please –”
 
Harder, this time. Faster. Soft, wet noises accompany his ministrations,
setting Sandor's teeth on edge and seven hells, but he doesn't think this is
going to last very much longer. She's crying, tears leaking from the corners of
her eyes as she is consumed by the rising pressure.
 
A third finger makes her hiss and go still, and once again he follows suit.
Looking up, he finds her eyes narrowed and her expression pinched.
 
“It will pass,” he promises. “Relax, little bird. There. There you go.”
 
The first thrust and withdrawal drops Sansa to her back. Her legs thrash, while
her hands claw against the mattress, his shoulders, and her thighs.
 
Sandor can wait no longer, not another moment. Withdrawing his hand, he crawls
up her body. He kisses her stomach, her breastbone, her throat, finally her
mouth. One hand fumbles with the laces of his breaches, and there comes a
twangof leather bursting before he is able to push them past his hips.
 
Kicking the fabric away, Sandor lowers himself onto Sansa. She clings to him,
curling under and around his body and welcoming his weight. His cock rubs
against her wet curls, and she pushes against him. Curiosity brightens her
eyes, and Sandor wishes he had enough patience to allow Sansa the time to
explore his body. That will have to wait for another time, however.
 
Between them his hand fumbles, shaking. She's whispering against his throat –
“Yes, yes, yes; don't stop, please don't stop this time…” – but then he's
there, and pushing home. There is a slight resistance, but nothing as drastic
as he had feared. Sansa stiffens, raising her voice as he fills her.
 
He can feel her breathing. Her hips shift, her muscles ripple and flex around
his cock, and it takes every ounce of self-control he possesses not to fuck her
within an inch of both their lives. Instead he grips her hip with one hand,
holding her still.
 
“Fuck,” he hisses, unable to breathe. Unable to think. She surrounds him, is a
part of him, as he is now a part of her. There is nothing outside of this,
nothing beyond Sandor, Sansa, and their pleasure. “Gods be damned, little bird.
My little bird.”
 
When he finally moves, it is slowly. He can feel her arm around his back, her
other hand pressed against his chest. After a time her foot runs up his calf
and hooks behind his knee.
 
“Harder,” she whimpers, straining against him. “As before, with your hand –”
 
With a snarl, Sandor obeys. His hips snap hard against her, and there is no
doubt that she is going to have bruises on her hips from his fierce hold on
them.
 
“Sweet, merciful Seven!” Sansa's pleasure crests without warning. One moment
she is reaching for it, biting his arm and sobbing in the back of her throat,
and thenext every muscle in her body draws as taut as a bow string. Her cunt
holds Sandor so tightly he cannot move.
 
Desperation takes over. Stars explode behind his eyes, flicker in his vision as
he watches Sansa find her pleasure. A labored, high sound comes from her
throat, her knees pull up, and Sandor finds himself cradled between her thighs
and pulled deeper than he has ever been inside a woman. The pleasure of it is
so great that it verges on pain, and Sandor shouts. Taking a grip on the
headboard, he uses it to brace himself above her.
 
His peak hits with all the force of a warhorse stampeding over him. He dimly
hears a roar, only vaguely realizing it comes from his throat. For a time –
long or short, he has no way of knowing which – there is only bliss, darkness
behind his eyelids, and Sansa. Everywhere, everything in his world is Sansa.
 
Before the strength in his arms gives out, Sandor rolls onto his side. He
collapses, keeping Sansa pressed tight against him. When he has regained enough
air to speak, he asks, in a voice deeper than usual, “Are you hurt?”
 
Looking down at the top of her fiery head, he watches Sansa rub her cheek
against his chest. “No,” she answers, soft and breathless. “Not at all.”
 
For a moment he fears she is lying; tears roll down her flushed cheeks. They
are warm against his chest and dampen the curling hair. “That – that was – is
it always like… that?”
 
“Aye,” Sandor answers, rubbing his thumb under first one wet eye, then the
other. “For us, little bird, it will always be like this.”
 
Her smile is brilliant.
 
For the first time since he'd beena child, Sandor sleeps deeply without the
help of far too much wine. And in the morning, he wakes wrapped around Sansa.
In her sleep her fingers have twined with his own, and there he leaves his
hand, content to let the morning come in peace.
End Notes
     Oh wow, can we discuss how shit I am at titles, because this is a
     humdinger of a failure. Oh well, it serves.
     Not beta'ed, which means all mistakes are my own. Mostly I sit and
     cry because I fail at canon characterization, so there is little time
     for editing. Just for cold, cold tears. Second time writing for this
     fandom, first time for this ship (though it is my OTP to end all OTPs
     in this series), so any and ALL concrit is WELCOMED. Please. Please
     please.
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