Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4896658.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage, Graphic_Depictions_Of
      Violence
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Game_of_Thrones_(TV), A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      Sandor_Clegane/Sansa_Stark
  Character:
      Sansa_Stark, Sandor_Clegane, Joffrey, Balon_Swann, Osmund_Kettleblack,
      minor_OCs
  Additional Tags:
      Dubious_Consent, King's_Landing, Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence,
      Curiosity, First_Time
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-09-29 Completed: 2015-10-23 Chapters: 12/12 Words: 12939
****** BamBOOZled Dog ******
by Maracuya
Summary
     For once, the "dubcon" warning doesn't apply to Sansa, but to Sandor.
     Though we may assume he'd be thrilled - if only he knew what was
     going on.
***** Flight, or: Out of the Frying Pan into the Fire *****
Chapter Notes
     Disclaimer: I do not own my works of fanfiction. I do not profit from
     the stories or drawings, nor would I
     ever seek to do so. All credit for characters, plot and settings go
     to the respective original author or artist.
Sansa could feel the cold flagstones through the thin slippers as her feet were
hitting the ground at a high frequency. It was around the hour of the wolf, the
quietest hour in the Red Keep. Besides, after tonight's banquet people were
either still down dancing or too drunk to notice her – not even the servants
were active anymore.
The problem was that Joffrey was in his cups, too, and had ordered one of his
men to fetch her from her room. She had been standing outside the door and had
noticed that Ser Osmund Kettleblack had not been on his post to watch over her.
Likely the man had just been in the process of... entertaining intimacies with
a maid or something, thinking Sansa would be too frightened to risk her safety
and to go out on such a wild night.
And Sansa would not have set a single foot in front of the door, had she not
felt the need to use the privy, because her (or rather the queen's) maids had
not emptied her chamber pot.
She had barely made it into the corridor and closed her door when she had heard
Ser Balon Swann's voice around a corner: “Yes, yes indeed. The king wants her –
at least he did so some minutes ago. Might be he's passed out from wine now,
but I'm better carrying out his order.”
Sansa's heartbeat had quickened, a cold sweat had broken on her brow, and
without thinking about it, Ser Balon's words had set her feet in motion.
 
“Oh holy Seven, please have Joffrey fall asleep from his drinking! Please let
him forget he wanted to see me! Oh please, I beg you! I just need... a safe
space to hide from him for a short while.”
While running, she made the sign of seven-pointed star again and again.
Her dress had become too tight over the previous months and wasn't good for a
flight like hers to begin with; thus, it was no wonder she was soon out of
breath, and her sides were stinging from the exertion. Still, she hurried on
until she was feeling dizzy.
 
When she finally allowed herself to stop she noticed that she was in a part of
the Red Keep she didn't know. It was not one of the elegant wings, that much
she could tell from the lack of tapestries and all other sorts of decoration.
After much hesitation, she knocked on a door but didn't receive an answer.
The next moment, she heard the sound of metal and clanking chainmail behind
her.
 
“They're coming after me! Gods, I need to hide!”
Since nobody seemed to be in the room on whose door she had knocked Sansa tried
the door handle – and found out the door wasn't barred. Within the blink of an
eye, Sansa was able to slip into the room behind.
 
Then, she held her breath and pressed her ear against the door. Moments later,
she heard the heavy steps of men in chainmail pass her by at a steady pace.
Sansa waited some more minutes to be sure the soldiers weren't returning.
 
Finally, she turned around and dared to look about herself. Her relief about
not having been discovered turned into shock, and she swallowed hard.
In the dim light of a single nearly burned-down candle she could make out a
chair and a table; and on that table were a half-eaten loaf of bread with cold
slices of roast, an empty tankard, three equally empty flagons of Dornish
sour... and the Hound's unmistakable helmet.
“Oh no!” she thought and feared she might lose control over her bladder. “Of
all the possible rooms and chambers I've picked the private quarters of the
King's sworn sh – “
A rattling snore from the darkness shook her nerves, causing Sansa to wince and
to utter a tiny squeak she tried to stifle at once.
“Gods! Please don't let the Hound have heard me!” she frantically beseeched the
Seven.
She did not want to find out what would happen what Sandor Clegane would do to
her, if he found her in his own room.
***** Curiosity, or: Turned from Hound into Ghis Pig *****
“I need to get out of here at once,” Sansa thought, her mind reeling.

At the same time, she feared to leave the room again, lest she run into her
pursuers. In his drunk state, Joffrey would likely be even more sadistic than
he was anyway.

“But the Hound is drunk, too, by the looks of it. And he's rude... though not
cruel in the same way like the king.”
 
Now that Sansa's eyes had adjusted to the half shade she could see more of the
room. It was impersonal, without any embellishments, but surprisingly clean.

Apart from that, the bed was huge, just befitting such a tall warrior.

“He wouldn't fit into a normal bed,” Sansa realised. “He must have had this one
custom-made for him.”
 
The next moment, Sansa blushed, and for different reasons. The mere fact that
she was in a man's bedroom was overwhelming in itself, but she also admonished
herself for considering the size of Sandor Clegane's bed. That was highly
improper. And another factor that influenced her complexion was the impressive
snoring silhouette on the bed.

“Given how tall the family members are they must have had giants in their
lineage,” Sansa thought.
 
To her own surprise, curiosity was getting the better part of her and brought
her to the side of the inebriated man. She was convinced that the Hound would
have already noticed her presence under normal circumstances.

As it was, his stupor was bordering on unconsciousness.

“Looks like he won't wake up. How interesting to be so close to the man without
having to fear his snarl or to look into his stormy eyes.”
 
Sansa bent over the slumbering torso.

“Oh my! He's huge, even when he's sleeping. My hand could disappear completely
in his big, hairy paw.”

She held her fingers next to his and could only shake her head at the sheer
impossibility of his hand size. Besides, she remembered how warm and reassuring
his hand could feel and how the Hound had touched her on the Kingsroad for the
first time.
 
After a moment, something else aroused Sansa's interest. Of course, Sandor
Clegane was reeking of the wine he had drunk; it wasn't the first time she was
smelling alcohol on him. Yet, there was also his own manly scent underneath the
former one. Sansa leaned in closer, right next to his dark, lank hair, and
inhaled. Her eyebrows went up.

“Mhh,” she uttered and breathed in again.

“That's much nicer than the alcohol smell. He must have bathed after his
training session and before the feast at court.”
 
With a finger, she touched one of the Hound's long strands. The tall man didn't
stir, apart from the continuous, even snoring.

“I wonder whether he's always so loud when he's asleep, or if this has got
something to do with the wine.”

Jeyne's Poole's father had used to snore like a circular saw at a saw mill,
especially after too many tankards of beer when he had fallen asleep in the
great hall of Winterfell.

“Poor man. I wonder what has become of Jeyne,” Sansa mused sadly and wrapped
the strand of hair around her index finger.
 
A heartbeat later, Sansa gasped and forgot all previous thoughts, because she
had noticed something new: a heavily-muscled arm and a hairy calf stuck out
from under the blanket.

“Why... the Hound is naked!” Sansa realised, and her blush deepened.

She averted her eyes for an instant.
 
But after a moment, she couldn't avoid risking a second glance.

“Sweet Mother, have mercy, he's so... fit! He looks so strong. And he doesn't
only look like it. Can it be such a sin in the eyes of the Faith to appreciate
the man's powerful physique?”

She remembered well enough how Sandor Clegane had lifted her up during the
bread riots as if she weighed nothing.

Ever so lightly, Sansa ran her finger over his biceps and further down to his
big hands. She noticed some hair and little nicks, surely scars from his many
fights... but otherwise, the skin itself had a nice, even slightly velvety
texture.
 
The Hound uttered a little gargle and moved his head from one side to the next,
thus exposing his facial scars to her.

Sansa's hand snapped back.

“Is he waking up?” she thought in immediate panic.

Sandor Clegane, however, resumed his snores, and Sansa pressed a hand on her
heart to calm down the mad beating in her ribcage.
 
“I should really go now,” she told herself.

Instead, she inched closer to the sleeping man again.

“I wonder if he's got so much hair on his chest, too?”

Carefully, she tugged the blanket down to the his waistline.

As a result, her mouth went dry.

“Gods, how can a man look like that!? It's as if his muscles have got muscles!”
 
Following a sudden idea, Sansa snatched the half-burned candle from the table
so as to have a better look. On seeing Sandor Clegane's glorious torso, she
swallowed hard.

“His face is as ugly as his body is beautiful. I wonder if the kitchen maids
are lining up to enjoy his presence.”

The thought caused a sting in her core.

“Why can't I have such a man, but have to be promised to a spoiled, sadistic
broomstick with wormy lips?”
 
In the past, Sansa would have reprimanded herself for such thoughts, but
Joffrey had long made sure she was beyond such qualms. Her eyes rather followed
the thick trail of hair down to the Hound's waistband. Had her cheeks already
felt feverish before they were on fire now.
 
“Ooooh, I must really stop here now! I'm behaving like a loose tavern wench.
The king would take my head for this.”

Just why didn't her fingers not obey then? They were itching to follow the
treasure trail, and moreover, some insects had to be aflutter in Sansa's
stomach, judging by the things she was feeling. Helplessly, she watched herself
giving the blanket another little tug.
 
That was followed by a strangled sound deep in her throat. Her eyes had already
widened before, but now she thought they'd be popping out of their sockets at
any moment.
 
“Ah,” she tried to calm herself. “It's not QUITE as enormous and hard as I
would have imagined it to be after what the chamber maids have been whispering
about this particular part of the body. Hmmm... Arya would probably even be
underwhelmed. I can imagine her describing it as a crossing of a floppy rosy
cucumber and the skin of a wrinkled apple.”

Sansa stifled a giggle and couldn't even be sad about the thought of her lost
sister. She was too fascinated by the new visual stimulus, limited as it was in
the weak light.

“Well, now that I've seen it I can't imagine it to be as horrible as Joffrey
and some others have caused me to believe. Only I can't imagine how it could be
stuck into...”
 
Sansa interrupted herself and buried her face in her hands in shame.

“What, oh what am I doing!? The Hound would skin me alive if he knew! And for
good reason.”

She pulled up the blanket a little higher and tried to ignore the throbbing
sensation between her thighs.

“I must go. At once!”

And she would have turned and run indeed – if Sandor hadn't done what he did in
his sleep the next moment.
***** Closeness, or: Don't take fright – it's our wedding night. *****
Sandor cringed on the bed and uttered a little whine, not unlike a frightened
dog.

“What's wrong? Is he in pain?” Sansa asked herself.

At once, she bent over the Hound again.
 
“No, Gregor, pleashe no!” Sandor Clegane muttered in his sleep, and Sansa's
knees turned into jelly.

“He's so very drunk, and he's still dreaming of his brother!?”

She knew her own nightmares well enough, and she had learned of what Ser Gregor
had done to the king's sworn shield in the distant past. Surely the horror of
getting one's face burned by one's own family member was worthy of the seven
hells.
 
Sansa stroked the big man's hair and whispered: “You're safe, myl... There's
nothing to fear. Please calm down. It's all right. You're all right.”

Within an instant, an arm went around her middle, pulled her down, and before
Sansa could process what was going on she was under the blanket and pressed
flush against the Hound's side. She uttered a squeak. From one moment to the
next, there was warm, male flesh to be felt everywhere on her body. Her skirt
had slid upwards, and she could even feel – gods! – THAT appendage against her
legs.
 
“Whatshe juishy lil' bird doin' in me room?” Sandor slurred, and he sounded
puzzled, rather than angry.

“He's still half asleep and completely drunk. In the morning he must believe it
was all a dream. But what can I tell him that sounds unrealistic enough?”
 
Sansa wrecked her brain, but in her overwhelmed state it wasn't likely to come
up with a clever solution.

“Why, it's our wedding night, mylord.”

The next moment, Sansa would have liked to bite off her tongue.

The Hound's confusion grew.

“Ish it? Can't remember. Have we fucked already?”
 
Sansa coughed in utter embarrassment.

“No. Erm, no mylord.”
 
Sandor Clegane nodded at that.

When he spoke, his voice sounded dark: “Choo drunk, amirite? Bloody better for
a frightened lil' bird. Wouldn't wanttohave my cock up shat cunt of yoursh, hm?
Aye, better for bosh of ush I'm drunk. Wouldn't want to have you crying in
fear.”
 
The speech must have exhausted the Hound, for he glided back into sleep the
next moment, and Sansa was caught in a warm, but tight embrace, with his soft
manhood nestling against her legs... and with her full bladder screaming in
agony because of the extra pressure stemming from the body contact.

“Oh no! I'm trapped! The Hound is too strong and too heavy for me. I need to do
something. I can't make water into his bed!” she thought in despair.
 
Sansa gazed at the dimly-lit face right in front of her.

“He looks so much more peaceful now. Less fearsome without the anger, despite
his scars.”

Sansa's eyes wandered from the man's irregular red facial latticework to his
mouth. A corner was a bit burned, but the rest looked normal. She wondered if
he'd taste differently from Theon and Joffrey. The pecks of those weren't
exactly fond memories.

“I'll give him a little kiss, and then, he'll probably roll around and set me
free so I can get up.”
 
It was no good plan, but the best one she could come up with in that situation.
Under normal circumstances she'd have never dared to do such a thing, but as it
was, she barely hesitated and put her lips onto the ones of Sandor Clegane.
***** Physical Needs, or: Wee Bird *****
“Oh!”

That was all Sansa could think... and repeated the action.

“How is it possible this hard man's lips are so soft? Only this is the wrong
way to treat him, I guess. He didn't want to... lie down with me, if I
understood his slur correctly. In that case, he wouldn't want to be kissed
either. How stupid of me to imagine –”
 
Sandor Clegane uttered a growl; one hand glided upwards, though it wasn't as
coordinated a movement as usual... and then, his fingers were in her hair and
he kissed Sansa back. And that kiss was none like she had ever experienced with
a man.

The Hound was rough, and so was his kiss. Somehow, his tongue made it into her
mouth, and Sansa squealed in shock, though the sound was muffled, because her
lips were sealed by his.
 
The problem that was even worse was that the large man pressed even closer in
the process. Somehow, the Hound's... his... it felt a bit bigger than before,
and harder, too. Sansa started to have tears in her eyes.
“He must let me go! Oh my, the shame! I can barely hold it anymore.”
 
So desperate was she that she gave Sandor Clegane's chest a hearty push she
would otherwise have never attempted. Finally, the man moved far away enough
from her to set her free.

“Sho it'sh alwaysh she shame. She little bird doeshn't want to look at she ugly
king'sh dog. Not good enough for her, ish shat she way of it?”
 
Sansa was embarrassed like never before in her life. But she also looked
frantically for the chamberpot, now that she'd been able to rise.
Meanwhile, the Hound's head dropped back onto the pillow, and a moment later,
he resumed his snoring. It was a great relief, because that way he wouldn't
look – or worse, comment on her next doings.
“Ah! There is the pot. And still empty. The first bit of luck tonight.”
Sansa retreated to the shade, near the washstand, lifted her skirts with
trembling fingers and relieved herself. Tears were streaming down her cheeks
when the pressure and pain finally subsided.

Afterwards, she grabbed a wet piece of cloth from the washstand to clean
herself. Somehow, Sansa was strangely slimy between her legs. Hopefully, she
wasn't falling ill on top of this outrageous adventure.
Next, she rinsed her hands and the fabric in the bowl with water and pondered
her options.

“I have to clean the pot and the water bowl, or the Hound might become
suspicious.”
 
Just at that moment, she heard steps of more than one person in the corridor
and knew the coast wasn't clear.

“Tonight, nothing works the way it should!” Sansa lamented inwardly in total
exasperation.

She looked around once more and noticed a small window high up in the thick
wall of the keep.

“I'd need to climb on the chair, but then I could reach the window and empty
the pot and the bowl this way. It's raining outside, judging by the pitter-
pattering sound, so everything should be washed away until the sun rises.”
 
Sansa set to work with fresh energy and moved and climbed the chair as quietly
as she could. She tried to empty the water bowl first to make sure the
construction was stable enough. It worked. While she was repeating the action
with the chamber pot, however, she suddenly swayed a little, and the pot fell
from her hand and right out of the window.

“Nonononono! That tops it all!” Sansa thought and wept some more. “I need to
get back to my room at once. Later, I can always deny I've had anything to do
with the whole affair."
 
“Lil' bird, come here again. Ish cold,” she suddenly heard the Hound rasp.

Not knowing how to react she obediently returned to the bed.

“Sho you're weeping. She firsht time alwaysh hurtsh, but she nexsht time will
be better. Big promishe.”

Sansa's eyes became round and her jaw dropped for a heartbeat.

“He thinks he's consummated...”
 
Quickly, she schooled her features and murmured: “You didn't hurt me, really.
I'm all right.”

“Pretty bird, chirping hollow wordsh. And you know what? I haven't even fished
yet – shee?”

At that, Sandor grabbed Sansa's hand and pressed it down onto his... his
manhood. It wasn't soft anymore. And it had magically grown.

Sansa whimpered and tore her hand away.

“Please, mylord! Please let me go!”
 
Sandor Clegane uttered a faint snort.

“Sho you shink I should rub myshelf? Ahh, sure you would. Proper little lady'sh
shtill afraid of me. Shen do ash you pleashe.”

Next, Sandor turned away from her... and was asleep again within minutes.
 
Sansa's heart hammered like mad.

“No more lingering,” she told herself and bolted for the door. “I won't stay
any longer!”

She fidgeted on the handle and opened the door. The corridor was deserted now.

Like a haunted wolf, Sansa darted through the Red Keep.
 
For a while she wandered about the castle without reaching a tract she
recognised. Then, she met a servant.

“Excuse me, I've been in the Godswood for an early prayer. I've lost my guard
on the way, and now, I'm lost. Can you point me the way, please?”

The elder man with a wart on his nose eyed her up and down, but did give her
the wanted pieces of information.
 
When she arrived, Osmund Kettleblack was back in front of her door and winced
on spotting her.

“Whut!? Why are you not inside your room?”

“Hasn't he noticed my absence?” Sansa asked herself in confusion.

She had expected everyone would be chasing after her. As it was, she repeated
the lie she had already used for the servant.

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but you weren't here when I left, and I didn't
want to ask anyone else to accompany me, lest you might run into troubles...”

She looked to the ground.
 
The knight growled something dark, but didn't manhandle her. He knew he
couldn't risk it to reveal his absence during a night shift.

“Back into your room then, girl. And no word to anyone, if you know what's good
for you.”

“Yes, ser. Of course, ser.”
 
After she had entered her room again, Sansa breathed in and out, staggered back
to her bed and tried to sleep. At dawn, she had to admit that her attempts had
been futile.

“Small wonder after tonight's happenings,” she thought.
 

Sansa also knew she wouldn't be able to relax before she hadn't met the Hound
again and before she had found out he only remembered the episode as a dream,
if at all. Worse than those thoughts were all the vivid, intimate memories she
retained about Sandor Clegane. Without either of them intending it to happen,
the scarred man had turned into a tune Sansa couldn't get out of her head
anymore...
***** Meeting again, or: If you're Joffrey and you know it, send your Dog *****
Of course, someone had talked. Somebody always did in the Red Keep. Likely, it
had been the servant with the wart this time, Sansa guessed fleetingly. It so
didn't matter.
 
Worse than that, it was the Hound who was standing on guard by the side of the
king this afternoon. His face was a mask, like always, and he didn't so much as
blink.
“Isn't he looking more tense than usual? No, I must be imagining this,” Sansa
thought, but didn't allow herself to look at the man directly.
 
“Lady Sansa, you were seen wandering about the castle at the dead of the
night,” Joffrey stated, thrummed his fingers on the armrests of the throne, cut
himself on a sharp edge, cursed and sucked on his bleeding finger. His eyes
were still bloodshot from his being drunk and passing out from alcohol during
the previous night.
It all didn't bode well. At least he didn't seem to know where exactly she had
been.
 
Sansa sank to her knees and started the full mummery programme, with tears,
eyes cast down, and trembling.
“Oh, Your Grace, I'm so sorry in case I've caused any trouble. I was suffering
from nightmares, so I went to the Godswood to calm down myself and to pray.
Since I know the way so well by now I didn't want to be a burden for anyone and
didn't ask to be accompanied.”
“Stupid girl!” the king screeched. “No woman would ever go to the Godswood at
night alone, so Ser Osmund must be punished, because he hasn't fulfilled his
duty.”
Joffrey turned to Ser Balon Swann, who was also present at court.
“Put Ser Osmund into custody for a fortnight. If it weren't for my mother's
explicit wish I'd have his head.”
 
Next, the king turned back to Sansa.
“And YOU... I'm starting to wonder whether you're really so stupid. After all,
you're a traitor's daughter, so I shouldn't be surprised if you've been
cheating on me, your betrothed, your king. The Godswood would be a formidable
place for a tryst.”
 
Sansa's blood whooshed in her ears.
“No, Your Grace, I'd never do such a thing! Never ever! You're my only and true
love, and every man has to pale next to your magnificence.”
 
Joffrey narrowed his eyes.
“So you say. But can I count on you? I don't think so, not with your rotten
bloodline and traitorous heritage. Hound! Take her to a septa and have Sansa
Stark's maidenhood examined. – And now off with you, woman!”
 
Joffrey's sworn shield stepped forward, his jaws like chiselled stone, and he
grabbed Sansa's arm. Sansa squealed while she was being dragged out of the
throne room, and she could see Joffrey starting to grin while another case was
being brought before him to be settled.
 
No sooner had the big doors closed behind them than the Hound ground out: “Care
to explain a few things?”
***** Inquisition, or: What a little bird told me *****
Sansa briefly looked up into Sandor's eyes, but when she saw a hurricane in the
slate-coloured depths under swollen lids she stared down at her feet again.

“Explain what, Ser Sandor?”

The Hound grabbed her chin and forced it upwards so she couldn't avoid his
stare.

“I'm no ser, how often do I have to tell you?” he rasped. “And here I've got
some even better questions I'm asking myself. Why is the candle in my room not
in the place I left it in yesterday evening? Why was my chair under the open
bedroom window? Why was my washing bowl wet in the morning when I had dried it
in the evening? Why had my chamberpot disappeared? Why does my washing cloth
smell so sweetly of a female cunt though I was too drunk to entertain a whore?
How come you were seen in weird places in the Red Keep last night? Why do I
have distinct memories of you in my bed, of you fondling my hard cock, of you
sucking said cock and of me fucking your maidenhood away until you moaned,
because it allegedly was our wedding night?”
 
Sansa cringed under the weight of the bluntness of his words and the inherent
accusations. All excuses, nay, even all coherent thoughts fled her mind, so
shocked and embarrassed was she.

“We... we didn't get intimate like that,” she mewled.
 
There was a sharp intake of breath.

“So you were in my room last night!?”

Sandor's voice sounded like a saw on stone, even though he was keeping it low
to not make any eavesdropping possible.
 
Sansa pressed her lips together and cast down her eyes again.

“Why were you in my room, little bird? What happened? And don't you even think
of attempting a lie, or I'll break your arm. If you don't speak truthfully, it
could cost both our heads, but I want to keep mine.”
 
Sansa pushed the tip of her slipper against the ground in shame.

“I was trying to run away from being brought in front of drunk King Joffrey,
got lost and accidentally ended up in your room. I wouldn't even find it again
at daylight, I swear! This was no plan of mine. And... uh... to make things
worse, I needed to follow my primary needs. You were very drunk, too drunk
for... for... you know. The indecent things you're indicating must have been a
dream.”
 
She swallowed hard when she noticed the Hound relax; yet, he also kept
emanating an inner darkness that made her feel even worse.

“He's relieved he didn't do these things with me,” Sansa thought and wanted to
weep.
 
“I see,” Sandor Clegane ground out. “Bloody strangest and shittiest coincidence
ever. Were I a pious man I'd believe the gods to have a weird sense of humour.
But at least we don't have to fear you're no maid anymore, if I really didn't
enter you.”
 
Sansa's thoughts returned to when she had been back and alone in her own
bedroom again; she had believed to be ill, because her womanhood had continued
to feel so strange, and she had not been able to stop reminiscing the way
Sandor Clegane smelled and tast –
“What the fuck are you keeping from me, little bird?”
 
Sansa winced and blabbered: “Ah, erm, I... actually...”

The Hound's iron grip around her arm started to hurt.

“Spit it out, you daft girl!”

Tears pearled down Sansa's cheek.

“I may... have examined myself at some point.”
 
The Hound looked at her as if he had seen a ghost.

“You mean you've fucked into your hand? You, of all people? The proper little
lady?”

Sansa licked her lips, because they had turned dry.

“I didn't f...uck, as you choose to call it. I just –“

“Did you slip in a finger?”

Sansa swallowed again. Her cheeks were burning like a furnace. She noticed
Sandor Clegane's eyes widen even more than they had already done.

“Two fingers?”

Sansa pressed her lips into a tight line and squeezed her eyes shut.

The Hound uttered a strangled noise.

“Fuck.”
***** Examination, or: Cherry-red *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
“I'm not taking any risks, little bird,” Sandor Clegane rasped. “I guess I'll
have to see for myself whether you're still a maid or not.”
Sansa squealed.
“Oh! Oh no! But... I mean... can't you simply threaten the septa so she simply
has to declare me a maid?”
 
Sandor snorted, and his eyes were dark with frustration.
“Naive summer child. Haven't you been in King's Landing long enough? Haven't
you experienced enough? Once something is known it's used against you – either
it leads to your downfall directly, or you're an easy victim for blackmailing.
And don't you believe the Faith is above such nasty tricks. Nah, girl, I don't
think we've got a choice in that matter.”
Sansa gulped, but she could see the truth in the Hound's words.
“He doesn't want to examine me,” she thought and looked at his stony face and
rigid shoulders. “He's already tense from the knowledge of having to do it.”
“I see,” she mumbled and could feel the heat of her blush. She was ashamed of
bringing Sandor Clegane into such a difficult situation, and of indirectly
tasking him with an intimate examination.
 
After some more silent steps into another corridor, the Hound suddenly yanked
her to the side. With a swift, fluent motion, he opened a door, pushed Sansa in
and followed suit. Sansa gasped because of the unexpected movement and found
herself in a storage room with several shelves and a table.
“Sit down here, hoist up your skirts, and spread your legs,” Sandor ordered in
a voice that sounded even harsher than usual. He pointed at the table.
Sansa started to tremble, and somehow, even her womanhood quivered; it felt
weird. She had only ever felt the slightly pounding sensation during the
previous night, when she had seen Sandor Clegane's private parts. While she was
stumbling towards the table she mused whether looking at the sex – or the
prospect thereof – always caused such feelings.
“Gods! Septa Mordane would chastise me for these thoughts! They're so improper.
But... what can I do in this situation?”
 
With hesitant movements, Sansa sat down on the edge of the table and started to
pull up her skirts. All the while, Sandor stared at her without so much as a
blink. As if he wanted to burn her with the gaze of his stormy, slate-coloured
eyes. He had folded his arms across his broad, muscled chest.
Sansa's fingers, which used to be nimble with needle and thread, felt icy so
that it was difficult to open and to pull down her smallclothes. She tugged at
the fabric in despair, because she didn't want Sandor Clegane to have to help
her.
Finally, her womanhood was bare.
“You... may go on and do what's necessary,” she peeped, though her words lacked
all conviction.
 
The Hound's jaws worked. He grabbed a stool from under the table and sat down
in front of her.
“Spread your legs,” he ground out. “Let's have a look at the state of your
maidenhood. Do you know your face is coloured like a cherry now? You're one big
collection of different shades of red, by the look of it.”
Sansa swallowed hard and closed her eyes. She thought that the man was using
some sort of pun, but she didn't understand it. But the order had been crystal
clear. So, she slowly did as he had told her to do and parted her thighs. The
cool air on her sensitive flesh caused a shiver to shoot up her spine.
 
She heard Sandor utter a tiny hissing sound. The pulsating feeling in her
womanhood intensified, and she thought she'd never be able to regain her normal
complexion.
“What is it?” she asked, her voice shaking.
After a silent moment, the Hound rasped: “The light in here... not perfect...
Put your legs on my shoulders, so I can come closer and see you better.”
 
Sansa swallowed again. Was there no end to this? Could it get any worse?
Yet, she squinted and placed her feet on the tall man's shoulders obediently.
She heard a low, dark growl from between her legs and wanted to weep. The next
moment, she felt Sandor Clegane's warm breath right on her secret place. It
elicited a petite noise in her throat, there was simply no helping it. Sansa's
womanhood quivered like mad in response, and she started to have this wet
feeling down there again.
Then, she could hear the Hound breathe in deeply.
“He needs to compose himself for the next step. Oh, I'm so sorry I'm doing this
to him. I hope I'm not smelly...”
 
“Little bird... I'll... touch you with my hand now. I need to... spread your
folds.”
The Hound was having some difficulties to talk, and he was breathing faster.
Sansa nodded in silence to show him she had understood. For a fleeting moment,
she was under the impression he wanted to kiss her private parts, but she
berated herself for such a thought at once.
Notwithstanding, she gasped when she felt his fingers RIGHT THERE. Here body
reacted with something that felt like... dripping. Sansa pressed her mouth
together in shame.
 
Sandor Clegane's harsh voice and warm breath resonated against her sensitive
flesh.
“Someone's pretty soppy down here. Thinking of Joffrey? Or the Knight of
Flowers?”
Sansa didn't understand why he was asking such a thing all of a sudden. She
hadn't been thinking of another man at all! And why should she do so under such
circumstances?
 
Not knowing how to react, she asked back: “What can you see?”
Sandor Clegane inhaled again, and Sansa thought he was starting to tremble, but
then, he moved away from her, and the impression was gone.
“You can lower your skirts,” he informed her, rose from the stool, and looked
up at the little window in the wall, not at her.
 
Sansa obeyed, though she was strangely disappointed.
“As if I had wanted him to go on, but that's stupid; I'd never wish for such a
thing to happen. That's reserved for my lord husband.”
However, the thought of a husband who'd be allowed to touch her like that
whenever he wanted to – and even against her will – caused her to feel
nauseous.
“I'd have to throw up if Joffrey or someone else ever did something like this –
let alone something worse.”
 
Sandor, who had been silent for a moment, seemed to be coming back to his
senses, though he still didn't look at her.
“Little bird, I'm no expert with regard to maidens. It's not as if innocent
high-born ladies would line up for a mangy cur like me. But from what I've seen
I'm pretty convinced that you've widened your opening enough to not be declared
a maiden by a bloody septa.”
 
Sansa felt as if Ser Meryn Trant's mailed fist had landed a blow in her
stomach.
Chapter End Notes
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***** Mode of action, or: Maiden voyage *****
Sansa's heart fluttered. What would happen now? She herself would surely be
sentenced to death if the septa didn't declare her a virgin – and Joffrey would
likely have the fun of his life to watch her die.
And the Hound? She had been stupid, but Sandor Clegane had done nothing wrong.
It had been Sansa's mistake, and hers alone, to have brought him into such a
situation. Before her father's death, she'd have begged for the man's life,
would have taken the blame readily upon herself. The problem was that the king
didn't care about such things and would have the Hound executed, no matter
what. Joffrey wouldn't treat his sworn shield any better than he had done the
Warden of the North – that much she was convinced of. One only had to witness
how he dispensed justice – or rather injustice, given his cruel verdicts. No,
Sansa had learned her lesson, and she had done so the hard way.
 
She was shaken out of her panic when the Hound crashed his fist into a wall.
Next, the scarred man growled into her ear in a hushed voice: “You go to your
room at once. Take all the jewellery you have and put it into a bag that can be
hidden under your clothes. No need to show everyone you're still owning a few
items of a certain worth. Bad enough you're showing everyone your teats,
because the Lannisters have failed to give you fitting clothes. Put on your
hooded cloak and some more underskirts. Stuff a second dress into a bundle.
Make sure you're wearing robust shoes. Be quick. No dawdling, little bird, and
no personal items. I'll pick you up in a few minutes. Let's be grateful your
meeting with the king was at the beginning of today's court session. He'll be
busy for another three to four hours, and if we're lucky, we've got another two
or three hours before he'll be missing my report.”
 
Sansa gasped, she flushed a deep red, and her head started to spin.
Gods, his rude comments about her body! And he didn't like the way she looked
and found her inappropriate. Oh, the shame!
And he wanted to take her away from King's Landing and to come along with her?
Was that what he was truly talking about? Or was she misunderstanding things?
“But how –“
“No time for chirping, little bird. Off with you. I know what I'm doing.”
 
Oh! So she was right!
Sansa spun around on her heels and hurried back to her room. Her fingers were
trembling when she obeyed the Hound's words. She didn't own much jewellery, but
what she had she put into a pouch. Luckily, no handmaiden was there – they were
all the queen's creatures. But the women weren't expecting her back from court
so soon.
Sansa put her mother's comb into her bundle, and the doll she had got from her
father, too – the only allowance for personal things she made. None of her
shoes were designed for an outdoor adventure, but she put on those that were
best suited for the project. They were the same shoes she had worn into town on
the day of the bread riots.
 
Memories of that fateful day flashed up in her mind.
“The Hound saved me then – and he'll do so again.”
That was what she tried to tell herself. But would it work all out again like
it had on that day? There was no chaos in the streets now.
“Let's hope and pray that Sandor Clegane really knows what he's doing,” Sansa
thought and readied herself for the scarred warrior's knock, which came only
two or three minutes later.
 
~+~+~+~+~
Together, they made for the stables. On their way, the Hound kept looking in
front of him and scanning the surroundings. At the same time, informed Sansa
about his most immediate plans.
 
“I've told my squire to prepare my Stranger and a horse for you, because I'm
supposed to take you to the Sept of Baelor for an examination. I've also got
papers with the king's seal. Most people can't read, so they won't ask any
questions. I've got all my money with me. Enough to buy a passage on a ship and
to bribe people on the way. In the harbour, I'll say you're being sent into
exile. If anybody dares to ask politely, that is. And if necessarry...”
The man patted the sword that was dangling from his belt, and a shower crept
down Sansa's spine. Once more. The memories of the violent events during the
bread riots sneaked into her head.
 
“What about your squire?” Sansa dared to ask.
“He'll be glad to be rid of me, and he's clever enough to disappear when he
notices we're gone.”
Sansa swallowed. She hoped Sandor Clegane was right, but he knew the boy better
than her.
 
The Hound's stallion tried to buck, one could see the white of his eyes, and
his ears were pressed flat against his neck. His scarred master took the time
to talk to him in a subdued voice, and to Sansa's surprise the animal relaxed.
“He's good with animals,” she thought.
 
Her own horse was an old, gentle mare with a hollow back. Being a poor rider,
Sansa didn't mind – quite the contrary. For the way to the harbour the horse
would serve its purpose. Besides, she certainly didn't want to attract
attention by riding around on the most exquisite specimen from the royal
stable.
 
When she and Sandor Clegane reached the entrance gate of the Red Keep the Hound
barked at the sentry.
The man had obviously already heard the rumour that she was supposed to be
examined and answered: “Is there no septa in the keep who could do that?”
Sandor snorted.
“As if those shrivelled maiden cunts had a clue about it. Taking her to the
experts at the Sept of Baelor. If she's fooled around we can keep here right
there for public punishment. And the king wouldn't want anything less than a
septa of a certain position to have a peek at his betrothed.”
 
Sansa made a point of flinching and of looking back to the Red Keep longingly.
She didn't have to pretend to feel close to fainting from nervousness though.
As luck would have it, the guard shrugged and let them pass without any further
comment.
When they entered the streets of King's Landing, Sansa thought: “Here we go. It
has begun. No turning back now.”
***** The harbour, or: Fair is fowl - water fowl *****
Chapter Notes
     Warning for violence. And as it turns out, this is a post-Battle-of-
     the-Blackwater scenario, so Sandor has never fled, but neither has
     Joffrey dumped Sansa for Margaery yet.
Nobody hindered their progress in town. The Hound's scars, his warrior's looks
and his horse had the same effect on the people like they had had on the day
when he had saved her from the bread riots.
Still, Sansa felt her heart beating in her throat, and her blood was pulsating
like a wild torrent in her ears. She had no eyes for the town, which had
fascinated her so when she had first come here; instead, her worries prevailed.
She and Sandor Clegane could be stopped by a guard at any moment - and what
then?
 
It felt like ages, but finally they arrived at the harbour.
"Keep you fiery hair under the hood of your cloak," the Hound advised her. "No
need to attract any more attention than necessary. By the way: we're lucky. The
flood is coming in, and there are two or three ships that will set sail in an
hour or two. The good question is which captain to address."
"What do you think?" Sansa peeped.
Sandor inclined his head, pondering the question.
"Ah, there's a Tyroshi ship. Looks like it has already loaded all the cargo. It
will leave the harbour soon. Tyrosh sounds actually like a good solution."
"Why?" Sansa asked.
Sandor gnawed at his lower lip. The burned corner of his mouth twitched.
Then, he said: "Lorathi like lively colours and also dye their hair. Your red
feathers should be welcome there, little bird. Tyrosh is also a fortified city;
used to be ancient Valyria's outpost. I could get work there easily. And
besides, they're a greedy lot, so we can hope that the captain will smuggle us
out of King's Landing, provided he gets enough coin. And provided he doesn't
betray us."
 
Sansa's hand flew to her throat in fear, but she could also see wisdom in
Sandor's choice.
"Let's try to find the ship's captain then," she said.
Off they trundled, trying to look inoccuous.
 
When they reached the merchant vessel, Sandor whistled up at a sailor and told
him to fetch the captain. The man obeyed, and about a minute later, a tall,
lean Tyroshi with a bright green beard and an earring appeared at the railing.
"Any space left?" Sandor called up.
The captain looked them up and down, clearly assessing their financial
situation.
"Wait, I'm coming."
 
The man appeared on the gangway, which was good, because they all didn't have
to shout anymore.
"What do you want?" the Lorathi asked in a bastard version of Valyrian.
Did he want to test them, or what was the reason not to speak the common
tongue. Then again, what did it matter?
 
"I need passage for two passengers and this black horse."
Sandor's Valyrian was broken, but understandable.
The captain stared at them some more and switched to the common tongue.
"We're about to leave and rather full besides. Won't be cheap. And you have to
contact the harbour master. I'm not taking you with me without proper
documents."
Sansa pressed her lips together: "How much?"
The Lorathi told them a sum in his own currency that would amount to several
gold dragons. Sadly, Sansa had never been good with sums, and she lacked
knowledge about financial points, too, so she wasn't quite sure how much it
would really be. It was only clear it would be nothing short of a rip-off.
 
Sandor was better informed and started to haggle. He also offered his own
manpower on board.
Sansa was confused and shocked why he didn't simply accept the price. To trick
the harbour master would still be difficult enough.
But slowly it dawned upon her:"If he doesn't haggle, it shows we're in great
danger, and that would make us vulnerable."
Tyrosh was one of the big cities invested in slave trade, and the Hound was
basically making sure the man didn't start to think of enslaving them.
 
Finally, they reached an agreement, and Sansa and Sandor marched to the office
of the harbour master.
"I know the man," Sandor mouthed to her. "Originally from Lannisport. Of lesser
Lannister descent on his wife's side. His name is Walther Fowl. Was appointed
after the Battle of the Blackwater. Likely the old lion's doing. We don't want
to mess with that man."
A cold wave washed down Sansa's back though she wasn't quite sure which man the
Hound was actually referring to: this Walther Fowl or Tywin Lannister.
 
They were admitted at once, and the harbour master turned out to be a portly
man with thick a golden-grey moustache and Sandor's broad western dialect.
"Hound, what do you want? Haven't seen you in ages. Not since our times back in
Lannisport. And who's... wait! Why... Isn't that Lady-"
"She's being sent into exile. To Essos. Looks like the king has had enough of
the bloody traitor's bitch. Understandable. We just need a stamp on these
papers with the king's seal."
 
The bushy eyebrows of the harbour master rose.
"Now that's a surprise. I fear I need official confirmation for this. But let
me have a closer look at these papers first."
"Oh no!" Sansa thought. "He can read! Of course he'd be able to do that as the
harbour master. He'll find out..."
Sandor shrugged his broad shoulders, tossed the man the papers and answered in
a bored voice: "Sure. Here."
 
The other one nodded and took the papers.
As soon as he laid his eyes on the documents, Sandor lurched forward. Out of
nowhere, there was a dagger in his large hands. How could a man his size be so
quick?
The harbour master didn't even get to uttering a call. Within the blink of an
eye, there was a blade in his throat. He gargled and collapsed.
Sansa pressed her hand onto her mouth so as not to scream.
With a swift movement, the Hound took back the papers and put the harbour's
official stamp on them himself. Then, he grabbed Sansa's arm and dragged her
outside.
 
They came across a guard. Sandor flashed him a sardonic grin.
"The little slut here doesn't want to be sent into exile. Hah! Glad the king's
getting rid of the traitor's bitch."
The guard agreed willingly, and Sandor went on in a casual tone: "By the way,
the harbour master says he's very busy and doesn't want to be disturbed for a
while."
The other man nodded and answered: "He's controlled all the ships that are
leaving with this flood anyway. Wouldn't want to do all this stupid paper work,
if you ask me, not even for coin."
Sandor agreed heartily and dragged Sansa back to the ship.
"You've planned to do this all along!" Sansa whispered accusingly.
"The man stood between us and this ship. Any ship. And he was a shitstain. Saw
him in a brothel once, back in Lannisport, and I tell you - his preferences
were foul, even for a rabid dog like me."
 
Sansa's head snapped up.
"You've been in a brothel?"
Sandor snorted.
"What do you think? Ah, this will be a pretty long voyage. Mayhaps I'll tell
you some interesting details on the way."
Sansa blushed bright red, but at the same time, she became angry.
"Now who's the chirping one?" she replied.
Sandor's eyes widened a fraction. Then, he grinned.
"And who's mistaking barking for chirping? But the little bird's growing
talons. You may do that later. Here's the ship, and I need to focus on getting
Stranger aboard."
 
The stallion was in no mood for boarding, swishing his tail and flattening his
ears against his back. It took them some fifteen minutes until the horse was
finally willing to obey and to climb onto the ship. Sansa was already getting
nervous again; there was still reason to fear that they'd be discovered at any
moment.
 
But everything went well, and finally, the ship set sail and left the harbour.
Sansa looked back at King's Landing, Sandor at her side.
"What do you think?" she asked him.
"Me? I'm thinking that at least I'm leaving a city that smells like a poxy
whore's cunt."
Sansa blushed.
"He's using vulgarities to overplay what I've done to him. I've taken
everything away from him - his reputation, his position as the king's shield,
his income... Gods, how he must despise me!"
***** Voyage, or: The ship going full sails *****
For three days, Sandor Clegane was sick like a dog. Though Sansa felt a bit
nauseous, too, she was surprised that the Hound suffered more from seasickness
than she did.
“Have you never been on a ship before?” she asked him one night in the cabin
they had to share.
“Sure, but I've never been on the bloody open sea for so long,” the scarred
warrior said, retched and spit into his pail again.
 
Sansa approached him, cowered down next to him and helped the man hold his long
hair out of his face. She also wiped his lips with a wet cloth.
“Since when is the little bird brave enough to touch me?” Sandor asked and
coughed.
He was whey-faced, at least his unburned side.
“I'd even want to touch you some more, once you've recovered,” Sansa thought.
“If only I knew those touches were welcome.”
 
Aloud, she said: “One sailor has told me you should focus on the horizon when
you feel sick. Come, let's go. Hand me the pail.”
But Sandor Clegane, ever the thickheaded Dog, was too proud and rather carried
the pail himself. On deck, they were greeted by the others, though for the
first time in his life, men rather mocked the warrior at Sansa's side as
“landlubber”, rather than as a canine. Sansa could tell it ate at the man's
soul. When he had to stagger to the railing to feed the fish some more with his
gastric juice Sansa followed him and took hold of his arm to make sure he
wouldn't fall overboard.
“As if you could stop me from toppling over if I were listing heavily, little
bird,” the Hound growled.
 
Sansa replied: “Are you done throwing up for the moment? Now look at the
horizon, will you?”
“Aye, aye, little taskmaster,” Sandor Clegane answered and tried to grin,
though it looked forced.
Together, they sat down and leaned against a staircase that led to the upper
deck. For a while, they were silent.
Then, the Hound said: “We've got a nice breeze. Full sails. “ And: “I need to
look after Stranger.”
Sansa answered: “You can do that later. I've given him water and hay while you
were... you know. Occupied otherwise.”
 
That earned her a side glance.
“Turning into a stable boy, is that the way of it? And Stranger didn't rip off
your ear?”
Sansa chuckled.
“He certainly tried to do that, but he ended up banging his head in the small
box.”
These news caused Sandor to laugh.
“Poor boy. Must be worse off than me.”
 
Towards the evening, Sandor started to feel better, and the next morning, he
felt fit enough to start helping on deck. Sansa sighed towards herself when he
had left. She looked at the pallet at the other end of the cabin where he had
slept, then walked over and inhaled. His scent was still lingering there, manly
and delicioius, and Sansa itched to hug the bundle of straw to her chest. That
thought, in its turn, caused her to blush.
So she busied herself with needlework. The sailors were glad to have someone
who was willing to mend their clothes – especially since she was so skilled
that the clothes looked actually better than before.
 
Around lunchtime, she asked for a snack in the kitchen. There was only gruel to
be had, but Sansa didn't complain.
“You can also take a bowl for your companion,” the cook said.
Sansa thanked him, took the offered food and asked a harelipped sailor where
Sandor Clegane was.
“Down wif fe cargo, I fink,” the man mumbled.
Sansa furrowed her brow, but thanked the man. What would the Hound do in such a
place? Control the ropes, likely, she told herself, took a candle and walked
downstairs.
 
Unfortunately, she lost her footing because of a wave, and within a split
second she had to decide whether to let go of the bowl with gruel or of the
candle to gain some support. On instinct, she dropped the candle, which went
out at once. On the one hand, that was better than if the wood of the ship had
caught fire, but on the other hand, she was left in darkness now. However,
there was a little light in the distance.
“Oh. That flame over there – is that him?”
 
With careful movements, Sansa picked her way further down into the belly of the
ship. Somehow, she didn't dare to call out his name.
And then, here eyes widened and her breath hitched in her throat. Her jaw
dropped for a moment.
 
Yes, it was the Hound, and he was sitting on a well-fastened trunk. There was a
lantern at his side. The face was half in the shadows, but Sansa could discern
that Sandor Clegane's eyes were closed. In contrast to that, his breeches were
open – and he was holding and rubbing his... oh GODS!
 
At the back of her mind, Sansa knew she should look away, but that was not a
realistic possibility. Spellbound, she gazed at the purposeful movements and
noticed how different this body part was now from when she had seen it first:
erect, bigger, darker, the veins protruding...
Sandor Clegane moaned and breathed heavily. The exposed skin was covered in a
fine sheen of sweat. He was so mesmerised by what he was doing that he didn't
notice Sansa. It was a beautiful sight to behold his obvious bliss.
 
“Oh!” Sansa thought and felt the pulsating sensation again which she had
already experienced in King's Landing. Her hands started to itch. She so wanted
to touch him.
 
“Mmh,” Sandor Clegane growled, and Sansa noticed his... his member twitch. The
lantern was just on the right level to illuminate a whitish pearl appear in the
little opening at the tip. The Hound spread it with the pad of his thumb, and
Sansa thought she'd go cuckoo.
After some more pumping movements, the man clenched his jaws as if in pain,
hissed... and a white liquid spurted from the opening.
 
Sansa pressed a hand on her mouth, so as not to squeal.
“What am I doing here? I must leave at once!” she thought.
At that momet, Sandor Clegane opened his eyes – and looked right into her face.
All Sansa could do was to hold up her bowl and to squeak: “I've got some gruel
for you...”
***** Finding out, or: That is something to make a song about. *****
Chapter Notes
     I may or may not have got carried away...
The Hound stiffened. He looked from the bowl with the creamy white paste to the
other fluid that still partly covered his hands. Next, his mouth set, he wiped
his hands on a piece of cloth, and he stuffed his softening manhood back into
his breeches. He glowered at her darkly and said not a word.
Sansa was paralysed – that was the only reason that kept her from frantic
apologising. Gods! The shame of it. Finally, she looked away.
 
It was the sign for Sandor to speak up.
“And here I always took you for a pretty lady. Well-bred, good manners. Of
late, however, I'm starting to doubt this. First you in my bedroom, doing and
saying outrageous things, then your fingering, and now this. Did you at least
enjoy the view? Perhaps I should have showed you my cock sooner, given how much
more readily you stare at it than at my face.”
 
Sansa felt as if Ser Boros Blount had landed a blow in her stomach with his
mailed fist.
Tears formed in the corners of her eyes and spilled down her cheeks.
“You know I'm not afraid of touching your face anymore – you said so yourself,
remember? And I know I shouldn't have watched something so private. It's just
that...”
She trailed off.
“What, little bird?” Sandor asked, his voice gloomy.
 
Sansa blurted out: “I know you think me air-headed and stupid and naïve and so
on. Maybe you're right. And I know you don't like me, though at court you have
helped me more than any of the knights you despise so much. Without you I
wouldn't be alive anymore, I think. And I'd have never wanted to tear you away
from your good post.”
Her tears were flowing freely now.
“Just... after what has happened to me, I feel good around you. Is it such a
wonder? I want to touch you, be close to you, to kiss you and to make you feel
good as well. I can't dream of noble knights and princes any longer, so I'm
dreaming of a Dog instead. That's even closer to my family's sigil than lions
or roses. And I've never seen a man as tall and strong as you, with the body of
the Warrior made flesh – how could I look away from something so impressive?”
 
During her monologue Sandor's eyes had widened, and now, it was his jaw that
sagged.
Sansa realised she wouldn't be ready for any mocking from his side, or for his
barking laughter or his wide grin about her foolery. She turned around and made
to go.
The Hound, however, was fast, and within a moment, she felt his heavy hand grab
her shoulder.
 
“What is this madness, little bird?” he rasped.
Sansa winced and looked back at him.
“I... I've taken a fancy for you,” she peeped, pulled in her head and tried to
walk away.
But Sandor Clegane didn't let her go. Within a moment, he pressed her against
the side of the stairway. The bowl with gruel made a clanking sound when it hit
the floor. The Hound put his hands left and right from Sansa and growled down
at her: “Stop making cruel japes at my expense. I warn you.”
New tears rushed down Sansa's cheeks.
“I'd never jest about such things!” she emphasised.
 
“Pah!” Sandor uttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm, anger and something
else. “Then this is nothing more than what a pretty little girl wants to make
herself believe, because there's no better option at the moment. I'll show you
how much you've fallen for me!”
And within a heartbeat, his mouth crashed down on hers.
Sansa was shocked and squealed. The next moment, the scarred lips were gone
again.
“See?” the Hound pointed out. “No true interest. Nothing but warbled dreams.”
 
Suddenly, Sansa became angry.
“You don't even give me a chance to react differently,” she huffed. “But I can
do what you can!”
And without further ado, she grabbed his tunic, pulled, jumped against the tall
warrior, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him back as wildly as he had
done. Only she didn't let go of him again so quickly.
 
“He'll push me away any second, but now he knows at least what's going on, and
that he can't shove me around like that,” she thought.
 
Sandor Clegane first uttered a gargled sound, then stiffened...
… and then, things went topsy-turvy.
 
They sank down onto the stairs, and Sandor Clegane started to reciprocate her
kisses, first tentatively, but it all escalated quickly. Sansa moaned, and her
instincts took over. Her hands sneaked under Sandor's tunic and found warm, no,
hot skin there. That earned her another growl.
Next, feverish hands fumbled on her dress and finally simply pulled down her
cleavage to expose her breasts. Sansa gasped, but didn't even have the time to
protest before the man's mouth was on one of her nipples and started to suckle.
The gasp turned into a mewl, and her fingers roamed whichever part of the large
man's body she could get hold of. Propriety was a concept she had forgotten for
the time being.
 
Now, Sandor's fingers sneaked into her clothes as well – and found her private
parts. Sansa squeaked when a finger slid into her, but the sound turned into a
moan at once.
“Who'd have ever thought your cunt would be slick for me like that?” the Hound
murmured against her breast, and his voice was full of wonder.
He added a second finger to the first one. Well, that was more than her own two
fingers, of course, and it felt tight, but didn't really hurt. He moved his
hand, first slowly, but soon enough, he pushed into her with a passion. Sansa
moaned helplessly.
 
“The Stranger take me,” Sandor Clegane rasped. “That flower of yours is ready
to be picked, do you know that, little bird?”
Sansa couldn't even think straight enough to process the information; she could
only feel his fingers yank down her smallclothes. Her sensitive womanhood was
exposed to cool air for a moment, but then, Sandor sat up on his step of the
stair, lifted and turned her so that she straddled him, and guided her down
onto his member, which had stiffened again.
As she was sliding down on him, she pressed her face against his shoulder and
gasped. The pain she had expected didn't come. It felt tight and a tad
uncomfortable, but that was about it.
 
A dark groan resonated in the Hound's chest.
“Sansa! Oh... Sansa...”
Him calling her by her name in such an overwhelmed tone caused her soul to
soar, to jubilate.
“Show me,” she whispered, blushing.
And that he did. Or tried to do.
 
He held her close, hugged her... and seemed suddenly at a loss as to what to do
with her.
“This... it should be different,” he mumbled.
“I'm not made of glass,” Sansa answered. “Please.”
Sandor Clegane started to move then, and he was surprisingly gentle. He rocked
her on his member, and Sansa thought she had never felt so good in her life.
The closeness was a shock, but a wonderful one. There was still some
embarrassment, but it was only a minor feeling. The rest was bliss.
Sandor's movements became more intense, erratic, and finally, he all but
catapulted her upwards with each hungry thrust. Sansa noticed some wet noises,
but they only added to the glorious feeling.
 
But then, it happened: Sandor's body contracted, like it had done before when
she had watched him. Sansa could feel his seed spurt forth, into her.
Sandor started to cry; next, he pulled out and it was over.
 
Sansa snuggled closer, put her arms around him and kissed his tears away. At
the same time she felt also disappointed.
“Sandor, please,” she whispered, not knowing exactly what she was wishing for.
“Please help me.”
“I... I don't know how,” the Hound answered, insecure.
“Touch me. Just touch me,” Sansa begged and guided his hand between her thighs.
 
So Sandor resumed the caresses he had administered to her before. It took some
testing and some encouragement on Sansa's side, but then, he did something that
felt incredibly good, and she bucked against him. After some more minutes,
Sansa felt as taut as a bowstring from sheer need.
“Sandor, I think... Gods, what..? Aaaaaaah!”
A hot wave rolled down her spine and exploded in her centre, causing her to
moan and to twitch helplessly.
In the distance, she heard Sandor sob: “Oh Sansa, oh gods... You're divine. Oh,
little bird!”
Finally, they were holding onto each other like castaways on a makeshift raft,
half clothed, half besmirched with the dropped gruel; and they both wept from
sheer happiness and kept kissing each other again and again.
***** Into the future, or: Epilogue *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
“You know,” Sansa said at some point, “what my parents have told me, or
educated me to be like – it has all proven to be wrong. Princes are not the
most dreamworthy people for a woman. Knights are not nobler than other people.
Kings aren't necessarily impressive or worthy of their position. Words are wind
– and stories, too. And my parents and my septa... they told me I should only
give my maidenhood to my husband. On the wedding night. I should wait to be
cloaked, wait to be bred on, be content with having children. Nothing has
become reality – with the only exception of the latter one. I'm glad for it.”
 
Sandor's head moved up.
“Aye, your parents didn't prepare you well enough for the viper's nest that the
capital is. But then again, they weren't prepared for it either, and it cost
them everything. No wonder they let you hang on to your dreams. Then again...
maybe you've been too idealistic, yes, but at the same time, I've been too
cynic. It needed a little bird to peck some holes into my armour.”
 
Sansa sighed. For a moment, she nibbled on Sandor's collarbone, which showed in
the neck opening of his tunic.
“The little bird's getting curious, I gather,” the scarred warrior chuckled,
and Sansa marvelled at the sudden lack of anger in him.
She said: “Arya's always been the one who's been more independent and more
curious than me. She's always looked to the bottom of things. While I only ever
strove to please others she was so much cleverer than me – and was scorned for
it. How unfair it all must have been for her. I wish I had understood that
earlier. If only I knew whether she's still alive... When I was dreaming of a
noble husband once she told me she didn't want to marry at all so she could
stay independent. How right she was...”
 
Sandor stiffened at her side.
“You know, Sansa, she may have been more critical than you, but she was only a
girl, and she still couldn't understand a few things then.”
He pressed his – now flaccid, but still substantial – manhood against Sansa and
went on: “We've fucked, and properly so, which means you're mine. Best believe
that. You're a high-born lass. You spread your legs – you marry. You've always
been too high above my station, but it won't matter in Tyrosh anymore. I won't
let any other man come between me and you for some goddamn claim on Winterfell
or the north. Understood?”
 
Now, it was Sansa, who tensed.
“Do you want to decide for me? Over my head? Don't you even feel the need to
ask me for my hand? Are you turning into one of them, of the other men, just
because we've lain together? In that case, I'll rather stay on my own.”
 
Sandor's eyes widened. He gaped at her.
“No! Sansa, no, this wasn't what I meant. I'd never go against your will. I've
wanted you for so long, I can't even... I just meant I won't let anyone allow
to harm you.”
His scarred face became stony.
“But if that's what you want, little bird, to push the ugly cur away, because
you're finding out he's not good enough for you, then so be it.”
 
He rose and laced up himself in brooding silence.
Sansa jumped, stood before him, and grabbed his hand.
“Sandor, something's going totally wrong. Of course, you're good enough for me,
and you're no cur! Why, your scars don't scare me anymore. The first things
changed when you told me your story, back at the Tourney of the Hand.”
Sandor snorted, but Sansa threw her arms around him and wouldn't let him go.
“Pleasepleaseplease,” she whispered. “I'm a romantic girl after all, and I
haven't been able to decide in the past. Can't you give me some time? Can't you
propose to me? Properly?”
 
Sandor grabbed her chin and forced it up so she would look into his eyes. He
was still in a sombre mood, but the momentary ire had abated.
“All right, little bird, but don't you expect much. I'm not a romantic man and
know shit about such things. I'll wait three days, and then, I'll ask you.
Until then, I'll fuck you every night so you may stitch a horny rabbit as a new
sigil for us when we have arrived in Tyrosh.”
Sansa swallowed, blushed... and nodded.
“That sounds good,” she whispered.
 
Back on deck, the captain scolded Sandor for dawdling; at the same time, the
Hound's and Sansa's tousled apparel elicited some whistles and catcalls from
the sailors around.
Sandor balled his fists and rumbled: “Anybody who tries to take liberties with
my woman will have to answer me, understood?”
Several pointedly innocent whistled tunes followed from the other men.
 
For the next three days, Sandor and Sansa distracted themselves by working on
the ship all day long, but come night, they set about each other like hungry
carnivores; and what Sansa lacked in experience she evened out with enthusiasm.
True, at first, there was still a measure of embarrassment, but it vanished
quickly enough. Sandor didn't leave her much time for this kind of sentiment.
 
Sansa noticed that – like herself – he was nowhere near as confident and
knowing a lover as she had expected. There were many intimate points they found
out together.
“Do you think I'd do something like that with a whore?” he asked once and
latched his mouth onto her most private parts.
Sansa squealed and bucked against him in immediate delight.
“Seven hells, you're a feast for a dog like me,” he growled against her
sensitive flesh and let his tongue trail along and between her folds.
 
Within minutes, Sansa was sobbing in sheer bliss. All she wanted to do was to
peak.
Sandor, however, noticed she was close and withdrew. Sansa wailed in
frustration.
Next, he knelt between her legs and slid into her. Sansa wrapped her legs
around his middle in utter need. Unfortunately, Sandor had already come earlier
on from her first shy attempts at sucking his member, so he wasn't in a frenzy
like usual. Sandor pinned her to the ground, kept himself and their movements
in check and took things really slow.
Sansa was so desperate that she begged him for mercy... until he had her so far
that she wasn't able to utter coherent sounds anymore.
The final explosion was so great that she screamed out loud and lost her
consciousness for a short moment. She didn't even notice how her own
convulsions sent Sandor over the edge.
 
Afterwards, they lay together, still joined and fully sated.
Sandor chuckled.
“I like your genuine bird songs. From the way you've been singing for me I'd
wager that a dozen sailors must have sore cocks from fucking into their hands
now.”
Sansa flushed scarlet and butted his broad, hairy chest.
“Sandor! You're awful!”
But the scarred warrior only laughed.
“I'm a dog. Don't ever forget that.”
 
After three days, Sansa became jittery. How would Sandor go about the proposal?
She feared he might bind her to the mast and tell her she'd only be released if
she agreed to marrying him.
“It wouldn't be beyond him,” she thought.
 
All morning, she stayed in their cabin, and her needlework looked more like the
way she remembered Arya's crooked stitches.
Around lunchtime, the cabin door opened, and Sandor entered. He was holding
something behind his back and positively looked as if he might jump out of his
skin at any moment.
 
“What do you have there?” Sansa asked and thought ants were crawling inside her
stomach.
Sandor held up his hand. It was a canine figure, carved from a leftover piece
of wood, perhaps a broken plank or something.
Sansa squealed in delight.
“Is that for me? Did you make that? Aww, it's so cute! What is it? A dog or a
direwolf?”
“That's for you to choose now,” Sandor said.
And then, he knelt.
 
Sansa's eyes became huge.
“Am... am I doing it right, Sansa?” Sandor asked and cleared his throat.
“Yes,” Sansa breathed and nodded.
Sandor nodded curtly, too, and more to himself.
“Heard it once from Ser Kevan. Did it like that with his own wife. Shit, I'm
digressing.”
Sansa laughed, and pressed a hand onto her mouth.
“Please, just go ahead,” she uttered in between stifled giggles.
 
Sandor started to fumble round the sleeves of his tunic, tried to look her in
the eyes, but his own eyes kept moving back and forth.
“Erm, yes. All right. So I'll just ask, yes? No bloody frills from me, you
know?”
Sansa laughed again.
“Sandor, just spit it out!”
The tall warrior, who was barely shorter than her even when he was kneeling,
nodded again, and the burned part of his mouth twitched.
“Yes. Yes, all right. So... do you want to marry me?”
 
Sansa uttered something between a laugh and a sob.
The next moment, she threw her arms around Sandor's neck, nodded against his
cheek and kissed him frantically all over his face, the good and the scarred
half alike.
“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes. Oh Sandor, I love you so.”
 
Within seconds, Sandor was blubbering.
“Oh my little bird! Fuck, I've never imagined... I love you, too.”
Sansa sobbed and giggled and pressed herself even closer.
“We're good at weeping together,” she managed to say. “Let's hope the rest will
work just as well.”
That caused Sandor to laugh with his dark saw-on-stone voice: “Aye, that's
right.”
 
When they had recovered a bit, he went on: “I'll ask the captain to wed us. You
know I'm not keeping any gods, so I don't mind having no tree and no sept. Only
we don't have proper wedding cloaks either. What do you think?”
Sansa murmured into Sandor's tunic: “You've already given me your cloak, don't
you remember? It was white, sure, but white is a northern colour. And it's all
right for me to marry you here, on this ship.”
 
Sandor jumped up.
“Fine! Great! I'm off to the captain, little bird!”
 
Out he stormed with huge strides. Sansa giggled.
“I've never seen him so eager, so happy. Oh, who would have ever thought he
might be so enthusiastic about a wedding?”
She looked down at the carved dog and stroked it lovingly.
 
They were married the same afternoon, and afterwards, the sailors sang and
danced on deck to celebrate the merry event. Since it wasn't an elegant feast
at some noble court, Sandor was even willing to hop along with them, and that
gladdened Sansa's heart.
“He's maybe not a good man as such, but I couldn't have found a better one.
He's wonderful,” Sansa thought and beamed joyfully.
 
Later, they retreated to their cabin, and they showed each other what they had
learned over the last days.
“I can't offer you much when we reach Tyrosh,” Sandor said later.
“You've already offered me more than all the other men with their titles and
realms. I'll be content. And I take it we won't be poor either. We can still
sell those jewels I've got from Joffrey. I wouldn't like to wear them anyway.”
“And I've still got some coin from the Tourney of the Hand left. It'll help us
to begin a new life in Tyrosh – and we'll stay there as long as necessary, or
as long as you want, little bird.”
 
Sansa smiled.
“That will be fine, dearest doggy-husband.”
Sandor grinned back at her.
“Shall the dog try to see if he can make the bird-wife chirp again?”
Sansa poked him in the side.
“Why are you asking? And what are you waiting for?”
Sansa was sure that she could have never had a better wedding night – and
Sandor seemed to be thinking the same, given how his formerly stormy eyes had
started to sparkle.
 
- The END -
Chapter End Notes
     Thank you for staying with me and this little story, and for all the
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