Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6856558.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Game_of_Thrones_(TV), A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin, A
      Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_&_Related_Fandoms
  Relationship:
      Sandor_Clegane/Sansa_Stark, Sandor_Clegane_&_Sansa_Stark
  Character:
      Sandor_Clegane, Sansa_Stark, Petyr_Baelish
  Additional Tags:
      First_Time, Dream_Sex, Sansa_makes_her_own_choice_for_a_change, Loss_of
      Virginity, the_hound, The_Hound_somehow_knows_what_to_do_with_a_woman,
      everyone_has_a_nice_time
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-05-15 Words: 11163
****** Sing ******
by babyrubysoho
Summary
     Sansa has a dream, and encounters someone she thought she would never
     see again.
     (After more than a decade of fic writing, this is my first ever
     hetero story. Such is the power of the Hound and Sansa's creepy
     relationship! Ahem.)
     WARNING: Set some unspecified time after AFFC, putting Sansa at about
     14. While this is technically underage, within the books' universe
     and the (vague) historical time period, this would be marriageable
     age. Still, if this point bothers you, you may want to give it a
     miss.
     *Note: I am currently transferring 12 years’ worth of my fic from
     various murky corners of the Net to AO3. So if this looks familiar,
     that’s probably why. Either that or I’m just appallingly unoriginal…*
Sansa Stark was tired of being Alayne. She was tired of the sidelong looks
people gave her when they found out she was a bastard; she was tired of the
loneliness, of having no-one to share her thoughts with when the desire to be
Sansa again, if only for a few minutes, was almost too much to bear; and she
was most tired of her “father,” Petyr Baelish's, advances.
But there was nothing she could do. There was no-one left in the Seven Kingdoms
who cared enough about her to miss her now – unless you counted the people who
wanted her imprisoned or dead for a traitor, which she didn't. And so Sansa
continued to let life sweep her off in a direction she did not particularly
care to go in, wanting to act but unable to do it alone.
There was one person, perhaps... one person who could have helped her, though
the thought made the hair stand up on the back of her neck.
Him.
 
===============================================================================
 
Sansa was with the Lord Protector during his receiving hours that morning.
Sweetrobin had had another fit, and was dead to the world in his chamber, and
Petyr liked to have her beside him. She suspected he didn't trust her; she
wished she were doing something interesting enough behind his back to merit his
distrust, but until she thought of what that something might be, she would have
to sit here in the East hall and suffer boredom for no reason.
The list of petitioners, complainers and informants seemed particularly long
this morning, but was broken by the arrival of Brygan Torlish, a sellsword for
Petyr who was better with his brain than his blade, and had been down to King's
Landing and the riverlands, to keep the Lord Protector informed of what people
were doing and what those people thought he was doing. There was no word of
Tyrion, Brygan reported, though the search for him and his Stark wife was still
continuing. Sansa tried to keep her face blank. The city was full of rumours of
what Stannis was doing North at the Wall, and there were more raids on villages
in the South. Sansa tried not to look too interested in all this, since she was
only a bastard, after all, and not sure how intelligent Alayne should appear to
be.
“What else, now?” mulled Brygan, apparently in no hurry. Sansa let her
eyelashes droop, and sighed inwardly; sometimes it was hard to keep up the mask
of courtesy, deeply ingrained though it was. “Oh yeah, here's a titbit for you.
Sandor Clegane has finally given up the ghost, so I hear.” Sansa's eyes slammed
open.
“Dead?” said Petyr sceptically, eyebrows raised. Sansa heard herself catch her
breath at the word, felt an odd jolt in the pit of her stomach; she didn’t know
if it was relief, or the fear that the name brought back, or…or something else.
Sheer disbelief, maybe.
“He can’t be!” she gasped, surprised at the vehemence of her own voice.
“Someone…someone must have lied.” She caught her “father” giving her a
quizzical look from the corner of his quick, intelligent eye, and pressed her
lips together to silence herself. She did not need any more of her secrets in
the Lord Protector’s lap.
“No lie, Lady,” said the sellsword laconically, spitting absently at her feet.
Petyr did nothing to chastise him, but Sansa hardly cared at this moment. “I
know a man who spoke t’ the man who buried him.”
Littlefinger shrugged. “Farewell, Hound. He needed putting down, as far as I
can tell. Well, onto more pressing matters…”
Sansa had no ear for any other matter. She didn’t know what she felt. She had
never believed the recent rumour of the atrocities in Saltpans that had been
laid at Sandor Clegane’s door: she thought she knew him better than that; but
she couldn’t deny that Westeros would likely be a safer place for a lot of
people without him in it. Arya would certainly say so, if she was even alive.
Was it relief, then? Or pity, maybe? Sansa had feared the Hound, so much at
first that she could hardly bear to look at his ruined face; but he had saved
her life. He was the angriest man she had ever known, always on the very edge
of losing his hold on himself, hating everyone around him; but he had been
gentle with her, at least physically. His words were another matter, his taunts
as harsh as his voice: she could almost hear him now, calling her “little
bird,” the good side of his face grimacing at her all the while.
And then…then there was the night he had almost killed her, when the sky
outside had run with brilliant green fire: when he’d come to her room in the
darkness, drunk and bloody, and put a knife to her throat. She could taste the
metallic fear in her mouth even now at the heat of him, the loom of his huge
body over hers, a twisting in her stomach that was in some odd way linked to
the discomfiting memory of her first flowering. And his kiss, oh, the most
terrifying thing of all. She felt herself flush nervously; she’d tried to blank
it from her memory a hundred times, but it wouldn’t go away: more than
Joffrey’s kisses, or little Robert’s, or Petyr’s, it tugged him constantly to
the forefront of her thoughts. He had kissed her, and she’d sung to him, and
when she’d caressed his cheek she thought he had wept. Maybe that was why she
couldn’t forget: it had been the last time she’d ever seen him, and the first
that he had shown her anything but rage; and now, if Brygan was to be believed,
the last time he ever would.
Pity, then, she decided, for a faithful dog. One person at least should be
sorry he’s gone. Sansa knew, as much as she knew anything, that if they had met
again the Hound would have been able to take her far away from Petyr Baelish,
from everything and everyone here. He’d offered to take her with him before,
hadn’t he? Sansa was sure she would have regretted going at the time; but now,
she regretted not going almost as much.
The Lord Protector talked on and on; Sansa curled up in one of the hall’s
window seats, and stared out at the drop below, trying to ignore the dull
weariness settling over her. It’s just one more person dead, she thought to
herself, and it’s not as though I could ever call him my friend.
It didn’t seem to help.


===============================================================================
 
That night Sansa dreamt, a dream so real that she did not know, at first, that
she was asleep. In her dream, there was fighting in the castle, just like
before; only this time it was here, not at the Landing, and she was not safe in
the keep but in the thick of it, arms tied behind her back as Petyr’s men
struggled to ensure she didn’t escape. One of them shoved her down behind a
barrel in the courtyard as men fought around her, the ivy and straw now
spattered with blood. She did not know where Petyr was; she vaguely hoped he
was dead. She had no idea who they were fighting, anyway; there were so many
warring factions now, so many claims to the Iron Throne, that she could not
keep track of who her enemies were supposed to be. Everyone, she thought
bitterly, eyes shut tight in a futile attempt to block out the sound of
screaming men.
“Keep your head down,” snapped the skinny sellsword beside her, “or the Lord’ll
have mine.”
Sansa screwed up her eyes and curled tighter into her corner behind the barrels
and a stationary cart.
“Gotta get out of here,” muttered the ferrety man. Sansa didn’t know his name,
couldn’t even remember how she’d got here in the first place. “We’ll make a run
for it when -” He stopped abruptly, and her eyes flew open as something warm
and wet splattered the side of her face. She turned to him. The top of his head
was missing, and it was his blood that had fanned across her cheek. It
continued to drip, drip, from the broadsword that pointed at her chest. Looking
up, Sansa saw a soldier, though he wasn’t wearing any armour she could
recognise. He was grinning.
“Got you, wench.” Sansa couldn’t breathe. “Now you come along quietly, or -”
Sansa didn’t wait to find out what “or” was; with a speed that might have
impressed even her little sister, she ducked beneath his sword and rolled under
the cart, scrabbling on her belly through the mud with the blindness of pure
panic. She sprang up when she reached the other side, trembling like a fox
before the hunt, and ran out into the courtyard, not seeing where she was going
or the melee until a man collapsed in front of her, his leg gone at the thigh.
“Help,” whispered Sansa as his blood spilled out over her feet, not knowing to
whom she was saying it but unable to stop or do anything else, even as she saw
another man in chain mail turn towards her. “Mother, Mother, help-”
A pair of hands like iron grabbed her bound arms, and she screamed.
“Shut up,” a voice snarled at her, lower and more fearsome than the growl of
her dead direwolf. Sansa felt as if every hair on her body suddenly stood on
end at the sound. It wasn’t possible! “Little bird,” he said, those huge hands
drawing her backward inexorably, away from the open courtyard. “What stupid
game have you got yourself caught up in this time?”
It’s a ghost, she thought hysterically, almost sobbing, or some dead thing. He
yanked her into an archway as the sounds of battle hammered at her ears,
tugging her further in until her back was pressed against him. He’s warm. Sansa
shuddered at the contact, her eyes tight closed, afraid to open them as if she
had been a little girl again listening to her septa’s stories, until a growl of
impatience jerked her head up; he’d been waiting for her to speak.
“Girl,” he said in the darkness, “will you come with me this time?”
Sansa tried to turn, and for a wonder he let her, his gloved fingers hard now
on her shoulders, keeping her at arm’s length. She couldn’t see him, not
really…but it felt like him, and it smelt like him, all blood and wine and ash.
She took a deep, unsteady breath, scarcely able to believe what her senses were
telling her. He shook her.
“Yes or no, damn you? I don’t have all bloody day.” Outside, the sun was going
down in a dim haze, but there was no lull in the screams.
“Yes,” she whispered. He grunted, and the next thing she knew he was reaching
behind her. She felt a blade against her wrists, cold and sharp, and then her
hands were free. She reached up, arm shaking, high into the shadows where she
knew his face must be. He froze for a moment as her fingers made contact with
skin, then smacked her hand away roughly.
“Come on.” He strode off into the dark passage beyond the alcove. Sansa could
do nothing else, so she followed.
As the sounds of fighting diminished, Sansa could hear the jingle of his mail,
the heavy tread of his boots, and her own terrified breathing. She walked into
him as he stopped, and scooted backwards hurriedly. She heard a determined
exhalation, then the crash of wood as a door gave way before his massive
shoulder. He’s breathing, she thought incoherently. He grabbed her arm and she
squeaked, but he ignored it, tugging her up a flight of narrow steps. His grip
was painful, but he waited for her when she stumbled.
Into a different corridor now, more like a tunnel than the last and getting
narrower and lower with each yard until he had to crouch and at one point even
crawl in front of her. Sansa bent her head and shoulders, which was more than
enough, and followed him. Eventually, when she had lost count of how many
minutes she had been walking, listening for his breathing, he stopped.
“What is it?” she whispered. He didn’t bother to answer her, but she heard the
sounds of his movement. Another splintering of wood, and red evening light
gleamed in the tunnel. For an instant she saw his silhouette and his huge
booted foot kicking at a shattered panel; then he dropped from view.
Sansa darted forward, coming to a precarious halt when she saw that the tunnel
ended in mid-air: a drop twice her height onto rough grass and rocks. She
perched in the entrance and looked down, and her heart caught in her chest as
she saw him.
He straightened up, his back to her, in a circle of six soldiers, Petyr’s men,
obviously guarding the little door. Another second and his sword slid out,
heavy and massive as he was. The men took a step backwards, out of its reach.
“Look,” said one of them. “We don’t know who you are, and we don't care. Get
out of here, and leave her to us.” They're not afraid, thought Sansa, crouched
in the raised doorway above them, listening to the guardsman speak. They don't
recognise him? More fool them.
Her ghost laughed, a rough, ugly laugh like the bark of a dog, and Sansa felt a
shiver pass over her at how familiar it was. “We’ll get out of here all right,”
he said.
“She stays,” said the leader again. “She belongs to our lord.”
“Piss on your lord.” Suddenly he was moving, his sword in and out of one of the
men in front of him, almost too fast for Sansa to follow. The others gaped,
then closed in. Everything seemed to happen at once: the lunging men, their
flashing weapons, their roars; and the Hound turning, his long sword moving in
an unstoppable arc to tear through one man’s chain mail at chest height and
take another in the belly. Before the first man’s blood hit the dirt, the Hound
had punched out with his left hand and smashed yet another in the face, sending
him senseless to the ground. The other two circled him warily, and he turned
with them, unconcerned as if he was swatting flies. He was grinning, that
rarest of expressions, one Sansa had seen only once before, when he had pulled
her from the mob in the streets of King’s Landing.
“Ohh.” Sansa clutched at the stones of the doorway, her head swimming with a
hundred different feelings at the sight of that face, a face she had once been
too scared even to glance at. The three men took no notice of her. The leader
narrowed his lips and went for Sandor Clegane; he looked stronger than the
others, thought Sansa wildly, and indeed the man parried the first thrust the
Hound aimed at him, and the next. She knew it would be no match, however; knew
it right up to the moment the last soldier, a little man, almost wetting
himself with fear but determined, jumped onto Clegane’s back. He couldn’t bring
his sword to bear, and for the time being was little more than a distraction
for the huge man; but a dangerous distraction, as he threw one arm over the
Hound’s eyes in an effort to scramble higher. The leader took note, swung back
his sword –
Sansa didn’t even notice her hand move; she didn’t know if was the old gods or
just pure reflex that aided her, but in an instant she had grabbed up a heavy
lump of wood from the ruined door and shied it as hard as she could at the
man’s head. It caught him in the ear, and he howled with pain. A moment he was
shaken, but that was all that was needed. The Hound was already tearing the
little man off with a roar of annoyance; he flung him to the ground, and Sansa
was both disgusted and delighted to see that his neck was broken. Then before
the leader could gather his wits, the giant sword was swinging at him, almost
ponderously; it hit with a terrible finality, slicing him almost in half at the
waist. Sansa closed her eyes with relief.
“Fucking rats and their tunnels,” growled the Hound as the last man dropped,
catching his breath. He shook his damp hair away from his forehead and walked
towards her, wiping off his sword and kicking bodies out of his way. “Jump,” he
suggested, looking up at her. Sansa swallowed; seeing him fight was so
frightening, and she was nervous of getting closer, still not sure what he was;
besides, it was high. “Jump,” he commanded again, impatiently. “If you can’t
fly, little bird, I’ll catch you.” She nodded uncertainly, and edged her legs
out over the drop. One horrifying moment of weightlessness, and then she was in
his arms and being lowered to the ground. Her legs were shaking beneath her,
and for a mercy he didn’t let go, just waited, his large hands encircling her
ribcage.
“Are we…are we safe?” she asked tremulously, then winced at how idiotic that
sounded, sure she was in for one of his taunts.
“Not yet,” he said, and that was all, his voice low but with no apparent
rancour. Sansa took courage from that, and from the gentleness of his hands,
and looked up. The Hound was frowning down at her, habitual twitch pulling at
the side of his mouth; it was so familiar that he was almost a pleasure to look
on, in this world of strange things that was all Sansa ever saw these days. She
wanted to smile, but she couldn’t, so she just stared at him solemnly, more
boldly than she ever had dreamed of doing before, taking in the hideous burnt
side of his face and the whole, and his dark grey eyes that seemed as angry
with life as ever.
“What’s this, now?” Sandor Clegane said after a minute, his eyebrows folding
down suspiciously. “Have you grown up, girl, that you can finally look at me?”
He let her go abruptly, and she found she could stand. “I doubt I’ve got any
better looking, so stop your bloody staring.”
“You’re dead,” Sansa explained, as she continued to take him in.
“Am I!” The Hound snorted, turned on his heel, and strode off. Sansa blinked,
and trotted after him, her heart still racing with the uneasy thrill of seeing
him, really seeing him, whatever he was.
She caught him down the hill, where he was untethering a tall horse tucked away
in a patch of trees. The leader’s, she guessed. It certainly wasn’t his own
vicious black. She wondered what had happened to it.
“Up!” he said shortly, and she stepped lightly into his cupped hands and swung
herself over the bay horse’s back, her long skirts riding up her legs. He
mounted up behind her; she wriggled forward to give him more room, clinging to
the horse’s mane. He reached around her to take the reins in his right hand.
“Keep still, shut up, and get that pretty hair of yours out of my face,” he
told her, pushing her long locks forward over her shoulder. Sansa looked down,
and saw a river of auburn spilling down her chest, instead of the dyed chestnut
brown she had grown accustomed to as Petyr’s bastard daughter.
“Ah!” she exclaimed, relieved and disappointed all at once, because she knew
what it must mean. “This is a dream!”
The Hound gave another cynical snort; she could practically feel him roll his
eyes behind her. “Oh, I’m sure you love to dream about me.” He nudged the horse
into a trot, changing direction so suddenly that Sansa lost her balance, and
slipped a large arm around her waist to steady her. Sansa felt herself blush,
both at his sarcastic words and the action. “Dream all you want, girl,” he
continued. “I’ll not sleep til I’ve got food and a bed and less chance of
getting killed for the trouble of snatching you.”


===============================================================================
 
The Hound kept them riding, as twilight faded into the purple of early night.
Sansa was aching and filthy and tired, but she didn’t dare complain; she kept
silent, her head lolling sleepily, until she found herself sliding sideways and
awoke with a jolt.
“Keep still, I said,” Clegane told her. They were the first words he had spoken
for hours. Sansa nodded, then found herself falling asleep all over again five
minutes later. The Hound caught her, swore in irritation under his breath, and
tugged her back to lean against him. She stiffened, but had little choice but
to let him be; her head reached only as far as his chest, and beneath the mail
and leather and cloth she could sense the slow thump of his heart.
“What will you do with me?” she asked eventually. Even if this was a dream, she
had no desire to be taken back to Cersei, and who knew where Tyrion was? She
did not know exactly what Sandor Clegane had been doing since he had left her
bed on the night of the battle, and she had no idea where his loyalties lay. To
her surprise, the Hound chose not to ignore her this time.
“What should I do, I wonder?” he asked in that rough voice; she could feel the
rumble in his chest as he spoke. “Who’ll pay the most for you? Who wants you?”
He said he could stop anyone from hurting me, she thought, dismayed. Should I
have ever believed that he would just let me go?
“There is no-one left who wants me,” she admitted after a moment, with as much
dignity as she could manage, trying to keep her voice steady. “My family…my
family are all dead.”
“I hear your bastard brother’s been made Lord of the Black,” he said.
“Jon…” She had forgotten. Sansa felt a little flicker of hope catch inside her.
If only she could see Jon again…
“Aye, him.” The Hound clicked his tongue at the horse, which managed another
spurt of speed. Sansa clutched at his armoured forearm to steady herself as the
pace changed. “Should I fight through a thousand leagues of the North and take
you to him, then?” he asked her, his voice gravelly in her ear. She wondered if
he was teasing her, or if he was actually offering. “Or would someone else give
me a better price?” Oh. “Or…”
“…Or what?” she asked, heart in her mouth for a moment, not sure what that
meant. But he had evidently decided the conversation was over.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
 
When Sansa next awoke, the moon was up. She was still on horseback, and it was
chilly, though she was warm all down her back where the Hound rode behind her,
his arm still wrapped implacably round her waist. She blinked and looked
around. They were going at a walking pace now, the horse looking as weary as
Sansa felt; on either side of them were the ruins of a village: burned, just
like dozens of others. There was no smoke rising from the remains of the wooden
peasants’ buildings, but the stench of fire was still an assault on her senses.
“Where are we?” she asked foolishly.
“Hardly matters what its name was,” said the Hound tightly; it sounded like he
was gritting his teeth. “It’s not worth spit now.”
Sansa took in the tone of his voice, felt the tenseness of his body against her
back. She craned round to peep at him; he was scowling as usual, not looking at
her, but she’d seen those eyes before. The smell.
“I’m…I’m sure it’s all burnt out by now,” she offered timidly. He grimaced, and
pushed her head back round.
“Don’t need any of that pity,” he muttered, and under his breath, “I should
have killed you after I told you that bloody story.”
“But-”
“Burning is coward’s work, that’s all,” he snapped, sounding so ferocious that
Sansa closed her mouth again. But his arm around her remained rigid with
tension as they rode through the village, looking for a whole house. She
supposed they had to stay somewhere.
At the end of the widest street Sandor Clegane reined up beside a stone
building, scorched but lightly on the outside.
“Landowner’s,” he said shortly, and swung down from the saddle, grasping her
waist to lift her to the ground. Sansa almost fell where she stood, she ached
so much. The Hound began to lead the horse towards a lean-to stable at the side
of the house.
“I’ll go inside and…” Sansa started to say.
“No. You never know who might have got here first,” he interrupted; his words
quickly brought her to heel, and she stood beside him as he tethered and
unsaddled their mount. He entered the house first, sword half drawn; Sansa
blinked in the darkness. There were three rooms, she thought. Hardly landed
gentry, but the front door still almost closed, and there was little fire
damage inside.
Clegane threw the horse’s saddlebags on the table, and eased himself down in
front of the hearth.
“You need to get warm, girl?” he asked gruffly. Sansa wondered if it masked his
fear.
“I can start a fire,” she reassured him; she’d learnt how from Bran, to humour
him, years ago when he was full of passion and dreams of being a wandering
knight. It hurt to think about Bran, though. She swallowed.
“Shut up,” rasped the Hound. “I don’t need some weepy girl who’s scared of her
damn shadow feeling sorry for me.” He went to work, using twigs and wood left
beside the fireplace, and soon enough it caught. Sansa saw him flinch back as
the flame licked into life, but he just gave her a dangerous look and went on
feeding the fire. She couldn’t stop watching him, as the light in the room grew
stronger; perhaps it was the strangeness of seeing a dead man move about, or
perhaps the knowledge that, when she woke up, she would never have the chance
again. Apparently her gaze annoyed him; he glowered at her, handing her a twig
torch.
“Go and look at the other room. There’s a bed in there, if your fine skin can
stand the scratching.” She opened her mouth, then closed it again and obeyed;
the room was small and so was the bed, but no amount of rough sheets would
prevent her sleeping on it, she thought. She slipped off her shoes and long
petticoats, but left her chemise and dress on against the chill; besides, who
knew what they might have to run from in the night?
The bedclothes smelled like soot, and the mattress was lumpy in the oddest
places, but Sansa was sure she would be asleep in seconds. She waited; she was
so tired! Minutes then, in minutes. She turned over, huddling deeper under the
blankets; the cold seemed to be seeping through the walls, but she knew that
when her body had warmed the bed, she would sleep.
She did not. She told herself not to be a silly little girl; there was nothing
to be afraid of here. Surely the Hound was more than capable of protecting them
both against anyone who might disturb him; she ought to be able to sleep with
him outside. She turned over again, shivering. Or maybe…maybe it was because he
was out there: a dead man, in the next room. Sansa tossed and turned,
remembering the sick feeling in her stomach when Brygan had told Petyr that
Sandor Clegane was no more. The cold drilled through the bedclothes to her
skin. She remembered his cruel words, his rough hands, the kiss he’d stolen,
everything about him that seemed to scorn the golden romantic notions she’d
entertained of the beautiful Sir Loras, and even Joffrey, a long time ago.
Sansa sighed, and shuddered with cold. This was useless, this lying here. If
she wanted to remind herself of how frightened he made her, she had only to go
and look at him.
The Hound raised his head, sensing her presence as she padded into the room
without having to see her. He had seated himself in the one whole chair, a wary
distance from the fire, and was removing pieces of armour, sticky with blood.
He must have been through the saddlebags; she saw stale bread and withered
apples on the table, and a skin of wine at his elbow.
“Cat’s piss,” he said, nodding at it, “but if you can stomach it you’re
welcome.” He slowly unbuckled the vambrace on his left arm. “What do you want,
girl?”
“…It’s cold,” she said, watching his jaw tighten as he undid the straps. Winter
is coming, she thought, and swallowed hard.
“Well since you seem to have lost the last cloak I gave you, there’s not much I
can do about that,” he said shortly. Sansa closed her eyes briefly against the
memories that brought back. Twice he gave me his white cloak, she thought. Once
to cover me when Joffrey had me stripped, and once when he left me. She
wondered what that had meant, but hadn’t known what to make of it at the time,
either, had just been grateful for its warmth. “…Come to the fire, then,” he
ordered her eventually. As she moved closer he peeled away the cloth strips
beneath his vambrace, and she gasped: his left arm had been terribly burned,
and recently, scar tissue just beginning to creep over the red, angry surface.
Is that real? She wondered, or am I just inventing things in my sleep?
“What happened?” she exclaimed. The Hound took a long swallow of wine, and
reached out to the hearth to dip a clean rag in a kettle of boiling water.
“Doesn’t matter if I’m dead, does it?” He drew a deep breath. “Keep quiet or
I’ll send you back to your bed.”
Sansa almost winced with him as he began to clean his arm, his distance from
the fire making it difficult to reach the hot water. No wonder he was so afraid
tonight, she thought, and although he had twice warned her not to, she pitied
him.
“Let me do it,” she said as he hissed in a breath, the movement of his right
hand too rough for the raw new skin.
“Why should the highborn little lady want to do that?” he demanded irritably;
his good arm shot out as she shrugged, and his steely fingers grabbed her chin.
When Sansa looked into his eyes they were full of suspicion and anger as
always, and pain. She raised her own small hand to his wrist and he glared down
at it.
“You saved me again today,” she said, her breath coming swiftly and making her
chest rise and fall rapidly beneath her loose dress. “I…want to help you.”
He stared at her until she flushed and dropped her eyes. “You always were late
with your thankyous,” he said, and Sansa could no longer read his voice, which
worried her. All the same, he let go of her chin and handed her the rag.
Between the Hound and the fire she had a much easier time of it, cleaning his
wounded arm as gently as she could, feeling guilty at every grimace, every
flinch. Any other man would have been yelling, she supposed; he just grabbed
her right hand with his left, squeezing it until she thought her bones would
snap whenever she set the rag to his burned flesh.
“It’s done,” she said at last, when she had wrapped the last clean strip of
cloth around his arm. She got to her feet unsteadily; he still had her hand
closed inside his massive fist, as if he had forgotten it was there, and she
couldn’t pull away. The Hound looked up at the sound of her voice, his face
inches from hers. A dim room and the firelight, thought Sansa wildly, her chest
tightening, how very like the last time.
“Get out,” he murmured gutturally, releasing her fingers from their prison.
“Back to sleep, girl.” She couldn’t move, her sense of smell, the keenest tool
of memory, drawing her back to that night along a trail of blood and wine and
fire.
The Hound didn’t stir another muscle, and Sansa couldn’t; not even her mind
seemed to be working. Somewhere in the back of her head she wondered how long
they would be at this impasse before Clegane shoved her away or hit her; he
looked furious, and then again almost as disturbed as he had been by the fire,
as her red hair tumbled over his broad shoulder. The sight of his fear gave her
back some measure of movement, and her bruised right hand rose to cup his
bristly cheek. Sansa wanted to laugh; it’s just the same as before. She
wondered if she should sing.
“One second. Go,” rumbled the Hound as her skin touched his. “Else I’ll-”
One chance, thought Sansa incoherently, before I wake up and this man is gone
forever. Before he could finish his threat she had leaned down the little
distance, the curtain of her hair shrouding him in darkness, and pressed her
lips tentatively against his. It wasn’t the same, though: his head shot back
until it hit the chair and he raised his huge hand, to strike her or knock her
aside, his dark eyes as wide as if it were her direwolf above him instead of
her. Sansa flinched, but met his stare full on, knowing that looking afraid now
would not make anything better. Before she could blink, his clenched fingers
had spread to grip the back of her neck; they tangled painfully in her hair and
yanked her down towards him. Then his mouth was on hers and a series of tremors
washed over her; this is it, she thought, horrified and tingling, this is what
I’ve been remembering, tasting all this time. It was not gentle, or sweet or
romantic, nothing like the dreams of a little girl; she could not even tell
whether it felt good or bad. She just felt, with every bone in her body, with
every ounce of flesh, as he parted her lips forcefully to kiss her harder. That
made her gasp, and then he was tugging at her and she was tumbling into his
lap, her knees hard on the splintered edges of the chair and her breasts
beneath their layers of wool crushed against his chest. He tore his mouth away
then, when there was not another breath left in her body; she thought she was
drowning in air as his lips moved to her neck, burning against her white skin.
“Little bird,” he growled, his voice like stone scraping on stone and so low
she could scarcely hear it, just feel the movement against her throat. “What
have you done?”
“It’s a dream,” Sansa managed, his fingers digging into the small of her back,
hurting her and driving her on, “it’s my dream, it doesn’t matter!”
“Stupid little girl!” His voice was shaking, she thought, before his teeth
closed in her skin; she wound one arm around his neck, clinging desperately as
he lurched out of the chair and to his feet; she did not know if he was drunk
on the wine or drunk on her. Her own head was spinning as she slid helplessly
down until her toes touched the floor; she had never imagined kissing like
this, or what went beyond it – having Tyrion in her bed had been no education
at all – but she could imagine it now, with him, and trembled.
The Hound caught her, for the hundredth time, it seemed, though his arms were
not gentle as they had been before. His dark eyes were glowing as he glared
down at her, from the firelight, she thought, until she realised he was
incandescent with anger.
“You want me to fuck you, girl?” he demanded, shaking her, his harsh voice full
of disbelief and desire; she could hear it, see it in those furious eyes, how
much he had wanted her, and she felt her nipples harden beneath her gown. “You
want to put horns on the Imp, is that it? With me?!”
Tyrion Lannister is no more my husband than Petyr Baelish is my father, she
wanted to tell him, but he was shaking her again and it was hard to speak. She
reached up instead, past his burned arm and the wide planes of his chest,
stretching up on tiptoe to try and draw him down towards her. But it was like
scaling a cliff, trying to reach him. He was still now, breathing hard, his
face twisted in the flickering light that caressed his burns and the side of
his twitching mouth.
“Yes,” she insisted instead, though she was shivering as she looked up at him,
hardly able to credit what she was saying. “Please, I want it!”
The Hound stared at her another brief moment, and gave a bark of disbelieving
laughter; then he was kissing her again, towering over her, his hands running
the length of her body over the thick wool of her dress, devouring her hungrily
as though her lips could spill all the wine and blood he had ever dreamed of.
Sansa was giddy, losing her air, her neck aching where she had to crane up to
meet his mouth. He swore under his breath and pulled her closer, and now she
felt the hardness beneath his jerkin against her hip; she let out a little
noise between amazement and fear: truly, this would be nothing like it would
have with Tyrion.
Her hands slid around his waist and then he was lifting her, easy as if she’d
been made of spun sugar.
“You’ll let me into your bed again?” he rumbled, moving towards the other room
without waiting for an answer. I didn’t ‘let’ you the last time, she thought,
but she was nodding anyway, nodding despite the little voice screaming at her
from the core of her common sense. She ignored it, and he tipped her onto the
lumpy mattress, the blankets cold beneath her but his body moving swiftly over
hers, hands hot through her clothing everywhere he touched her. He was at her
throat again now, open-mouthed and hungry, his large fingers working the
buttons of her dirty dress. He gave a growl of frustration and she moved to
help him, seeing for the first time how badly her hands were shaking; somehow
the dress came undone and he was tugging it off her, so that only her thin
chemise lay between his warmth and her body. His lips moved lower, down her
breastbone over the fine fabric, his beard prickling her.
“Take more,” she whispered as he paused, his big hands on the curve of her
hips. She felt strange, felt her body was on the verge of a discovery, an
entirely new sensation that Margaery’s girls had only whispered and giggled
about, and that the Hound, of all men, was drawing it out of her. He looked up
at her then; he seemed as angry as when she had begun this.
“You have changed,” he muttered, and she could sense disapproval in that rough
voice, but lust too, his words thick with it. “If you’re so eager, I’ll find
out what you learned in the Imp’s bed.”
Nothing, she wanted to assure him, but his fingers were on her chemise, his
breath warm against her collar-bone, and she couldn’t speak. The laces were
knotted; he grunted, and as easily as tearing paper he ripped the thin muslin
in two, her breasts spilling into his hands; they were no longer as small as
when she had belonged to Joffrey, but they were engulfed completely in his
fingers as he moved back up to kiss her, the rough fabric of his jerkin
scratching her skin. She wrapped her arm around his neck, letting his tongue
dart between her lips; his left thumb brushed a nipple and Sansa gasped, then
moaned into his mouth as he squeezed, not gently: her breasts were still
growing, and they were tender to even the lightest touch.
The Hound broke away from her again, following his fingers, his mouth leaving
fiery marks across her sternum. He found her nipple, rolling his tongue over it
and taking it between his teeth, his huge hands biting into her flesh; she
arched up against his lips, hearing herself let out a little whine of mixed
discomfort and desire, her fingers buried in the dark hair on the good side of
his head. He tugged lightly at her breast.
“Sweet,” he muttered into her skin, and she shuddered. Sansa found herself
panting, and wondered dimly why she felt no shame, none of the modesty that her
nurses had cultivated so carefully for years and years. She searched for it,
but there was nothing, just a vague fear and the strange, slow-banked furnace
spreading its heat down from the pit of her stomach as Sandor Clegane continued
his delicious assault on her body.
She wriggled, trying to struggle out of what was left of her underrobe as his
hands moved downwards. The Hound gave a sort of muffled sigh and helped her,
ripping the fabric down to the hem and pushing it aside. She felt his eyes
fixed on her, all the way along her body.
“You’ve grown,” he muttered, fingers hot on her thigh, and she couldn’t decide
if he sounded admiring or angry. She nodded shakily; there was hair between her
legs now, as red and fine as that on her head, a dart of flame against her milk
white skin. She hadn’t welcomed the way her body was changing, not when it drew
the eyes of men she would rather avoid; but now she was glad, and scared, and
excited, as the Hound nudged her thighs apart with a broad knee. She closed her
eyes, red lashes fluttering against her cheeks.
“Look at me,” he commanded gruffly, and the next thing she knew his fingers
were touching her lightly, his other hand hard on her lower back. Sansa did,
her eyes snapping open at the strange sensation and her hand clutching at his
arm; he was watching her, breathing carefully, waiting to see what she did. It
didn’t feel bad, not exactly; but she couldn’t work out what expression to put
on her face. Then his fingers began to move, an experimental up-and-down
caress, and she whimpered.
“You’re wet,” he exclaimed, almost accusingly, as if he hadn’t really believed
her when she said she wanted this.
“I-” she began, and then he was pushing his hand forward. She cried out at a
sudden stab of pain: his fingers had hit something just inside her, and with a
start she realised what it was. The Hound seemed even more shocked than she
was; he recoiled from her as though he had been burned.
“You,” he said, his face thunderous. He thinks I’m a wedded woman, she
realised, understanding his surprise. “Damn you, you’re still a maid?”
She blushed. “Tyrion never made me…well.”
“…More fool him,” muttered Clegane weakly, his mouth twitching as he shifted
reluctantly away from her.
“I still want to,” she told him in a small voice; this didn’t change the odd
desire she felt, not a bit. He gave a humourless bark of laughter.
“Don’t tempt me, girl.” His fingers lingered on the curve of her breast for a
moment before he pulled them back firmly. “I stopped myself once before, the
last time I was in your bed. I’m not so drunk that I can’t do it again.”
“I don’t want you to stop,” she whispered stubbornly, her hand tangled in the
front of his jerkin, its dogs-head emblem staining her fingers with dried
blood.
“Save it for someone else,” he told her bluntly.
“There isn’t anyone else.” Sansa raised her hand nervously to his face, the
burnt side; he flinched but let her touch him, her fingertips brushing the
scarred skin. His eyes closed for a moment, but he was not done.
“What would your parents say?” he demanded in a raw voice, “if they knew you
gave it away to a dog? What would your sister say?”
“They’re dead,” she said, her jaw tight. “They can't say anything.”
“Hmph.” The Hound looked unmoved. “What about your little friends, then, with
their pretty daydreams and their handsome bloody knights? What would they
think, to see you with me? Look at me.”
Sansa did as she was told, as she’d been staring at him all night. He’s over
twice my age, she thought, and almost twice my size; and he is awful to look
at. The Hound’s mouth twisted, as though he knew what was going through her
head.
“I don’t care what they’d say,” she whispered. He snorted incredulously, but
she went on, spreading her fingers to cup his cheek, her touch feather-light
because she did not know how much the scars might still hurt him. “I don’t.”
She forced him to look at her, his grey eyes piercing hers. “You were right,
knights don’t mean anything! Yousaved my life. You…You are the only man who has
ever helped me and not wanted something from me!”
“I wanted something,” muttered the Hound darkly, his gaze straying unwillingly
down her body.
“Then take it,” she challenged him, aching to be touched again, no matter how
it hurt, no matter how angry he was with her. “There’s no-one else in Westeros
I’d give it to.” And I'll never have a chance to choose again, she thought. Not
once I wake up. He met her eyes again sharply, but it was no lie, not now:
Joffrey a monster and dead, Ser Loras a child's foolish fantasy, Petyr
repugnant to her. She drew the Hound’s head down, her lips and her legs parting
softly.
“You are mad, girl,” he rasped quietly, and his hands and then his mouth were
on her again. Sansa could feel the banked anger in the tense muscles of his
arms; but he was gentle now, wary, as her tongue moved tentatively against his,
as if she were some timid animal that needed a delicate touch and patience to
be caught. His huge arms went around her, hands covering a smooth section of
her back to pull her slowly closer; her bare nipples pressed against his chest,
and she sighed into his mouth, one leg riding up to curve around his hip. His
belt and buckles dug into the soft flesh of her thigh, but she didn’t care,
feeling both protected and apprehensive in the circle of his iron hands.
“Last chance,” the Hound warned her, in a dark rumble against her lips. “Pipe
up that pretty voice now, or don't come crying to me afterwards.” Sansa didn't
answer him, but took a determined breath and reached for his wrist; her fingers
were too small to close around it, but he did not resist her as she drew his
hand back down her body. It took no more encouragement than a kiss for one
large finger to slide between her legs; she took an anticipatory breath, but he
didn't push hard like he had the last time, just stroked her teasingly. Sansa
let out a little noise, a pink flush breaking out over her cheeks and across
her breasts.
“That's right, little bird,” the Hound whispered thickly against her neck.
“Sing for me again.” He began to move his hand in a slow rhythm, two fingers
sliding between her nether lips, and Sansa found herself gripping the sheets,
arching up into his touch, a string of soft moans spilling from her open mouth.
Here was something new again! she thought giddily, as his free hand pushed her
damp hair off her forehead, tangling roughly with the red locks and tugging her
head back to get a better look at her.
“Your hair's like fire, girl,” murmured the Hound resentfully, never stopping
the movement of his fingers. “So why is it so...” He frowned and trailed off.
Sansa had no idea what he was talking about, could barely think straight; her
whole body felt flushed, her hips rising of their own accord to meet his hand.
She no longer cared about his face, about anything but that feeling, she was
getting closer to it again now, that unnamed and frightening sensation that the
women at court whispered about behind their hands. He had given up talking and
was working his large fingers faster across a spot that felt like magic,
leaning down to nuzzle her breasts, his tongue leaving damp swirls on her skin
that stung as the chill air hit them.
“Please,” begged Sansa, not sure what she was asking for and not sure that
Clegane would know either; she was overwhelmingly close to something, but had
no idea how to reach it. To her muddled senses it seemed as though he was
taunting her again, as he always used to, only this time without words.
“Please...”
“No,” he told her bluntly, and she whimpered in frustration. “I'm not done with
you yet.” He removed his fingers all at once, making her clench her teeth at
the loss. His hands slid slowly up her sides, and he yanked her tight against
him. Sansa swallowed as she felt the hard length of his cock through his
breeches. She knew what he wanted, of course, she was not an ignorant little
girl any more, so she reached down to work at the stiff buckles of his belt.
The Hound was watching her darkly, his own breath coming quicker. She bit her
lip, unable to work the fastening, and he covered her hands with his own,
tearing the buckle free impatiently. She had less problem with the laces, and
then she was touching him, the first time she had ever touched a man so
intimately. She heard a sharp hiss of breath before he kissed her again, no
longer gentle but ravenous and demanding. Sansa moaned, struggling with his
jerkin now, but he was too big and she could not manage it.
“Stop,” he muttered into her mouth, and shrugged it off himself. He seemed even
larger without it, looming over her; Sansa set her hands on him curiously,
timidly: there were scars under her fingertips as she ran them down his torso,
his skin as hot as hers where she pressed closer to him, the tips of her
breasts tingling.
She could feel his length against the plump inside of her thigh, and a pang of
fear caught the breath in her throat. The only man she had ever really seen was
Tyrion, on their sad excuse for a wedding night, and even he had seemed
terrifying to her then, short as he was. Sandor Clegane, on the other hand, was
one of the biggest men she had ever met, and she wondered if this would even be
possible. She set her jaw determinedly.
“I'm going to hurt you,” the Hound rasped at her, apparently not fooled by her
show of readiness. One hand delved between her legs again, nudging her open.
“There's no helping it. Yell if you like, little bird, but don't be surprised.”
“I don't care,” she insisted hotly, though the tremors in her voice gave her
the lie. “I want you.”
“Then be ready,” was all he said, huge hand cupping her face almost tenderly
for a brief second, before he snatched it away with a scowl. Then he moved and
Sansa could not help crying out at the bright, shocking pain as he began to
push inside her. The Hound grimaced at the expression on her face, but didn't
stop until her breath was coming in short, uncontrolled gasps; she clung to
him, nails digging hard into his broad, scarred shoulders. He grunted.
“The little bird has a Stark wolf's claws after all!” he muttered through
gritted teeth, moving one hand firmly, soothingly over her back. Sansa had no
retort to that, didn't think she could respond if she tried. He'll never be
able to get any further! she thought wildly, praying for a futile second that
he wouldn't try. But almost before she could form the thought he took a raw
breath and thrust forward; something gave, and Sansa nearly bit her tongue in
two, the pain spreading like wildfire up from her loins.
“Hush,” growled the Hound hoarsely, freezing above her as she whimpered. “I
told you.” Sansa made an overwhelming effort to stifle her sobs; she knew how
it had always annoyed him when she cried. She took a series of deep, shuddering
breaths, and he rested his forehead against hers, waiting. As usual, she could
sense his patience was on a fine wire, ready to snap at any moment, and she
dreaded that. She fought herself into calm beneath the pain, and was rewarded
with a fleeting glance of approval, the first she could remember having from
him.
“...I think...I'm bleeding,” she said faintly. Nonsensical, but the best she
could come up with while he was so deep inside her. The Hound nodded as if this
happened to him every day, though his expression was one of possessiveness and
vague perturbation that sat ill at ease on his burnt features.
“Here, too.” He brushed blood off her lip with his thumb and leaned down to
kiss her, his free hand supporting her raised thigh easily. Sansa had never in
all her short life been this close to another person: his smell, his heat, the
sheer solidity of him cut through the welter of pain, dizzying her and sweeping
away any last lingering unease at just who she was giving herself up to.
“Going to fuck you now for true, little woman,” Clegane whispered against her
lips. He shifted between her legs, and a low whine escaped her. “So no more
bloody tears, you hear me? I hate that.”
I've graduated from 'girl' to 'woman', at least, thought Sansa, screwing up her
eyes in anticipation of more pain. It came sooner than expected, but less
sharply, and she was almost able to keep from crying out. His movements rocked
her, slowly at first and then harder, back and forth on the bed, her breasts
quivering with each thrust until he took one teat in his mouth and the other in
his vice-like fingers, squeezing until she was sure she would bruise like a
ripe peach.
“Aaahh...” Sansa bit her lip, but he didn't seem to mind that sound, and the
sweet stab of sensation as he drew on her nipple briefly masked the dulling
ache that was spreading through her lower half. She could not catch her breath,
in the confusion of contrasting feelings he was inflicting on her body, and
from a sense almost of claustrophobia as he braced himself on his elbow above
her so as not to crush her.
“Scared?” he asked briefly, his own breathing tight and rapid and controlled.
“Bite down if it hurts; I'll not even notice such tiny teeth.” She couldn't
speak, it was enough effort even working out what he had said; she leaned up
for a kiss to distract herself. The Hound paused, taking in her frown of
concentration, and sighed shortly. “Here. Change.” He pulled out of her in one
quick movement, and Sansa groaned with a mixture of relief and loss as he
lifted his body from hers and the cold air hit her. He sat up and grabbed her
by the arm, tugging her up with him.
“What should I-” she began, and the Hound made a face at her, his broad,
scarred chest heaving.
“You really are a virgin!” he rumbled, pulling her over to straddle his lap.
“Get on and stop talking.” A pressure on her shoulder from one large hand, and
Sansa found herself lowering her hips onto him. He slid in easier this time,
her passage slick with blood and her own fluids, and she wrapped her arms
around his neck as he transferred his hands to her hips, beginning to move her,
guiding her up and down, his callused fingertips biting into her flesh.
Sansa felt herself blush a deep scarlet; it was hard to meet his eyes; she had
not known that men and women even did it like this, and it felt embarrassingly
intimate, her forehead pressed against his. It did hurt less, though, now that
she could move herself. She let herself go slowly, feeling the shape of him
inside her, hoping he wouldn't be annoyed with her slowness, her lack of skill.
He didn't seem to be; his hand slid up her back, gathering her cascade of red
hair as it went, a caressing movement that set her spine tingling. When she
dared to look at him, his face, for once, was empty of expression, the habitual
anger receded to some well deep within him. Sansa liked that face, didn't even
care about the burns. She leaned down to meet his mouth, not stilling the
movement of her hips, and with the kiss she felt once more the stirring of that
strange sensation; a faint dart, no more, but she grasped for it and caught it,
letting out a pleasurable moan against his lips.
“Clever little thing,” whispered the Hound hoarsely, biting lightly at her
earlobe, one hand cradling the back of her head, auburn hair spilling through
his fingers. “You dance pretty for such a beginner...”
“Oh...” Sansa could not help the sound escaping as he dropped the heavy mass of
her hair, sliding his hands back to her hips, fingers digging into her buttocks
and pushing her harder onto him. The pleasure she was beginning to feel reached
a higher note, harmonising with the pain; she could hear the Hound's breathing
grow ragged as he forced her to speed up. She threw her head back, exposing her
white neck. Her legs were aching, but the pleasure was centring to a point,
growing stronger and sharper. Sandor Clegane's gaze was hot upon her, his dark
eyes fixed on her face; she wondered hazily what he thought of her at this
moment, of her chaste body that had so easily come alive and wanton under his
hands.
“Hold on, little bird,” he ordered her, his voice a low, passionate growl.
“...Just a minute longer.” Sansa didn't know if she could, or if he could, for
that matter; there was a bright strip of colour high on his good cheek-bone,
and a thin sheen of sweat on his skin, so that her fingers slipped as she tried
desperately to cling to him. He began to move against her, getting faster;
Sansa stifled another moan. He took a calculating glance along her body, and
his fingers slid down to the place they were joined, drawing circles teasingly
in a spot that made her head reel, but never allowing her to stop the rise and
fall of her hips.
Sansa gasped, screwing her eyes shut as his fingers moved faster, the wave of
strange feeling about to crest; it was too much, she wasn't ready, but he
grasped her chin painfully and she had to open her eyes.
“No. Look at me. Look at me.” She could not disobey, remembered how angry he
had always been when she could not face him; and then the wave broke over her,
sending rough ecstasy flooding through every inch of her body. Sansa froze,
heard herself make a noise that sounded stupid to her ears; but the Hound just
gave her a look of grim satisfaction, the side of his mouth twitching,
breathing hard through his nose. Her head swam, every muscle tense and
quivering as the feeling continued to batter her; but it seemed he was not done
with her yet, rather waiting to pounce. As the intensity of her climax slowly
ebbed and her body turned fluid and relaxed, he began to move again, his cock
riding easily up into her slick opening.
“Nnn...” Sansa let out a shuddering sigh, arms wrapped around his neck; after
the first wave of pleasure came a heightened sensitivity; she could feel every
movement inside her, her skin alert to the hot pressure of his lips, the heavy
calluses on his fingertips. This following swift on the heels of her first
finish was too much, and she was absurdly grateful when the Hound finally
stilled, clutching her to him with a low snarl, a sudden wet warmth inside her.
He buried his face in her neck, holding her so close that she could barely
breathe, the muscles in his scarred back shuddering beneath her hands.
If this was real, Sansa thought giddily, I could be having his child. The
thought was terrifying, and at the same time made her feel very adult. Mothers
were made even younger than her, she knew. But this was a dream. None of it was
real. Sansa carded her fingers through his dark hair, careful to avoid the
burns, suddenly afraid to let go. The Hound suffered her to remain pressed
against him until her breathing slowed and the beat of his own heart had
stopped racing against her breasts.
“Off,” he said gutturally, after what seemed forever, lifting her away from him
with no more difficulty than if she really had been a bird. She gritted her
teeth at the sudden emptiness, feeling the air hit the stickiness between her
thighs as he set her upon her back on the bed. He's going to turn nasty again,
thought Sansa, waiting for his face to fall into its usual scowl. She
remembered he always had, especially whenever he had helped her, as if to
vehemently deny even the possibility that he could be gallant. She gazed up at
him, waiting to read the change in his expression; she was far more worried
about that than the ache between her thighs or the bite marks on her breasts.
“What is it?” the Hound demanded gruffly, catching her stare. She pressed her
lips together, not wanting to anger him prematurely. He leaned over her. “Come
on, out with it. I hate women who won't even speak to me after I fuck them.”
Sansa thought that was probably fairly telling about the way he usually treated
his women, but certainly wasn't about to say so.
“I...” She cast about for something placating to say, but apparently her septa
had not had this situation in mind when she taught Sansa her courtesies. She
decided on the truth. “I didn't want you to get angry with me,” she said
tremulously, and then her deeper fear, the one she knew she could do nothing
about: “I don't want you to go.”
“Go!” exclaimed Sandor Clegane, giving half a laugh like steel on a whetstone.
He cupped her face with both hands, fingers hard and bruising on the sides of
her head. “Where am I going? You're not getting rid of me that easily, girl.”
“I didn't mean-”
“Beautiful, stupid little bird,” he continued in a low voice, glaring at her.
“You think I'd take your first and then let you fly off?” A shiver rippled over
Sansa, a confusing mixture of trepidation and illogical relief. “From now on,
I'll be your cage.” Sansa found herself leaning up, and his mouth brushed hers
possessively. “I'll be your dog too. If you want it.”
“Why?” she asked.I must not be afraid to talk to him while I can.
“Why what?” The Hound sounded irritated, but lowered himself down, resting his
massive head on her breasts, burned side uppermost so that the only way she
could read the play of his expressions was in his grey eye.
“Why me?” prompted Sansa. He shrugged, muscles moving smoothly in his
shoulders.
“Never had anything of my own before. Never wanted anything, mind; I had my
place in the world. My sword, some wine and my brother to hate, I was happy as
a pig in shit.”
“Oh.” Sansa couldn't think of anything to say to that.
“I knew you were going to be trouble, first time I saw you,” he told her.
“Little Northern girl, all done up like those Southern court bitches, lies just
falling off your pretty lips.” I shouldn't have asked, she thought, stinging
under the criticism. I should have known better than to expect him to be nice
to me!
“I didn't know why I was so interested in you,” the Hound continued, relaxed
and heavy against her chest. “Because you wouldn't look me in the face, maybe.
Oh, Joff didn't deserve you, that's for damn sure, and why would you look at
his dog? But I wanted to look at you. Wanted to make you see me.”
Sansa rested a hand on the top of his head, nervously, though he didn't sound
particularly angry.
“It's not because you were a beauty,” he said adamantly. “I've known whores as
beautiful as you. But I knew your little cunt would be the sweetest.” He tugged
on the fine hair between her legs, and Sansa blushed. “I knew you were. I knew
by the time I left that I wanted you.” He sounded reproachful. “You should
never have married the Imp. Should've come with me.”
“I know,” Sansa whispered.
“You sang to me,” he said, as if that explained everything. “How many girls
would have done that?”
“How many girls' throats have you held a knife to?”
Clegane gave a sharp pull on the damp locks of red hair beneath his cheek.
“Now you're being truthful, girl!” he exclaimed, with a rasp that might have
been a chuckle. Sansa, who had almost bitten her tongue again at the hasty
comment, gave a smile of relief. “And yet here you are.” The Hound sounded
almost smug.Would Tyrion have been like this, after? she wondered. It didn't
matter. Here, now, there was only him. “And you'll stay with me. Yes, you
will.”
“I will,” Sansa promised, as though saying it could make it true. She wrapped
her arms around him.
 
And woke up.
The late morning sun was streaming weakly through her bedroom window, and the
Hound was nowhere to be seen.
Sansa took a shuddering breath, and looked down. Her sheets were clean and dry
and crisp. She raised a hand to her face, and her cheeks were wet.
Her dream was done.
 
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