Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/902229.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      No_Archive_Warnings_Apply, Underage
  Category:
      Gen, F/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      Sandor_Clegane/Sansa_Stark
  Character:
      Sansa_Stark, Sandor_Clegane
  Series:
      Part 4 of The_Awakening
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-07-28 Words: 3810
****** Wanton Prayers to a Cruel God ******
by TimmyJaybird
Summary
     The Hound still has much to teach Sansa, of her desires, of control,
     of a prayer only he knows how to utter against her skin.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
Sansa sat in the sun, feeling her dress constricting her every breath. It was
hot for an autumn day, a sudden burst of heat like late summer that made her
dizzy. She prayed for rain and cool breezes, she had enough heat constantly
coiling inside her, she did not need more.
She sat with Lady Margery and her entourage, watching some of the young knights
spare. Her brother Loras was among them, in glittering armor of silvers and
golds- not his white of the Kingsguard today. His colors complimented his won
sister’s dress of rich emeralds and cloth-of-gold. Sansa herself felt drab
among them, clad in full black.
She was mourning the loss of Bran and Rickon. Their deaths had come to her in
such shocking news she had taken to bed for a day ill, wanting nothing more
than to curl up and die for a time. The only reason she’d roused from bed was
because the Hound had stormed in, latched her door, and growled at her that if
she didn’t get up Joffrey was like to have one of his men beat her bloody in
her room.
He was protecting me, even if it didn’t seem it. It was true. Joffrey had
wanted to see her, to gloat, had wanted to since she locked herself away. Had
she waited much longer, even Margery couldn’t have softened his rage.
That felt so long ago, but she still wore black, in defiance. No one else would
mourn the Stark boys, but she would, even if her sadness had ebbed away. She
knew she couldn’t mourn forever.
“Well struck Loras!” Margery was calling to her brother, who waved at the
ladies. Sansa rested on her palm, bored. These knights didn’t interest her.
They were too soft, too young and smooth. She wished the Hound had an excuse to
don his armor and teach these children how a real man fought.
Careful girl, those thoughts will get you in trouble.
Truth be told, Sansa wanted trouble. She wanted to forget the city and the
North and the deaths. She wanted something sweet and hot, like the Hound’s
tongue. She found she thought about him more and more with every meeting, even
if the few she had stolen with him before Bran and Rickon’s death had been
nothing more than feverish kisses, leaving her breathy and pleading for more.
Sansa wasn’t sure if he was teasing her on purpose, or if he truly could not
escape to her that often. She thought a bit of both.
The sound of heavy hooves broke her from her mind, and Sansa watched as Joffrey
rode in, dressed in reds and golds, his guard around him. Margery stood at once
and left her girls to rush over to him, greet him from his ride. Sansa wanted
to retch. Let the fool dot on him, she knows what he is now, just as you do.
Feeling bitter suddenly, Sansa left the gaggling women and walked briskly away,
off towards the stables. She’d rather enjoy the company of horses.
“You’re in some hurry, girl.”
Sansa turned just as she reached the stables, eyes meeting the Hound’s black
eyes. She turned around fully, stepped back carefully until her back rested
against the building, feeling her heart racing. It always raced when he spoke
to her now, betraying her every desire.
“Horses are better company than them,” she said, jerking her head towards the
women in the far distance now. “And I’ve no desire to see His Grace either.”
The Hound chuckled and moved closer, leaning against the building with one arm,
engulfing her from the hot sun. She squirmed a bit, pressing herself closer,
and his other hand toyed with the neckline of her gown, pressing low against
her breasts.
“I don’t like you in black,” he said, leaning in, nuzzling her neck, her hair.
She clutched at him, trembled. He hadn’t touched her in what felt like forever.
“I don’t like you in white,” she retorted, still hating his Kingsguard armor.
She liked him in black, black as death, black as the Stranger. She liked to be
reminded that he was far from some noble knight.
He chuckled and kissed her neck, her ear. “Wear something else later, and I
promise I won’t be in white.”
Sansa’s heart froze in her chest. Was he inviting her into the dark of night,
after such an absence? She dared to hope, had to remind herself the last few
visits had left her aching worse than ever.
“Come to the sept,” he breathed, one of his hands gripping her heavy skirts,
slipping beneath, along her thighs. He pressed against her sex, teased her,
made her gasp and writhe against him. “After high moon, when the castle sleeps.
It’s been too long, little bird.”
Sansa was nodding, being driven made by his hand. Even through her
smallclothes, he knew how to touch her perfectly. She pushed closer, her body
buzzing from her pent up need, and he kissed her mouth hard, long, delving in
with his skilled tongue.
“Not...here,” she was gasping against his lips, reaching up to tangle her
fingers in his hair, rub his scars. “They... could see.”
“Bugger the knights and their ladies,” he said, circling her overly sensitive
bundle of nerves. “I just want you to sing, little bird.”
Sansa quivered, blushing, so ashamed. It was daylight still, she could still
see the figures in the distance of Margery, her ladies, even the king, and yet
her she was, letting the Hound touch her most intimate places, pulling him
closer instead of pushing him away.
He kissed her again, and she gave in to her pleasure, whimpering and moaning
brokenly into his mouth as the waves washed over her, pulling on his hair and
igniting sparks in his scalp. He growled, something low and feral in his
throat, and bit her lip, nearly breaking some of the skin. Sansa shuddered
again, her body still calling out to him, the pleasure that had washed over her
only serving to drive her further into her need.
But he was pulling away, stopping only to tangle a hand in her thick feiry
locks, to pull her head back almost painfully so he could trail his tongue
along the white expanse of her throat. Sansa whimpered.
“The sept,” he reminded her, then he was gone, walking off back towards his
Kingsguard brothers and that bloody bastard king, leaving Sansa to tremble and
whimper to herself, the heat of the day nothing now compared to the heat in her
belly and sex.
She had paced her room half the night, had dressed, undressed, redressed. She
had left gowns flung around her room, only having the wit at the very end to
stuff them away, hide the evidence of her nerves. He hadn’t wanted her in
black, and she listened, but wanted now to impress him, to make his eyes roam
her and try to delve into her skin, hungry.
Her gown was a rich maroon, hugging her breasts in a low neckline. It was
silken to the touch, so much so that in her nervous state she would stroke the
skirts, her sleeves, trying to occupy her fingers.
Finally, when the moon was high and bright, she slipped into her cloak- the
only black she dare wear- and slipped from her room. She tried to walk slowly,
calmly, but it was hard, and often when she saw no one in her path, Sansa
nearly ran. Her steps made soft sounds on the stones, especially as she walked
up the steps to the sept. It was an extremely dark night, and in the distance
she heard thunder. Her prayers for the heat to break may be answered after all.
She pushed the large doors to the sept open and stepped in. The only light was
from low burning candles, left from prayers earlier in the evening. At this
hour, it stood deserted, quiet. Sansa walked around the exterior, stopping by
the Maiden to bow her head.
“Even she can’t help you now, little bird.”
Sansa turned quickly, her entire body facing the voice she knew so well. She
pulled her hood down as the Hound stepped from the shadows, lit only by a few
dying candles, casting an orange glow to him. He stood opposite her, by the
Stranger’s statue.
“She doesn’t need to help me,” Sansa said, “I’m still a maid.” He laughed at
that, and Sansa frowned. “It’s true!”
“Aye, you’re still a maid, but you’re no proper lady. Come here.” Sansa obeyed,
walking across the sept to him, right into his arms. He had listened to her
request and shed his Kingsguard armor, was clad in pure black. Sansa fisted her
hands in his tunic and kissed him, let him peel the cloak from her body. She
had wanted to ask him to take her away, back to his chambers, but she hadn’t
been able to wait. Just one kiss, than we can leave.
He grasped her hips, one hand gripping her bottom, making Sansa gasp. She
clawed at him, one hand reaching up to tangle in his hair, to keep his lips
from leaving her. He let her hold her control for a moment, before he grabbed
her and lifted her up, turning her around and setting her on the alter before
the Stranger. His fingers played with some of her gown, and a smirk grew on his
face, twisting his scars.
“Better than black,” he said, and without hesitating, ripped the dress with his
strong hands right down the middle. Sansa cried out softly, felt the air
settling on her bare breasts. He had ripped the dress all the way down her
navel.
“Ser, there’s no way I can leave now!” She tried to cover herself, though she
wasn’t entirely sure why. Possibly the eyes of the Seven staring at her from
their statues.
The ruined corner of his lip twitched, and she saw the annoyance flicker in his
eyes. “Bugger your sers. I never said we were leaving, girl.”
Surely he doesn’t mean to leave me with just a kiss again. “But... but I want
you,” Sansa said, her voice straining, her cheeks flushing. “You can’t just
leave me again.”
He kissed her, his hands fisting in her fiery hair, pulling on it. “I’m not,”
he whispered against her lips, voice hoarse and raspy, “I’m taking you right
here, little bird.” His hands tore at her dress more, pulling it down her arms,
down her hips, his hand delving between them-
And pressing against her fiery curls, her slick sex. He pulled back, stared at
her, expected one more layer of cloth to separate him from Sansa’s sex. She
gave him a smile, tinged at the ends with a smirk, and he felt his cock
straining furiously against his breeches.
“You wicked girl,” he said, teasing her, and Sansa sighed at his touch, pushed
her hips towards it.
“They only got in the way earlier,” she whispered of her absent smallclothes,
“I...I thought you might like this.”
He pressed a finger into her, made Sansa cry out, and leaned down, lips and
teeth and tongue exploring her chest. Oh, she had no idea how much he liked it.
Sansa felt like he was stroking the very core of her being, even though the
Hound was careful to only go so far- careful of that damned maidenhead she held
so bloody dear. Someday he’d tear through it, make her scream and writhe with
his cock held tight between her thighs. Some bloody day.
Sansa was squirming still, clinging to the cold stone of the alter. He meant to
keep her here, to play the vile beast in front of the holy seven, in their
house of worship. Part of Sansa was sick, but most of her was throbbing and wet
and so willing. So be it, let the Seven see her and judge her as she was.
He pulled away from her and Sansa whimpered, only to watch him strip in the low
light. His eyes were roaming over her, taking her in as he couldn’t the other
night, the way her skin glowed in the dim orange light, the rosy tips to her
breasts and the fire between her thighs.
Sansa pulled her shoulders back, bared her chest and spread her shaking thighs
more. The way he looked at her made her stomach knot, made her cheeks and
breasts pink and hot. He groaned, ripped his tunic off and tossed it aside,
gave her a glimpse of that hard chest she had felt in the dark. He kicked his
boots away, and nearly tore the lacing on his breeches. In a breath he was just
as naked as her.
Sansa fought her gaze, kept her eyes on his rippled abdomen, chewed on her
lower lip. A lady wouldn’t stare she reminded herself, and the struggle on her
face must have been apparent because he was laughing again. He closed the gap
between them, kissed her, his tongue claiming her mouth.
“You look like a scared girl,” he said, one of his hands returning between her
thighs to tease her. She whimpered, managed to frown.
“I’m not scared,” she said, “just... it wouldn’t be proper.”
“It’s not proper to see my cock, but you touch it just fine. Stupid little
bird.” She flushed more, tried to squirm away, but slipped and only pushed
closer to his hand.
He’s not wrong, though. I am being stupid.
Sansa closed her eyes, felt him press against her, felt his manhood against her
thighs. She shivered, one of her hands tracing along his shoulders, his chest,
trembling as she tried to go further. Before she could he was pulling on her,
lifting her up into his arms and holding her tight as he settled down on the
alter himself. She spilled from his arms to the floor, landed with a gentle
thud, and sat up, eyes snapping open.
He leaned back on the alter, his arms resting on the raised ledges were candles
would have burned, had they not been below the Stranger. It was like a simple
throne, and Sansa bit her lip, swearing she was staring at a king, a god.
“I’m not going to touch you,” he said, “until you get rid of those girlish
ideas. Prove to me I should touch me.”
Sansa stared, leaning on her hands. Her eyes delved over his chest, his
abdomen, and holding her breath, further down, to the black curls at his groin,
to his manhood, stiff and resting against his stomach. Sansa felt her breathing
growing quick, her thighs impossibly wet. She wanted him to touch her, but
suddenly, more so, she wanted to touch him.
Sansa closed the small gap between them, steadied herself on her knees, her
hands trailing up and down his thighs. He watched her, said not a word, gave no
clue to what he was thinking. Just watched with those near black eyes and those
lips. Her finger tips brushed along a scar on his leg, and she bent her head,
kissed it gently. She followed his leg up with her mouth, along his hip, tongue
tracing a scar that slashed along his side and part of his stomach. She felt
his breath rush out of him.
Closing her eyes to gather her strength, her other hand reached up, wrapped
around the base of his cock and stroked him, as she had in the black of night
in his chambers. She darted her Tully blue eyes to look at him, but he was just
watching her, intrigued, and though she could feel his breathing growing faster
with her strokes, he held his tongue and made not a sound.
Frustrated, Sansa leaned back, and did the only thing she could think to do.
Try to kiss him, as he had her. She leaned forward, her lips ghosting over the
head of his cock, before she ran her tongue down along the underside, stopping
at the base to hear him exhale quickly, a curse barely spoken. Confidence
rising, she traced her tongue back up, swirled it around the head, felt him
shudder.
“What should I do?” she asked, her free hand gripping his thigh.
“Swallow me.”
And Sansa tried. She opened her mouth and took him in, as far as she could, her
hand working along the base of his manhood to make up for what couldn’t fit in
her small mouth. His hand buried in her hair and helped guide her, his groans
growing louder in the still of the sept. Sansa dug her nails into his thigh as
her own excitement was building, and she squirmed, rubbing her thighs together,
wishing for friction against her sex.
Sansa heard the Hound cursing loudly, his hand wrenching from her hair, trying
to move her head away. She reached up, tangled her fingers with his, and
swallowed him deeper, felt a quaking shudder pass through him and heard him
growl her name over and over again into the dark as he spilled his seed in her
mouth. Sansa swallowed it down without thought, tasting a bitterness that
wasn’t unpleasant.
She had barely released his cock from her mouth when he was grabbing her,
pulling her up onto his lap. She straddled his hips and kissed him as he held
her firm, devoured her mouth. She could feel the heat emanating from his body,
let her slick sex grind against his.
He could take her then, the Hound knew. She was feverish with need, her nails
digging into his skin, her cunt ready for him. Yes, he could take her, and she
wouldn’t say no.
But not just yet.
Instead he brought his hands between them, circled around her nub until Sansa
was a whimpering mess of nerves on his lap, shaking and trembling, so close. He
stood then, lifting her, and set her back on the alter, kneeling before her.
“Tell me,” he said, “what you want, little bird.”
“Kiss me,” she whimpered, and he knew she did not mean her mouth. Still,
playing cruel and coy, he kissed her cheek, let his scars scrap her skin
deliciously. She cried out in frustration.
“Tell me where.”
“Be-between my thighs,” she breathed, and he obeyed, kissing each inner thigh,
but not where she wanted. She tossed her head, and he watched the fire erupt in
her air, glowing hot in the low candle light. “Please ser-“
“Use my name,” he commanded, “and tell me exactly where you want my mouth.”
He loved the turmoil in her eyes, the desire pressing hard against her
restraint. He’d smash all of it, grind his heel into any restraint she had left
by the time he was done teaching Sansa Stark all she had to learn. Just in time
for her to be whisked away-
Think on that another time.
“Please, Sandor,” she breathed, and the air grew still and the night silent
around them, before thunder crashed in the distance, and rain could be heard
pelting the stones.
“Where do you want my mouth?” he asked again, fingers digging into her thighs
as thunder crashed again.
“My cunt,” she pleaded, and he obeyed her like a good hound. He pressed his
lips and tongue to her, moved in just the way she wanted, the way he had set to
memory from the first time he’s tasted her sweet honey. He drank of her like a
dying man in the desert, until she screamed his name into the thunder, to the
Seven around her, and shook, flooding his mouth anew.
Sansa collapsed back against the feet of the Stranger, her own god of death
crawling up from between her thighs to kiss her, mingle the taste of her
pleasure with his. Sansa clutched at him weakly, spent and exhausted, content
in the cool dark, in his arms.
This time he did not chase her off right away. He slid onto the alter, lifted
her to his lap, let her nuzzle into him, snuggle like a kitten. He stroked her
hair, and had she the right of mind, she would have mused at how gentle he had
turned so suddenly.
“I don’t want to go back,” she was murmuring against his skin, “I’d rather stay
here.”
“Think of the sight you’d make,” he said, “when the septon and all those
buggering praying folk come in at dawn. Naked and splayed by the Stranger,
they’ll claim the damned god raped you.”
Sansa shook her head. No, he didn’t take me unwillingly. He didn’t take me. She
kissed his chin, his scars, over his cheek and down onto his neck. My Stranger.
Her dress was ruined, and Sansa knew she’d have to have some excuse should a
maid find it. Still, she slipped into it, though it left her navel completely
exposed, and her breasts as she moved. Her cloak would keep her hidden until
she reached her room, she just had to pray that no one stopped her. She tied it
tightly as the Hound was dressing, then walked away from him, across the sept
to the statue of the Maiden. She took one of the long burning candles and
walked back, carefully lighting a few around the Stranger.
The Hound watched as she blew the Maiden’s candle out though, as her eyes
looked over at him, so blue and clear. They had a constant, throbbing hunger in
them, one clearer than he had ever seen. By the time he was done with her,
whoever the lucky bastard was that got her for his wedding night would be
praising the Seven for such a lively woman.
The Hound gritted his teeth, burying those thoughts. Bugger every other man in
the Kingdom, until someone ripped her away, she was his little bird, and only
his. And he’d take everything from her, every kiss and cry and begging whisper,
and leave noting for the poor bastard that came after him.
He pulled his own hood up and kept an arm around her waist, guiding her out
into the rainy night. He dared to walk her close to her tower, but not into it.
“Pray for me tonight,” she said, her hands ghosting under his cloak as she
kissed him goodbye.
“Bugger the gods, they don’t exist-“ his breath hitched in his throat as she
grasped him through his breeches, stroking him softly.
“No,” she said, “pray with your hand, and wish that it was my mouth again.”
And then she was gone, escaping him into the warmth of her tower, her chambers.
Any light of the Maiden left in her was snuffed out, and she burned with a dark
light that made the Hound smirk and turn away, vowing to do exactly as she had
bid him.
End Notes
     Well, happy Sunday everyone! There's going to be at least one more
     story for this series. Maybe two- I'm not sure yet. I could probably
     even push it to three. We'll see! I promise all our frustration will
     be worth it "soon".
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their work!