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Footsteps echoed heavily up the serpentine as the Hound approached her room. A whisper came with it, curses pouring fluently from his mouth. He had not asked what the boy wanted with Sansa Stark; there was not much he could do about it without losing his head in the process. Sometimes, when he stood behind the boy, his eyes glazing over and his mind drifting, he imagined spending his tourney winnings on a ship across the Narrow Sea. They would live in a home with mosaic floors and sheer silks would do little to hide her creamy skin. But she would be inside, free to work her needles and embroider black dogs on a field of autumn grass. And he would keep her safe. Sometimes, when his arms ached and his head rang after training, he heard her cheers and a whisper - I knew the Hound would win - and pictured being given a rose to place in her hands in turn. He saw her lovely smile in the stands, not her fear in the darkened field walking back to the Tower of the Hand. But now, he was only fetching her for pain.
Curses and footsteps beat a rhythm on the stone floors: Thump. Little. Thump. Prick. Thump. Fucking. Thump. Cunt. Thump. Sonofa. Thump. Whore.
And then he was there. The Hound stood in front of Sansa Stark’s bedroom door. He knew every whorl of the wood, every splinter. And he had a good idea of what waited within.
The boy had called for her at an odd time, between dinner and sleep. He usually made a show of inviting her to meals; quiet torment from Cersei before the real torture began. How easy it would be, to bash their golden heads into the wooden table slab, to slit their throats and pull their tongues through the gaping wounds. But then, there would be no ship across the Narrow Sea. No mosaic floors. No silk. He wondered what the boy had planned. But more than that, he wondered why he could not hear the buzzing of her handmaids.
He had expected them to be preparing her for bed. He thought that might be why the boy had called for her now - when she thought herself to have a moment’s peace. The Hound braced his hand on the door, let out a slow breath, knocked twice, then once again. An assurance of safety.
Her voiced floated under the door: “Please enter!” He rolled his eyes instinctively at her chirping, but his ego flexed at the knowledge that it was meant for him.
The Hound pushed open the door, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the dim, flickering light. He stilled as the tub came into view.
Her shoulders sloped to the water from the nape of her neck, visible because of the pins that held up her auburn curls. Steam rose from the water’s surface. He thought of the hot springs that ran below her ancestral home. Maybe the little bird had flown back there, sitting in this tub. He forced out a breath, returning to his task.
“King wants you.”
Sansa turned slightly. He caught her fine nose and one delicately arched eyebrow. He rolled his eyes again. A game they played.
“His grace requests your presence.”
She shifted back, so that all he could see were pins and curls once more. A hand rose from the tub, palm open, and for a moment he thought wildly that she was holding a little bird for truth, until he saw that it was full of bubbles. She must have gifted them her breath, for they took flight before sinking back into the water once more.
“As you can see, I am not prepared to be called upon.”
The Hound snorted. “Where’s your handmaids?”
Sansa tipped her head. “I sent them away for the evening.”
“Why’s that? Didn’t know fair maidens could bathe themselves.”
“Oh? Have you much experience with the bathing habits of fair maidens, Ser?”
Grey eyes rolled again past no-good eyebrows. “Chirp chirp. Where are they? Need to get you to his grace’s chambers.”
“I have not the faintest idea where my handmaids go at night. Perhaps to their chambers. Perhaps to their masters. All I know is that I did not want them around for one second longer.”
“And now that’s my fucking problem, is it?”
Sansa giggled. “So… you think me a fair maiden, Ser?”
“Not a Ser, and I’ve had enough of your peeping,” the Hound growled. He was irritated now by her game and by having no clear solution for getting her dressed and to the boy. But his heart clenched painfully as her laughter rippled over him. It sounded like fucking sunshine. He bet it tasted like those lemon cakes she loved so much.
—
Sansa was enjoying herself at last. Her day had been dull, a welcome alternative to pain and shame. But the bruises from her last beating hadn’t quite faded and every time she looked at the handmaid that belonged to Cersei, she wanted to scream. She had sent them away, planning to soak in the tub until it went cold.
The knock on the door had broken her reverie and she waited, terrified, until his fist rapped out their pattern. She felt the tension ebb slightly, then wondered why he had come.
She thought for a moment of asking him to wait, leaping from the tub, wrapping herself in a towel, then pulling a dress over damp, sticky skin. The thought was not appealing.
She thought instead of his muscles, pulling her naked body from her bed one morning. Not ungently. This thought was very much appealing. And so she had bid him enter.
And now the Hound stood in her room, mumbling something about fucking useless whore handmaids, while Sansa sat naked in the tub.
She cut him off- “Are you wed?”
His face twisted in painful surprise, “What do you think, little bird? I pay for mine. Even without this,” he turned his weeping wounds towards her as though she had not looked her fill before, “you know the Kingsguard take no wives.”
For a sliver of a second, Sansa thought to remind him that he had not taken the vows that went with his white cloak. She closed her eyes, remembering the wool like velvet on her beaten flesh. He cloaked me. He took me under his protection.
She rose from the tub. Rivulets of water ran down her skin, dancing in the golden pink light of dusk filtering now through the window that turned her escaped tendrils to flame.
The Hound’s eyes flashed to hers and his fists clenched. Then he moved no more.
Sansa wondered for a moment if she were a monster from one of Old Nan’s tales, capable of turning men to stone. Or ice came a voice, like the whispering of weirwood leaves.
Time stretched on, perhaps a moon, perhaps a season. Sansa felt her tiny bird heart frantic to burst from her tiny bird chest. But not a peep.
Finally, finally, the Hound groaned out a single word: “Sansa.”
It was too much for her. She was wet. Wet and cold, wet and hot, liable to collapse. Trembling, she wrapped her courtesy around her once more.
“Please. The towel is just there, if you would be so kind.” Sansa could not bring herself to call him Ser. It felt callous, after the spell she had cast upon him. What do the women in the brothels call him while filled with his cock?
The rage filled his eyes once more. Sansa hadn’t realized that it had gone, leaving them the gentle steel of Northern sky, until it returned. The Hound’s mouth twitched and he tossed the towel towards her. “You mean to mock me,” he ground out through gritted teeth.
Sansa summoned her septa’s lessons as she wiped away what water still clung to her skin. “No, my lord. His grace commanded you to collect me. I meant only to follow your command in turn.”
She felt a warm knot low in her tummy at that and chanced a glance up at him through her lashes. A truly dangerous expression had danced over his features at her words. His head leaned back slightly, his tongue gliding along his teeth. Without letting his eyes leave hers, the Hound grabbed another towel and took a step towards her.
Sansa panicked. Overwhelmed by the size of him, the intensity of his stare, the earthy, metallic smell of him, she lifted her knee and held her foot aloft, poised as if to stop him. It only brought a chuckle from his throat.
The Hound dropped to his knee in front of her, towel in hand, and began to dry her foot. The gentleness of his touch was at odds with the predatory expression on his face. As he rubbed the cloth along her inner arch, Sansa couldn’t help but moan. He stilled. She thought he might eat her whole.
As though reading her thoughts, the Hound lowered his mouth to her foot. Open lips chased the towel - along her ankle, up her shin, across her knee. She thought that he might kiss her there, but then they were going down the opposite thigh, setting her worshipped leg on the ground and lifting the next.
As he finished, he stood and wrapped the towel around her shoulders. Bare flesh against armor, held together in a cloak of sorts. She imagined becoming one with him, her skin turning from porcelain, to ivory, to steel. She imagined his fierceness seeping into her. Sansa tilted her head up and saw that the rage had been gentled once more.
“I am yours,” she whispered, “and you are mine.”
—
By the time they had gotten her body into a dress and her hair into braids, Joffrey had gone through enough wine to take down a large aurochs or a small Clegane. Two pairs of eyes - Tully blue and Northern grey - stared dispassionately at the scene before them before rolling beneath their respective eyebrows. As his snores echoed, they turned to retrace their steps.
Nearing her room and sure that nobody was watching, Sansa slipped her arm through his elbow. The not-quite-a-knight and his fair maiden. Florian and Jonquil.
She heard the air drawn just a bit more forcefully through his nose, but his pace did not falter. Earlier, after he had wrapped her in the towel and she had said the words, the Hound had stared into her before jerking and shaking his head, like his namesake experimentally ridding its ears of water. Before she could speak, he had abruptly stepped away and opened her wardrobe, handing her Joffrey’s favorite dress.
The door to her chambers materialized, whorls and splinters marring its surface. Panic crept up as swiftly as it had when the Hound had hunted her in the tub. Now, it was at the thought of him leaving.
She turned, ready to chirp, ready to make up a story about needing to visit the Godswood to pray and would he please be so kind as to escort her there, but as her eyes met him, she saw the hunger without the rage.
“You’ll be needing some help getting that dress off, little bird,” he rumbled. “And it seems your handmaids are still wherever the fuck they go at night.”
She trembled. “Yes, please Ser,” Sansa whispered, the nails of her left hand carving crescents into the flesh of her right beneath her flowing green silk sleeves.
Before she could draw breath, he had wrapped one arm around her waist, carrying her through the doorway and kicking the door closed behind him in one smooth motion.
The strength and speed of his movements startled Sansa, who realized then how truly gentle he had been with her all along. The man before her had butchered so many with ease but held her as if her bones were hollow. He was still moving them forward and had perched her on the bed as her thoughts ran their course.
And then there was only him. Sandor Clegane’s face was buried in her neck, his body caging her in. The textures overwhelmed her: rigid scars on one cheek, stubble on the other. Teeth scraping and slick tongue dragging down towards the lacing of her dress. She knew her skin would be raw and bruised the next morning but could not bring herself to care. I am yours. Make me yours. Sansa heard a rushing and knew not whether it was the pounding of her blood in her ears or the Hound’s breath.
He slid down to the floor, resting on his knees, grasping the bones of her hips and pressing them hard onto her bed. She felt an unbearable emptiness. All Sansa knew was that she was flushed and wet and needing to be full, so full of him.
The Hound’s eyes roved over her body, taking her in with the same intensity his face and hands had a moment ago. Black strands fell over his scars; she lifted her hand and pushed them back. One thick hand wrapped firmly around her wrist, lowering it onto the bed beside her face.
“My lady,” Sandor whispered, shaking his head again. His fingers descended upon the lacing of her gown, gently working the ribbons, until the silk slipped off her shoulders, leaving her in just her shift and small clothes.
“My lady,” he groaned, resuming his feast of her neck, moving down to where her old shift stretched across her curves. His hands moved up her sides, cupping her peaks, rolling the nipples that pressed against the thin fabric, as he pressed his hardened length against her small clothes.
“Please, Ser,” Sansa whimpered, “I can’t, I need-“ The words would not come. Her thoughts were snowdrops, crushed beneath the weight of a winter storm. Then, as the Hound moved to untie her small clothes, one flower burst through the snow.
“Sandor. They’ll know. If you ta- if I give you my maidenhead, they’ll kill us both.”
The Hound grinned up at her from between her thighs. She felt a spasm of fear; how many men had seen that same grin and a sword before they met the Stranger?
“I’ll kill them first. At any rate, we won’t be around for them to find out. I’m not going to let you marry that cunt. First chance I get, I’m taking you away.”
She sighed happily. Brave and gentle and strong. A true knight, made for killing and loving his lady fair. But then she thought of her true knight cutting through her veil and stilled.
The Hound rolled his grey eyes at the change in her demeanor and rasped, “Quit your worrying, girl.” He lifted her to her feet, unclasped his cloak, and spread it across her bed. “I’ll be keeping that gift for myself. Your useless fucking handmaids won’t know a thing.”
She saw a flash of canines and a grin, then her shift and small clothes were ripped from her body. She felt vulnerable, her vision only the armored Hound, standing there in just her slippers. His eyes softened and he moved his lips down to claim hers. Her heart fluttered and she wrapped her arms around him for balance. Bliss.
Sandor lowered her to sit on his cloak and sank to his knees once more. He unlaced her slippers and slid them off her feet in turn. He resumed his open-mouthed kisses up her shins, past her knees, along her thighs, and this time-
“Oh.”
She felt his tongue, firm then soft then firm again across the pearl of flesh and nerves at her center. Firm teeth on soft flesh, jawbone on petals.
As her body tightened and her mind rose higher and higher, climbing to her peak, the Hound withdrew. He chuckled at her whine of frustration and pressed his ruined lips to her pouting ones.
“Taste,” he whispered, brooking no argument, overwhelming her senses. Lips still on hers, he wrapped his arms around her and stood. As metal clanked, it came to her foggy mind that he was still armored.
“Take it off,” she managed and received an evil grin.
“Little birds with no manners only get punished.”
“Take it off, please Sandor, please,” she squeaked hurriedly, but too late. Still wrapped in leather and steel, he dropped her on her stomach, pressing her into the mattress.
“Like I said, little bird...”
One thick finger ran down her wetness then filled her. The world was nothing but pillows and darkness and him. He began to pump, slowly, pushing in deeper each time. Sansa moaned softly, tears welling in her eyes.
“Please, Ser.”
“Not a fucking Ser.”
Another thick finger slipped inside her, stretching her walls, curling into her. He pushed her deeper into the mattress.
“I have to hurt you. Just a bit sweet girl. I promise it won’t last.”
“Yes please,“ Sansa managed to whisper, unsure if the words made it to the ruins of his ear until she felt the push and sting. The welled tears spilled from her eyes as his strokes deepened, but before she could cry out, his other hand was wrapped around her mouth and his lips were on her bud. She felt him suck and lick, firm, soft, firm. The pain dissolved, his groans vibrating and intensifying her pleasure.
The Hound’s hand slid from her mouth, leaving the taste of salt. His mouth lapped blood and juices from her center. Bad dog. She couldn’t muster the strength to say it or to giggle. He was eating her right up, consuming her. Sansa suddenly understood that the lapping meant his other hand had stopped stroking her from the inside. She moaned softly as she heard why. Leather straps loosened. Metal clinked, set gently to the ground as the Hound maintained his assault on her.
Knowing what awaited her, knowing what he was going to do to her, knowing the feel of him on her, Sansa’s peak burst over her.
“Oh, Sandor.”
Paws gripped her hips, flipping her over. Her eyes stayed shut. His fingers ran roughly across the smooth flesh of her belly. Thumbs rolled her swollen nipples as his fingers dug into her ribs. Her peak rippled over her again and again as she felt him around her.
“That’s right, little bird. A Hound. Not one of your gallant knights. Have you ever felt that before? Dreaming of them?”
“No,” Sansa sighed happily. “Only while dreaming of you.”
The Hound stilled. His hands crept up around her throat, squeezed gently, then set her jaw in an iron trap.
“Look at me.” Sansa obeyed.
Her eyes fluttered open and drank him in as eagerly as he had her. Her mother’s gods stared back. In his eyes, the Stranger, ready to pull her down to the seven hells and feast on her flesh. The Smith who had carved him so perfectly. The Warrior who had guided him in battle. Nobody could withstand him she thought, taking in the scars crisscrossed across his chest and stomach and arms and hips and thighs. The Father. For a moment, giants with hair kissed by flame and girls with black curls and Tully eyes flitted through her memory. But how could it be a memory? Her lashes fluttered -
“Please, Sandor. I need… I need… please.”
The iron trap loosened. The Hound lifted her and leaned himself against her pillows. She saw his hands move down, stroking his length. She gulped.
“Go on, girl.”
Her trembling hands gripped the Hound, both of them wrapped around his cock. Soft velvet over hard steel. She twisted them up and saw his eyes roll back, his groan rumbling through his chest.
Her hands glided up then down, massaging his sack and coaxing beads of fluid from his tip. As she leaned forward to lick it up, drink it down, she saw his hands pressed against his eyes as if in pain. He clenched them into fists against his forehead then leaned forward to pick her up.
“You’re gonna fucking kill me. Need you. Need that perfect cunt now.”
A blush spread over her cheekbones and down her chest at his words. The Hound met it with his lips, made a soft pop as he let loose her teased nipples. He raised himself further up the pillows, almost sitting up, then placed her knees on either side of him, still holding her in the air, her center just an inch above his throbbing cock.
Sansa stared down at him, momentarily confused, dripping onto his cockhead. Then it came to her: he wants me to choose him. Sansa shifted her weight onto her knees, pushed his hair back, and cupped his face. She slid her hands down, steadying them on his chest. As her lips pressed into his, she rocked back onto him.
Her eyes squeezed tight as her hips moved up and down. His beads of wetness mixed with hers and spilled down his length, helping her take more with each bounce. Sandor’s hands had moved to grip her thighs below her backside.
“Fucking perfect. So fucking beautiful. Been dreaming of splitting you open since the moment I saw you. Take my cock little bird. My lady. My sweet lady.”
Sansa felt herself tightening around him. Red tendrils spilled over their bare torsos. It was too much.
“Please help me, Sandor… please… please I need more, need you-“
Before she had closed her eyes, his hands had gripped her wrists. He pumped into her mercilessly, filling her, taking her completely. He swallowed her moans. She was falling apart-
“Look at me,” he commanded once more. She opened her eyes and saw calm, Northern skies. She saw love. She saw him. As he pushed into her again, she felt her walls convulse around him, squeezing him, milking him.
“Fuck,” he growled, “…over. On your stomach. Can’t fill you up with my cum just yet sweet bird.” Oh Gods.
Sansa’s bones and muscles had fled her body. As her second peak rippled through her, she heard Sandor’s low, rumbling groan, felt him painting her with his seed. He collapsed on top of her. Utterly naked and torn apart, crushed into her bed by the most vicious warrior in the seven kingdoms, she had never felt safer or more cherished.
—
The Hound’s thick bands of muscle stretched around her ribcage as his softening cock dragged down her flower. She felt his abdomen tighten along her back and he pulled himself up to kneel behind her. Sansa turned her head, raising her shoulder, but the Hound pushed her down onto his cloak with one hand, gently stroking her flower with the other. She felt his fingers curve into the mess of his seed and her wetness before his arm reached around her tummy and pulled her against him.
Rough fingers ran along her raw lips, pushing two fingers and the evidence of their coupling inside.
“Suck.” She obeyed.
“Good girl. Now swallow it all down, little bird.”
Sansa’s eyes darted towards him, unsure, her mouth still wrapped tight round his fingers. He chuckled darkly.
“Drink up, little bird. Might be I take you away tonight. Might be this is the only meal to fill you up for some time.”
She gulped, sucking the salt and honey and metal and Arbor Gold right down.
“Good girl,” Sandor growled again.
Sansa smiled brightly and kissed him for a long moment. She broke away to whisper, “Thank you, Sandor.” She was a good girl, and always remembered her courtesies.
—
They lay melded together, limbs only distinguishable by the patterns of their bruises and scars. Sandor watched her features, the mask she wore in court set aside. She was daydreaming - or was it nightdreaming? - her mind leagues away. He did not begrudge her those fantasies. Not while he was here to keep her safe. But as he watched, a shadow of tension spread across her delicate features, her eyebrows briefly knitting.
“What is it, little bird?” he rasped, wary that she regretted giving herself to him.
“I… I had the thought… it’s just… please, Sandor. When we are away from this place. When we leave. Will you… will you say the words to me, too?”
He stared for a moment, at a loss to what she meant. And then it came to him: I am yours, and you are mine.
A growl of disbelief rumbled from his throat. “You mean be your husband? And you, my little lady wife?”
“Oh yes, please. Yes, that’s what I meant.” Chirp-fucking-chirp. A vice squeezed his heart. A ship. Mosaic floors. Silk. Sandor slowly shook his head.
“Sansa… aye, if you wish it. Once I keep my vow to keep you safe, I’ll take that vow, too.”
Sunlight burst from her features, though the room remained dark as a tomb. Then she bit her lip, reigning in her joy, and her courtesies came spilling forth.
“But only if you wish it, too. And… and won’t it matter, that I am no longer a maid? I thought men… I thought you would not want me as a wife, if…”
The Hound let out a bark of laughter that quickly dissolved into sniggers like steel on stone. “Where have you been the past few hours, bird? I took your maidenhead. What difference does it make when? And even if I hadn’t been the one to take it…” he paused, taking a deep breath, seeing how grave this was to her, remembering the lies of septas and highborns she had been fed all her life, “… it’s just a bit of flesh and blood. The Stranger has taken plenty of bites of the both of us.”
She stared at him through a tangle of flaming, frizzy waves. Her lips parted slightly as she cupped his face - the burned side. He took another breath, drawing it from her lungs, and continued on.
“In the years since Gregor sent me to the seven hells, I’ve only wanted three things: killing, revenge, and you. I’ve had plenty of killing, and I’m sure I’ll get plenty more. But the revenge doesn’t matter so much, as long as I have you. Nothing really matters so much, as long as I am yours, and you are mine.”
—
Later, as Sandor slipped from her room and Sansa slept peacefully, she dreamt of a ship across the Narrow Sea. Of giant sons, red of hair, sparring outside a house with mosaic floors. Of daughters with sweeping black curls, stitching black dogs and red birds onto golden autumn grass. And she thought that while she could not turn men to ice, perhaps the Old Gods had blessed her instead with the magic of sight.