#◤Sandor◢ – rel. a dog and his little bird: Sansa | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

winesink · 5 months ago

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WIP whenever! AKA proof I am currently working on the follow up, as promised.

CW: Canon typical description of animal cruelty under the cut (it's the scene in the Bailey where Joffrey shot a cat with a cross bow, but it's non-gratuitious)

The Imp had given the king a crossbow at some point. Sandor bloody hated crossbows. A coward's weapon - cowards who couldn't look a man in the face when they killed him. Cowards who shot at stray cats when they were mad, also.

It wasn't even a good shot. The cat was long in dying, it's mewls drowning out Ser Lancel's report of Robb's most recent win. It must have been quite a thrashing - reports were already blaming black magic. The king was furious, his glower growing more ominous by the second. Sandor didn't particularly wish to see another cat die, but he'd have given anything to bring all the strays in King's Landing to His Grace's feet if it meant he'd forget his favorite toy.

No such luck, it seemed.

"Fetch me my Lady." Meryn leapt into action immediately but the king stopped him with a glare. "Dog, you do it. I want her frightened."

'Aye, and she might be at that, though not for the reasons you want.' Sandor wasn't good at apologies, but he'd meant to speak with his little bird about the previous night. He should not have called her stupid. She was not stupid for wanting to leave. And here they were now, as if to prove her point, Sandor sent to fetch her for the worst beating of her life, probably. He'd been stupid - stupid to believe the king would not escalate, stupid to believe she was relatively safe in the capital. The king may very well put a bolt in her chest in a matter of hours. Sandor would take the bolt, of course. The first couple, if need be. But eventually he'd die, and then she'd have no shield.

Her maids were still fluttering about when he knocked on her door. The oldest one - one of the queen's he was fairly sure - opened the door and eyed him all over. That was good. She'd run back and tell Cersei the Hound had been sent away from the king to retrieve the little bird himself. She might come to investigate and when she saw her son tormenting the girl, she would be very cross indeed.

"His Grace has requested the presence of his lady."

"Well his lady is not properly dressed," she snipped.

Despite himself, Sandor's eyes darted above the maid's shoulder to Sansa's vanity. Their eyes met in the mirror briefly, but Sandor took in her bare shoulder where her dress hadn't been properly secured yet as well. "Get her decent, and quickly. The king will not want to be kept waiting this morning." At that last, he turned back to the maid and gave her a pointed look.

She frowned in understanding and shut the door in his face, though she didn't bar it. Sandor waited as long as he thought it would take to tie off a dress and then barged in. He was kingsguard, after all, and Sansa was to be queen; it wasn't completely indecent, provided she was chaperoned. Sansa jumped a foot but the maids didn't think much of it, continuing to brush and fasten her hair, applying powder to the bags under her eyes he felt only slightly guilty about.

They'd have a chance to speak soon enough. Maybe then she'd get a decent night's sleep.

"The longer you keep him waiting, the worse it will go for you," he warned her.

How Easy You Are to Need

Sansan one shot (for now). Porn with some plot, mutual masturbation, sex ed teacher Sandor, blink and you miss it pet play, open/ambiguous ending. CW for non-con kissing (not from Sandor), and Sansa slapping the Hound (dw he's into it)

summary: There was a proper response to this, she knew. Some well-established line Septa Mordane had probably told her a half a hundred times. 'What to do if some non-knight touches you indecently; how to demure when you knew he was speaking in innuendos.' It was hard to remember such silly courtesies when her thoughts were otherwise occupied, comparing the Hound's sturdy, thick fingers to Dontos' fleshy, clammy grip. Dontos had smelled vaguely of bed sores and day-old sick. He'd been stale all over but for the fog of dry white wine which now polluted Sansa's every breath. Clegane smelled like leather and iron and the sour red he preferred. Sansa hated red wines.

Still, she wanted Dontos' taste gone more thoroughly than her mouth rinse would do.

'Come to the godswood tonight, if you want to go home.'

Sansa had burned the note the second she'd read it but the words felt like they'd been etched into the backs of her eyelids all the same. She didn't trust her handmaids, but it had to be one of them who'd placed the note under her pillow, surely. They'd been in and out all day, a dressmaker having spent the better part of the day in Sansa's chambers, measuring and sampling fabrics for a new wardrobe. The queen had even come at some point to tut elegantly at Sansa's first choices.

Whoever it was must have been very brave. Was it a ploy? Some plot of the queen's to prove her disloyalty? Sansa doubted very much that the queen cared enough to waste her time with such, and Joffrey was too stupid to invent such a game. Varys? Littlefinger had left for the Eyrie, but everyone said that Lord Tyrion was just as cunning. Would she sneak away in the dead of night only to be met with the King's Justice?

Despite her cloudy thoughts, a small tendril of hope squirmed to life deep in her belly. The knights at court were all untrustworthy, she'd learned, but not all songs sang of knights. Florian was no knight, yet he was more gallant than any man of the Kingsuard. Well all except one, perhaps, and no knight himself. Huffing, Sansa scolded herself to not be so foolish. The Hound was loyal to Joffrey and she would do well to remember that. Just because he took no pride in beating young ladies, it did not mean he carried any notion of saving her. Nor did it make him gallant.

Still, if anyone were capable of saving her, surely none were more suited for the task than the Hound?

***

She'd been lucky. Troubles in the city had drawn the guards away from the drawbridge. Sansa pulled her cloak closer about herself and darted over the dry moat. The king would be leading a raiding party beyond the gate, it seemed, his guards helping him into his armor. Sansa was frightened of being noticed, but she could not resist the urge to seek out the Hound's large figure among all the commotion. She did not see him, and despite herself, her heart soared to know it might be because he was waiting for her in the Godswood.

"With me!" The king cried, a clangor of shield banging following him out the gate.

'I hope they kill him,' she thought, fingering the hilt of the breadknife she'd hidden in her cloak. Maybe she could slip into the fray herself, pretend to be a starving peasant and slit his throat. Instead she slipped left toward the serpentine and continued on her way.

The commotion of the commons fell away as she entered the Godswood, the thick carpet of leaves and moss swallowing the sounds as she walked further and further within. This wood was not overlarge, but it was deep enough that she worried she wouldn't be able to find her accomplice's meeting place before he got tired of waiting and left.

"I feared you would not come, child."

Sansa drew up short, her back to the newcomer. The voice was low but slurred, not the harsh growl she'd expected. She turned slowly until she could make out a man's figure hiding amongst the trees. Heavyset, stumbling as he came closer, Sansa watched in horror as his blotchy and bloated face came into view. "Ser Dontos?" She cried, heartbroken. "Was it you?"

"Yes, my lady," he sighed. His breath smelled of wine and onions and his lips smacked messily. "Me," he reached out his hand.

"Don't!" She hissed. "You must never touch me."

"I am sorry my lady, I only wanted to show my gratitude to you."

"I don't care," Sansa snapped. "What do you want with me?"

"Only to help you. As you helped me."

"You're drunk, aren't you?"

“Only one cup of wine, to help my courage. If they catch me now, they’ll strip the skin off my back.”

She'd been such a fool. They would both be dead soon if this was her savior. "Who sent you?" She demanded.

“No one, sweet lady. I swear it on my honor as a knight.”

"What good is that honor?"

“I deserve that, though… I know it’s queer, but… all those years I was a knight, I was truly a fool, and now that I am a fool I think… I think I may find it in me to be a knight again, sweet lady. And all because of you… your grace, your courage. You saved me, not only from Joffrey, but from myself.” His voice dropped. “The singers say there was another fool once who was the greatest knight of all…”

Florian, he meant, but where the song had given her comfort earlier, it nearly made her gag now. She changed the subject, “How… how would you do it? Get me away?”

“Taking you from the castle, that will be the hardest. Once you’re out, there are ships that would take you home. I’d need to find the coin and make the arrangements, that’s all.”

Sansa frowned, remembering how her father had wanted to ship her and Arya off once. "When?"

"First I must find a sure way to get you from the castle when the hour is ripe. It will not be easy, nor quick. They watch me as well.”

Sansa didn't doubt that. "I will… think about your offer."

Dontos looked miffed. "You'll… think on it?"

"Yes," she answered firmly. "How can I tell you my answer?"

Ser Dontos glanced about anxiously. “The risk is too great. You must come here, to the Godswood. As often as you can. This is the safest place. The only safe place. Nowhere else. Not in your chambers nor mine nor on the steps nor in the yard, even if it seems we are alone. The stones have ears in the Red Keep, and only here may we talk freely.”

“Only here,” Sansa said. “I’ll remember.”

“And if I should seem cruel or mocking or indifferent when men are watching, forgive me, child. I have a role to play, and you must do the same. One misstep and our heads will adorn the walls as did your father’s.”

She nodded, thinking of the Hound's apathetic glare as Ser Meryn punched her in the belly. Perhaps… perhaps he wasn't quite so cruel as she had originally judged him. “I understand.”

“You will need to be brave and strong … and patient, patient above all.” Sansa frowned. She hadn't told him she'd accept. "And now you must go, before you are missed." She turned to leave but then he was grabbing her wrist. "But before you go, give your Florian a kiss." And then he was pulling her close, pressing his sloppy lips to hers and Sansa couldn't reach her knife with his grip on her wrist.

"No," she hissed, "unhand me or I'll - I'll…" But what could she do? She was alone here, her closest confidants the trees that surrounded them. Still, he seemed chastised enough for he relented, a thin rope of slimy saliva snapping between them and Sansa simply ran.

She was half way down the serpentine when a man lurched out of a hidden doorway. Sansa caromed into him and lost her balance. Iron fingers caught her by the wrist before she could fall, and a deep voice rasped at her. “It’s a long roll down the serpentine, little bird. Want to kill us both?” His laughter was rough as a saw on stone. The Hound. “Maybe you do.”

Sansa tried to protest but he wasn't in the mood to listen, evidently. "What's Joff's little bird doing flying down the serpentine in the black of night? Answer me," he demanded, shaking her.

Her head tossed limply once, twice, before he stopped shaking and simply held her upright. She settled her hair and stared boldly up at him, taking in the way the torches striped his twisted flesh - the red and cratered bits that had healed bad, and the gnarled black flesh that had healed worse. A spot of bone was visible at his jaw, flashing between deep folds of skin that seeped red when he spoke. But his eye was still good and Sansa thought maybe that was the worst of it. Even swimming in wine, his hard gray eyes all but glinted with implacable fury.

Sometimes, in the throne room, when Joff was having her beaten, she would look up at the Hound's horrible, ugly face and his strong stature, and imagined carving another pound of flesh from him: a solid chunk of muscle, perhaps his bicep, which she could stretch and mold into a good stiff leather with which to armor herself. He had plenty to spare. It was a stupid, childish thought, but one she often found herself leaning on. Perhaps it was this ill-thought notion of stealing his strength that had her answering honestly:

"In the Godswood. Ser Dontos, he… he-."

"He what?" The Hound rasped, drawing her closer as he continued to leer down at her.

But he was drunk, and murderous, and it would be a shame to save the fool's life just to send the Hound after him. "It's only… I was there, praying for the king's safe return. And I found him winesick. I tried -."

The Hound had spit at her well wishes, however, and he dropped her altogether when he deemed Dontos no threat. "Think I'm so drunk I'd believe that?" When he stepped away from her, he swayed slightly, and Sansa briefly worried he would tumble down the serpentine. There'd be no catching him.

He was unconcerned. "Bloody hells, look at you. You're a woman, now. Face, teats… you're tall for a woman, you know?" Sansa eyed his shoulder, suddenly realizing most women were probably unable to do such a thing. "These knights almost can't be blamed, can they? All so desperate to lay a hand on you in anyway they can." His voice had dropped to a deep growl, so low she could feel it in her own chest. "But you're still a stupid little bird, aren't you? Singing all the songs they taught you… 'No, please, don't hurt him,'" he mocked and it took her a moment to realize that was supposed to be her, begging mercy for Dontos. "Sing me a song, why don’t you? Go on. Sing to me. Some song about knights and fair maids. You like knights still, don’t you?”

'Give your Florian a kiss.'

'I know a song,' she thought bitterly, 'one you'll rage to hear.' But the Hound would kill Ser Dontos if she told him tonight, and she may never get another offer to leave, so she kept her mouth shut.

At some point he'd leaned closer again, his sour breath displacing the wispy curls around her face that never laid flat in the southron humidity. "You're no knight, my lord."

"Nor am I a lord, little bird. Do I need to beat that into you?" The grip was back at her arm, tightening almost painfully, but it was still much lighter than Ser Boros's bruising grasp. It's his armor, she realized. He only wanted to scare her again.

"You won't hurt me," she breathed and she watched his scowl - the Hound's scowl - melt away as his grasp did.

"No, little bird, I won't hurt you." He gave his head a shake, scrubbed his hand over the unmarred side of his face. "Drunk as a dog, damn me. You come now. Back to your cage, little bird. I’ll take you there. Keep you safe." And then he gave her a gentle push back out the alcove and followed behind her like a proper escort would as she continued on down the serpentine.

They ran into some trouble at Maegor's gate when Ser Boros questioned their whereabouts and how Sansa had been outside the walls at such an hour. But all obstacles were easy when you were as strong and frightening as the Hound, it seemed, for he only had to growl some threats about telling the queen how Sansa had slipped all their minds, and the gates were opened for them promptly.

"Why do you let people call you a dog?" Sansa asked, once the Hound had summarily dismissed Ser Boros.

He'd sobered some throughout their walk, and his voice was steady when he told her about how his grandfather had earned his title. "A hound will die for you, but never lie to you. And he'll look you straight in the face." He cupped her under the jaw, raising her chin, his fingers pinching her painfully. "And that's more than little birds can do, isn't it? I never got my song."

There was a proper response to this, she knew. Some well-established line Septa Mordane had probably told her a half a hundred times. 'What to do if some non-knight touches you indecently; how to demure when you knew he was speaking in innuendos.' It was hard to remember such silly courtesies when her thoughts were otherwise occupied, comparing the Hound's sturdy, thick fingers to Dontos' fleshy, clammy grip. Dontos had smelled vaguely of bed sores and day-old sick. He'd been stale all over but for the fog of dry white wine which now polluted Sansa's every breath. Clegane smelled like leather and iron and the sour red he preferred. Sansa hated red wines.

Still, she wanted Dontos' taste gone more thoroughly than her mouth rinse would do.

Some wild daring took over her. Sansa grabbed the Hound's arm and tugged, elated when he either allowed himself to be tipped, or stumbled in his drunkeness. She placed her hands on his shoulders, the better to stand on her toes. 'You're tall,' he'd said, but not quite tall enough. So she slipped one hand into the hair at the back of his head and pulled him down until she could press her lips to his. It was strange, unpracticed. The scarring at the side of his mouth was hard and unyielding, but she found she liked it better than Dontos's slobbery lips.

The Hound was like stone under her affections for a moment, too shocked to do anything besides grip her chin even tighter, and then he growled low in his chest, the vibrations stiffening her nipples where they pressed into his armor. His arm snaked around her waist, the other cupping her neck delicately, as if he was afraid to hurt her. And then he was opening his mouth and her lips were following his and he slid his tongue along the ridge of her teeth and Sansa nearly gagged on the taste of his sour red wine.

She pulled away from him in a flash, remembering herself. The Hound didn't look surprised by her reticence, grinning like a fool at her shocked face and that was worse than anything had been tonight, she thought, so she slapped him across the unmarred side of his face and slammed the door on him, his laughter echoing off the stone walls of the hall until her room seemed to be shaking with it.

***

Everyone said that the Imp could not be trusted, and as Sansa watched Tyrion soundly reject Robb's peace terms from the Iron Throne, Sansa could see why. The Hand was deft, negotiating his own terms in such a way that showed exactly what the crown thought of Robb's peace; and when the envoy declared as such, Tyrion reminded Ser Cleos that Robb stood alone with no possible hope for allies while Kings Stannis and Renly battered each other to bits in Storm's End.

He did offer two northern hostages for every Lannister, which would appease Robb - though he posed it in such a way that had the court laughing about their value - and he graciously promised to return her father's bones as a token of Joffrey's good faith. The king himself wasn't available to comment on that, of course, and Sansa couldn't help noticing that the only thing of value Tyrion had relented, was something that wasn't doing a single southerner any good.

"Lord Stark asked for his sisters and his father's sword as well," Ser Cleos reminded the little lord.

"Ice," Tyrion corrected absently, eying Ser Ilyn, where the sword in question could be seen over the man's shoulder. Sansa wanted to rip the name from his mouth, the sword from the false knight's back. But of course, she could do neither, so she stood silently and waited for Lord Tyrion's verdict. "He'll have that when he makes his peace with us, not before."

"As you say. And his sisters?"

The Imp's eyes found Sansa's briefly from across the throne room. He looked troubled, but not enough to change his mind. “Until such time as he frees my brother Jaime, unharmed, they shall remain here as hostages. How well they are treated depends on him.”

Sansa's heart ached to hear it, though it could very well have been the broad bruise that covered her chest hurting instead. Ser Mandon had thrown her roughly to the floor the night previous and she hadn't been able to catch herself before taking the ledge of a step on her breast. She viciously hoped Ser Jaimie was being tortured even worse than herself. Fair was only fair, especially seeing as Arya may very well be dead.

A Black Brother begged audience then and Sansa made her excuses as she exited the hall, Ser Preston in tow. Her bastard brother Jon was at Castle Black now, and Sansa couldn't bear to hear what troubles he was facing as well as the rest of her family. She was glad, however, that Tyrion would be hearing the man's petition instead of Joffrey or the queen. Tyrion had visited the Wall after accompanying King Robert to Winterfell and by all accounts the experience had been eye opening for him. The other Lannisters would have laughed him off outright, but Tyrion may actually help.

She was also glad for Tyrion's presence because it meant she hadn't had to see Joffrey. Or the Hound.

The Gods had been kind enough to keep them apart ever since she'd thrown herself at him a few nights prior and Sansa was ever so grateful because she could imagine what he thought of her. If she'd been a stupid little bird before, he must think her still a child now - to steal a kiss from a grown man and then get so overwhelmed as to slap him for it. Gods, but Sansa had never slapped anyone in her life; Septa Mordane and her lady mother both would have dropped dead on the spot if she had.

She would have to apologize eventually, she knew, but the prospect had kept her up the past few nights. The thought of tracking the Hound to some quiet, abandoned corner of the castle was upsetting enough. To then subject herself to the humiliation of acknowledging what she'd done was unbearable. More than once, she'd managed to convince herself the man had been too far in his cups to remember, but for some reason, that thought upset her nearly as much as the other.

Tired, Sansa returned to her chambers. It was too early to retire, but there was some mending she wanted to get done and no one had requested her presence that night so she shut the door in quiet Ser Preston's face and sat at her window until her bedmaid came to prepare her for sleep.

It was dark as pitch in her room when a thud at her door woke her. Sansa gasped as she woke, sitting bolt upright as she tried to orient herself. She'd been dreaming of Lady, of hunting in Winterfell's Godswood, of sitting under the Heart Tree and licking the blood from her paws daintily. But her room in King's Landing was too hot, despite her banked coals having burned themselves out, and she'd no blood on her hands.

The knock came again - no, no knock. A heavy gauntlet at her door that she'd come to know well. Sansa shivered despite the oppressive heat she felt. This was worse than any daydream of hunting Clegane down, surely. If sequestering him in an empty storeroom had been a daunting possibility, having him in her rooms demanding an apology was downright unnerving.

Slipping out of her bed, she found a robe - the lighter one that clung like fine silk but wouldn't make her sweat as much - and pulled her door open for her guest.

He stood closer than she'd been expecting, as if trying to shelter his massive frame under her door jamb. "Ser?" she peeped, but he brushed her aside and strode into her room. By the sound of his scraping boots, he only made it a few steps before drawing to a halt.

"The coals must have died," Sansa supplied lamely, bolting the door on instinct. The only thing worse than the Hound being in her room, was the whole court knowing the Hound was in her room. The last thing she needed was an overeager bedmaid coming to check on her now. He grunted and moved toward the fireplace, sifting through the hot ash until he found a kernel of heat strong enough to stoke to life. Sansa stood awkwardly to the side and waited until the low light unfolded enough that she could see his frame. He wore no armor tonight, she was surprised to find. Which meant his bare fist had pounded against her door so ominously. Sansa's skin prickled. "You don't have to do that, Ser, it's rather warm in here."

"Want to see you." The Hound turned to her finally. Backlit by the coals and kneeling, he looked more beast than man - a hellhound crawling from the deepest pit to warm himself at her hearth.

"Oh," was all she could muster, remembering the last time he'd seen her. He'd be angry tonight, she knew. The fearsome Hound she'd hated so much back at that stupid inn on the Kingsroad. "I'm sorry, Ser, for the way I -."

"Shove it," he growled, standing and walking to the small seat at her table. It creaked ominously under his weight as he sat. "Rather not hear how very sorry you are for the best thing that's ever happened in my miserable life."

"Ser?"

"Not a 'Ser,' girl," he snapped. "You went around shoving your tongue down knights' throats, you know what they'd do to you?" Sansa was too shamed to answer. That had not been what she'd done, he'd done that; but it wouldn't do any good to go reminding him what she had done. "Save your 'Sers.' I'm no knight, just a dog begging for any scraps you're willing to throw my way."

He wouldn't stop staring at her. It was hard to meet his eye, but she knew how much it displeased him when she looked away so she tried her best. Could it be that he'd liked how she'd kissed him? The Hound hated liars most of all, he wouldn't say as much just to spare her feelings. "But I slapped you," she reminded him, her blush creeping down to her collar now.

"Aye, you did," he allowed, but his tone didn't match the situation at all. If anything he seemed… amused, perhaps? His mouth twisted in a feral grin, his eyes absolutely gleaming with something she was slowly becoming familiar as they raked over Sansa's form.

This was… not something she'd expected. Sansa was a woman grown and not naïve to the ways of men and women. And no one lived in the Capital for long without learning about whores with… specialties… so she understood that some men had specific tastes. But Sansa had been slapped many times by now and she could not understand the appeal. "And this… pleased you?"

Sandor snorted, the moment cracking around the edges but not quite breaking. He leaned forward in his seat until she thought he might fall out. "Pleased me more than once, I admit."

"Oh," Sansa peeped. He meant to scare her, she knew, but the image of the Hound finding his own release as he thought of her hands on him washed a wave of goosepimples up her arms that had nothing to do with fear.

"So bloody proper," he rasped, though he sounded more revenant than accusatory. "You've never even pleased yourself, have you little bird?"

Sansa turned away from him then, under the pretense of finding a seat. She flit about for a moment, only remembering her room was not intended for two when she found no chair for herself. She eyed her bed suspiciously for a moment, as if it would tattle to her septa that she'd allowed a man into her room and then entered her bed if she did so; but she sat on the very edge of it all the same. Her fluttering, of course, didn't do her much good. Sandor's hulking form and wolfish gaze had etched themselves into her mind; the way the low light was swallowed by his dark hair and his dark eyes and his dark clothes until he seemed a phantom come to torment her would haunt her even in the daylight, she knew. "No," she finally whispered, and the Hound laughed.

"Of course not. Bet you didn't even know you could."

Sansa knew that some women could find happiness in their marriage bed, though she knew it was uncommon and everyone seemed to agree it was mostly up to the husband's disposition. "I thought… I thought any pleasure to be found in… that… was to come from the hu- the man."

"That's what your septa taught you no doubt," the Hound agreed, though his tone was softer now and Sansa could manage to peek at him. "They lied to you, girl. You can please yourself better than most men."

Sansa frowned, her thoughts turning to Joffrey and the long life of misery she most likely faced. "How?" She breathed.

It was the right thing to say, it seemed. The Hound growled and kicked the table away from himself, leaning forward eagerly into the space he'd created, his eyes alight like the coals he had stoked earlier. He was so… big. Sansa sometimes forgot, used as she'd become to his presence. But even unarmored and folded into a too-small chair, he seemed to loom across her room in a way she could not get away from. The table had been pushed far enough away from him that she could see him fully now: his legs spread and stretched out before him, his elbows perched carelessly on the arms of the chair. "Will you lean back for me?" He requested and Sansa found she did not want to deny him anything right then. So she did as bid, planting her palms behind her and shifting her weight more solidly onto them. Her thin silk robe pulled open at her chest but not quite enough to reveal her breasts through the thin fabric of her shift.

Sansa wasn't sure she would even care if it did.

"Good girl," the Hound praised and Sansa suppressed a mewl. She'd always been such a good girl; she could be a good girl now. "Spread your legs." Sansa did, her robe only holding on by the stay at her waist now. The Hound took a moment to look her over, his gaze just as consuming as it was when he practiced in the training yard. Sansa remembered watching him from afar, how he would laugh as he kicked blooded knights into the dirt.

"I'm going to touch you now. Over your shift. You'll tell me if you want me to stop." Sansa was nodding before she knew what she was about, but the Hound moved slowly enough she could have clamped her legs shut if she'd changed her mind. He slid from his seat until he knelt and then he was crawling the short distance to her bed, his gaze never leaving the apex of her thighs. She didn't like to see him on the floor, she decided, though it made her feel powerful and he looked perfectly content himself, managing not to make the motion look pathetic.

When he reached her he returned to kneeling, grabbing her ankles delicately and placing them on his knees. His eyes met hers then, holding them as he ran his palms up her calves to wrap around the backs of her knees and pull, Sansa's body sliding across her sheets until her knees were almost at his ears. Her breath stuttered in shock but the Hound never faltered, one hand sliding up under her robe to wrap around her rear as the other skimmed up to her waist. He paused there, rubbing his thumb across the crest of her hip for a moment, the fabric catching on his calluses. He seemed like he was waiting on something but Sansa was beyond words so she pulled one hand out from under her and brought her knuckles to his face, stroking his brow in kind. Sandor sighed at that, the gust of hot air seeping through Sansa's shift to warm her thighs. And then the hand at her hip was sliding inward, her shift bunching until he could press two thick fingers to her sex and she was mortified to find she was wet - the embarrassing kind of slick that only happened when she watched the knights in the training yard - and worse, enough that the Hound could feel it through her shift and her small clothes! But the Hound only cursed under his breath and took a shaky, calming breath, stroking her there minutely all the while.

"This is your cunt," he told her. His voice sounded broken, the whetstone scrape having finally honed the blade brittle. "You can press your little fingers in there if you want but not too deep. You'll feel your maidenhead in there. About a knuckle deep. Don't break it, that's for His Fucking Grace, remember?" Sansa nodded, but the Hound wasn't looking at her. His eyes were locked where he touched her and Sansa wondered if he was talking to himself then. "You're wet." Again his voice cracked. "That's good. So fucking good. Your slick comes from here, little bird. Coat your fingers, as much as you want."

And then his fingers were moving up, dragging the fabric against her sensitive skin until he met the little fold at the front of her sex and Sansa gasped, her own hand sliding up until her fingers sank into Sandor's hair and if possible he leaned in closer, his shoulders pushing her knees impossibly wide and his breath creating a hot pocket of warmth at her tummy. He adjusted his hand until his fingers framed some tiny piece of flesh, pulling the fabric of her smallclothes across the sensitive pebble as he moved his fingers in a miniscule circle.

"This is your pearl, little bird," he growled. "This is where you'll find your pleasure when you're all alone in your little cage. Or if a man isn't doing his job properly." His fingers pressed harder and Sansa moaned quietly, her own digits clutching at his scalp and in her bedding. The grip he had around her bottom tightened and he drew her even closer, pressing his nose to the fabric folded into the crease of her hip and scenting her fully, groaning.

Sansa felt like her bed would swallow her up at any second. Or maybe the Hound would. Or maybe the coals in her fireplace would catch and consume them both. She was hot all over but she shook as if the coldest winds of winter were raking across her skin. Her robe had bunched up enough that it had fallen completely away from her breasts and they heaved with her panting, feeling heavier by far than she knew they were. Her nipples had pebbled until they were visible through her shift and she had a sudden urge to touch herself there so she dropped her weight more fully onto her elbow and removed her hand from the Hound's hair to cup her breast, testing its weight. Then her fingers were moving to the peak, rubbing and pinching until she hissed in pleasure.

She hadn't noticed the Hound's eyes following her movements until he spoke against her thigh, "Lick your fingers first." Sansa met his eyes and complied, coating her fingers much as he had, sucking herself down to her knuckles. The Hound grunted like a beast, his pace increasing until Sansa mewled and then her fingers were back at her breast but her saliva wasn't quite as thick and it didn't soak through her shift the way her slick had. Frustrated and beyond caring, wanting to feel everything the Hound directed her to feel, she tugged at her stays harshly until her front panels fell away and her breasts were exposed to the humid air of the room and she was pinching at her nipples again.

Sansa sighed just as the Hound cursed, his fingers dipping down to soak her slip in more slick, as if he could tell her own were no longer wet. "Your lord husband will lick you there, if you're lucky." He growled.

"Joffrey won't lick me anywhere." Her voice was ragged. When had that happened?

Sandor didn't respond but his finger returned to her pearl and it felt better now with less friction; so Sansa took his queue, only - he'd said her husband would lick her there and suddenly she wanted the Hound's mouth on her and she was sitting up enough to push her fingers into his mouth and the Hound moaned obscenely, sucking on her digits and coating them with his tongue until she deemed them wet enough and returned them to her nipple.

He was right, that was much better.

The Hound was panting just as much as she was now, staring up at her reverently. When she met his eyes his grip changed: a press of the pad of one finger directly to the nerve bundle and Sansa nearly screamed.

"There, please," she moaned and the Hound groaned, pressing harder against her bud and speeding up until she was shaking, her legs trying to clamp shut on his hand but his massive body was in the way so she was left open, vulnerable to his ruthless assault until her body bowed and she was gasping, his name a litany she couldn't stop reciting.

His fingers slowed and gentled, each slide of fabric so overwhelming it nearly hurt until he stopped altogether, their breathing so loud it almost echoed in her silent room. She sat up until she could see him again, his eyes boring holes into her. He was still panting, she noticed, and she wondered if he breathed like that when he found his release as well.

"Good girl," he praised again and Sansa shivered. His hands pulled away from her and she felt so bereft she was following them, sliding from the bed until she sat in his lap and she was kissing him again. He groaned low in his throat and pulled her closer, an arm around her hips and the other hand at the nape of her neck and this time when he pushed his tongue to her teeth she was opening gratefully, trying to suck on his tongue as he had done with her fingers. His breath did not taste like wine tonight.

The arm around her hips pulled her impossibly closer, her shift riding up until her small clothes pressed to his breeches and - oh gods, that was his manhood. Hot and hard and pressed against her soaked sex. "Sandor," she whined, unsure what she wanted.

"I know," he breathed against her lips, and then he was using his grip to push her more firmly against himself and they were so close now she could feel him twitch. It should hurt, she thought, with how sensitive she had been only moments earlier, but he'd never hurt her before and he certainly wasn't now so she moved with him until he was growling in frustration and lifting her back onto her bed - as if she weighed a feather, she noted with a shutter.

"Show me what you've learned little bird," he prompted, his hands sliding up the skirt of her shift again but Sansa felt like she was boiling out of her skin and even the paltry weight of it was too much to bear so she yanked her skirts up over her hips, shifting the bulk behind her until she could see her smallclothes and she was mortified to be seen like this but the Hound was groaning again and palming his thickness through his breeches so it was all okay, wasn't it? Emboldened, Sansa pulled the stays of her small clothes and the Hound leapt into action with a curse, sliding them down her legs and throwing them to the side. He slid his hands back up her ankles, prying her legs apart when she inevitably tried to hide herself away again.

"Show me," he rasped, "let me see your pretty red cunt." Sansa blushed but complied, leaning back as she had before so he could look his fill. "Gods, Sansa. So damn good for me. Look at you. So wet."

As if disbelieving, Sansa pushed her fingers to her core, though her petals were in the way so she spread them, noting how his breath hitched. "What are these?" She asked sweetly, petting the folds of silky skin just to watch how his eyes followed the motion.

"Those are your lips, girl. Keep teasing me with them and I'll show you how they like to be kissed, too." Sansa gasped, her legs trying to snap closed again. He wouldn't. That was so vulgar! But the Hound only held her legs wide and laughed, his breath fanning across her exposed flesh. "No? That's okay. Someday, when the king has put a dozen babes in you and never once made you cum you'll come crawling back to your old dog, begging me to lick you clean."

The thought of it all revolted her - Joffrey and his babes, the Hound's mouth on her there; but his eagerness sparked something in her. 'Your old dog.' "And you would? Even then?"

The Hound scoffed, his hands engulfing her calves and rubbing at her muscles. "If there's ever a day I refuse an invitation to eat your sweet cunny just slit my throat and be done with it."

Sansa smiled despite his crude words, her fingers dipping down to her center to push her slick around as he had done. She'd pressed a fingertip inside herself once out of curiosity, but she hadn't been wet the way she was now and she'd thought the whole affair very overrated. Now, however, coated in her juices and with the Hound's eyes devouring her every move, she felt strangely empty and she remembered what he'd said about pressing her little fingers in. She wanted to try again.

Sandor's grip was like iron on her legs as he watched, his breath puffing across her heated skin. Sansa pressed the tip of her middle finger against her entrance and pushed until the silky sheath gave and she dipped into herself. It was still strange, she decided, but not unpleasant as it had been before, so she pushed a little deeper into herself until her bravery ran out, about knuckle deep.

"Curl your finger," the Hound suggested, so she did and it was pleasant - made her feel more full - but still not what she'd been led to believe it would be. "Does the wall there feel different from the others?" Sansa spun her finger to test but shook her head. The Hound nodded knowingly. "I don't think you'll be able to find release in there until after you lose your maidenhead, but you can tease yourself as much as you like. Try another finger."

The thought frightened her. Surely that would tear her open? But the Hound had said it would be fine and he hadn't steered her wrong yet, so she lined her ring finger up with her middle and pushed both digits in - slowly at first when the stretch startled her, and then more eagerly when she found it quite pleasant.

"Good girl," the Hound breathed. One of his hands slid from her calf down to her ankle again, his grip twitching as if he had something in mind he'd rather be doing with his hand.

"Are you going to touch yourself too, Ser?"

For once, Sandor Clegane did not balk at the title. He made a noise like she'd kicked him in the belly and his grip tightened on her ankle for a moment but then he cleared his throat and told her, "Not yet, little bird. Want to watch you cum when I do."

"Then will you touch me?"

The Hound groaned and used his grip to pull her closer. His mouth fell to her thigh and at first she thought he would bite her, but his teeth only clenched minutely on the taut muscle and his lips kissed the mark as if to soothe her. "Not tonight. I'll fuck you bloody if I do."

Sansa didn't think she would mind that, but that didn't make it a good idea. She curled her fingers inside herself a few times just to test the way it felt but then she removed them and pulled upward, searching for her pearl. They both moaned when she found it. Sansa first tried touching it directly the way he'd been doing when she'd peaked. It felt great but it made her shake too much almost immediately and she found she could not maintain the contact on her own. So she framed the nub between two fingers and tried that way, sighing as she found a slow but promising rhythm.

"How do you feel?"

Sansa felt a lot of things, altogether, but there was only one thing at the front of her mind: "Empty."

The Hound huffed a breath that might have been a laugh. "Have you ever seen a man's cock?"

"Yes." She had, once, when she and Jeyne went peaking around in the Godswood and saw a man bathing in the hot springs.

"Do you think it could fill you?"

"No." She wasn't certain, really. But he'd seemed small from her vantage point, and the ache in her womb felt far deeper than he'd be able to reach.

He did laugh then, and his hands left her legs. There was a rustling of fabric, the sound of skin on skin. "I'm a big man, little bird. Do you think I could fill you?"

Sansa sat up and spread the leg the Hound wasn't leaning on. He was slumped forward and hiding himself but leaned his shoulder away when he realized she was looking until she could see down his front, all the way down to where he'd removed his cock from his breeches, one fist wrapped around the base.

"Yes," she breathed.

The Hound said nothing but his gaze became consuming again, his fist beginning to stroke his cock until the bulbous head disappeared into his strong fist, fucking back through his grip in a way that had him twitching. The Hound was big. And thick. And veiny. His cock was ugly, really, but it was ugly in the same way his nose was - which was to say not at all - and Sansa's womb gave a longing twinge; she just knew he'd be able to soothe her ache.

"There's a place deep in your cunt, you know," he told her, as if able to read her thoughts. "Behind your maidenhead. Some men won't be able to reach it, but it will bring you the most pleasure."

"You could reach it." He could probably reach her heart with that thing.

"Aye, I could reach it. Fuck you good and deep until you begged me to put a pup in you," he promised; and that was - oh.

Sansa moaned, her movements speeding up. She wanted that violently all the sudden; imagining the Hound's bastards running around right under Joffrey's nose. The Hound had a northern look, she could pretend they'd taken after her father. Joffrey would have a conniption.

"The little bird wants her dog's pups, is that it?" He growled, his movements accelerating to match hers.

"Yes," she hissed.

"You're so bloody perfect," the Hound praised and Sansa keened. She felt like she would shake apart, but the Hound would keep her together. "No one else has ever seen you like this. No one else ever will."

"Only you."

"You'll never do this for the king."

"Never."

"Only for your old dog."

"Sandor -!"

"Come for me, little bird, sing me my favorite song." And Sansa was a good girl so she did as she was told. She made noises, she knew, but she barely heard them over the Hound's own grunts and groans, his praises of 'good girl,' and 'just like that,' and 'fucking perfect, princess.'

She'd leaned back at some point to paw at her breast but she could at least hear his movements slow and still, the ragged breaths evening out until he sighed deeply and pressed another kiss to her thigh. He leaned back enough he could bring her legs back together, soothing his palms along her flesh like he would a spooked horse.

Sansa was lost for words but he didn't seem to need to hear them. Eventually he stood with a loud pop of his knees that had her wincing in sympathy and moved to her vanity where Sansa heard her flagon of water being poured. Figuring he was pouring himself a glass, Sansa sat up and began to adjust her shift back but then the Hound was between her legs again, far too silent for someone so big. He hushed her gently and ran a wet cloth up her thigh to let her know what he was about and then he was wiping her there and somehow that was far more embarrassing than anything they'd done up 'til then.

"Sandor you don't -."

"I do."

"But it's… dirty."

"That's the problem," he agreed, but his voice was light and teasing and he was done by then anyway. Sandor pulled another scrap of cloth up her legs and Sansa realized it was her smallclothes. She pulled them on properly and righted herself as he cleaned himself off and adjusted his own clothes.

"Can we do that again?"

"No." Sansa had enough time to feel disappointed before he continued, "Next time I'll have my own hands on you. And maybe my mouth if you'll stop squawking about it."

She pouted at him but he didn't see it, rolling her further into her bed bodily so he could lay down next to her. Sansa snuggled close happily, resting her head on his suddenly bare chest as he wrapped an arm around her. His scent was stronger now, muskier.

"Will you stay?" she found herself asking, too tired to care how desperate it made her sound.

"No." Sansa pouted. "Believe me, girl, I'd like nothing better than to watch you sleep tonight but someone will have to bar the door behind me when I leave and -."

"I could do it! Just wake me. Really, it's no trouble, I'm never still asleep by the time my handmaids come anyway."

Sandor's mouth twitched, a sure sign she'd angered him, but then he was tucking her closer to his side and sighing heavily. "A few hours, then," he conceded, and Sansa grinned against his furry pec.

"You never told me why you were out of your cage the other night," he said almost conversationally, playing with her hair. Sansa freezes. Somehow in all the scenarios she'd envisioned about confronting the Hound, she'd never considered this avenue of discussion. At her continued silence, the Hound turned stiff under her. "Little bird?"

"I told you I was in the Godswood," Sansa hedged.

"Praying for the king, aye. But what were you really doing?"

If she told the Hound the truth, he would kill Ser Dontos within the hour; and with him, the one real offer Sansa had yet been given to return home. Lord Tyrion had made it clear she would not be set aside, though Sansa desperately wanted to be free of her betrothed.

But was she desperate enough to trust a fool?

Stalling, Sansa appeased the man under her by smoothing her palm across the hard planes of his chest. She didn't truly believe Dontos was capable of getting her out of the city, let alone to safety. Sansa remembers how she'd hoped the letter had come from the very man who now occupied her bed and Gods be good, but she recalls the talk of the scullerymaids in the bowels of the keep; how a man would do anything you asked so long as he knew where his cock was always welcome.

"I found a letter under my pillow…"

#as for the hockey au thing..... that might've died with my teams :(#🍷

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mistress-new-mistress · 7 years ago

Text

King’s Landing, California: Ch 2 - O Sight of Anguish

The brutes yield refuge to his woe, Men, the worst brutes, no pity show, Nor give him friendly aid.

“No, don’t!"

Sandor jerked awake at the voice and was met with the barrel of a gun. His gun. It took a second, but Sandor realize where he was—still on the prairie, with the sun shining in a crystal blue sky, and that rat-faced cock named Joff stood over him with the shotgun aimed at his eyes.

Blind instinct jolted through Sandor and he knocked the barrel of the shotgun away. A loud BANG! echoed across the wide grassland, followed by a sharp, high-pitched whining in Sandor’s good ear. He clutched his head and rolled off his blanket, muffle voices shouting nearby. Sandor looked up and saw Sansa trying to wrestle the shotgun away from Joff, but her husband hit over the head with the butt of the gun. She fell to the ground, crying.

Sandor scrambled to his feet, the shrill note in his ear fading. He charged at the young man, knocking him to the ground. “What the bloody hell are you thinking, boy?” Sandor cried.

“Get off me!” Joff yelled.

Sandor grappled the shotgun from the boy and stood over him, aiming the barrel at Joff’s chest. “I knew you were a cunt the moment I saw you,” Sandor growled.

“Sansa!” Joff yelled. “The pistol!”

“Stay where you are!” Sandor shouted.

The young woman stood on wobbling legs. She held a hand to her forehead as blood trickled down her face. Sansa blinked a few times and fell back to the ground on her knees.

“Get the pistol, you stupid bitch!” Joff cried.

“Shut the fuck up,” Sandor cocked the gun. “I’m gonna gather my things now and leave. And you’re gonna stay on your back like the asshole you are.”

“Sansa!”

“I said shut up!” Sandor yelled, pushing the shotgun barrel to Joff’s chest. He glanced at Sansa and said, “Are you alright, Little Bird?”

Sansa looked up and nodded vaguely. “I’m sorry,” she muttered. “I’m so sorry . . .”

Sandor looked back down at the whimpering blond boy. “Stay down like a good dog,” he ordered. “If you move, I’ll blow a hole in your guts.” Sandor stared down hard at the boy to make his point.

Joff held his hands up slowly in surrender. A smirk slithered across his face.

Sandor moved the gun away from the boy and stepped back. Joff remained in the dirt, breathing heavily, his eyes watching the hulking man as though he were a mountain to conquer. Sandor turned away for his wagon. One step, everything was fine. Two steps, there was no movement. On his fourth pace, Sansa’s voice cried out, “Look out!”

Sandor whipped around, finger on the trigger of the shotgun. Joff barreled at him in a blur, the boy’s eyes thirsty for blood. Without blinking, Sandor shot the gun and a loud crack ripped across the landscape. Joff flew back, a burst of red escaping his chest.

Sansa screamed. And screamed. And screamed.

As quickly as it happened, Joff was in the dirt, blood pooling around him. Sansa didn’t move, only held her hands over her mouth and sobbed as she stared at her now late husband.

“Fuck,” Sandor grumbled.

It was no great loss. It certainly wasn’t the first time Sandor killed a man, nor would it be his last, but hearing the young woman’s cries ignited a twinge of fear within Sandor. It was one thing to take a man’s life; it was quite another to do it in front of an innocent, wide-eyed woman.

Sandor lowered the gun to his side and approached the body. He kicked Joff’s boot to see if he would stir, but the boy was stiff. A look of surprise was stuck on Joff’s face. It would have been funny if Sansa wasn’t crying.

The Hound sighed, rolled his eyes, and set his gun down. He advanced towards Sansa and suddenly she gasped for air, gulping and wheezing as her crying became hysterical.

“Easy, Little Bird.” Sandor knelt to the girl’s height and took her shoulders. She flinched under his touch. “Breathe. You’re alright.”

“He’s . . . dead,” Sansa rasped.

“Aye.”

“H-he’s . . . he’s going to—”

“He’s not going to do anything, Little Bird.” Sandor reached in his back pocket and pulled out a stained handkerchief. He gently dabbed the cut along Sansa’s hairline.

“W-wanted your supplies,” Sansa whispered. She took a deep breath, her sobs diminishing. “He wanted your things.”

“I know,” Sandor said. He cupped his giant hand on the side of Sansa’s face, wiping the blood from her temple and cheek.

Sansa raised her eyes to him. He was surprisingly gentle. His face and voice and breath were harsh and gruff, but his hands—for how calloused they were—touched Sansa as though she was glass. Joff’s hands and been smooth and clean from a lifetime of idleness, but when he touched her, it was like being stabbed with knives. Sansa never knew a man could be so tender as The Hound.

“He has family,” Sansa said. “They’ll look for him.”

“No, they won’t.” Sandor stood and tucked the handkerchief in his front pocket. “People die out here all the time. The coyotes will get him soon enough.” He held his hand out for Sansa.

The young woman took Sandor’s hand and he lifted her to her feet. She looked down, avoiding the man’s face, avoiding Joff’s dead body.

“Do you have any family?” The Hound asked. “Mother and father?”

Sansa shook her head. “They’re dead. My brother’s in the Navy. My sister is with our aunt in Liverpool.”

“Any relatives in the States?”

Sansa shook her head. She felt another wave of tears rushing to the surface but held them down. If The Hound thought she was an emotional wreck, he might leave her out here to die. Gentle as his touch was, he seemed like the kind of man who didn’t like others leeching from him.

Sandor pursed his lips and made a grumbling sound. He brushed by the girl and rummaged through her and Joff’s wagon. He threw out sacks of coffee, flour, dried meat, and a spare wheel. “Take only what you can carry,” Sandor instructed. “No sentiments. Only necessities.”

“Why?” Sansa asked.

Sandor stopped and looked at her. “Do you want to stay out here on your own?”

The young woman shook her head.

“Grab your things,” Sandor said.

They loaded The Hound’s wagon with the extra supplies, including Joff's pistol and hunting knife. Sandor hitched Joff’s horse behind the cart, a sturdy gray mare worth a few coins in town. Sansa gathered a burlap sack of her things—an extra set of clothes, a hairbrush, her sewing kit—and threw it in the back of the wagon with everything else. She took the wedding ring from her finger. Sandor stopped her, placing his hand in hers.

“Don’t,” he said. “That’ll be worth some money.”

Sansa looked down as The Hound slid his hand away. She pocketed the ring and rubbed her palm. His touch sent goosebumps up her arms.

Sandor helped the young woman into the carriage next to him. He grabbed Stranger’s reins and clicked his tongue. As the black horse pulled forward, Sansa looked over her shoulder at the now-abandoned camp. She strained to see if any life was left in Joff—the rise and fall of his chest, a twitch of his foot—but he was no more alive than the covered wagon they left behind.

Minutes turned to hours. Sansa’s rear was sore and her back was stiff. She glanced at Sandor occasionally, his hulking frame nearly blocking the sun as they rode. Sansa tried not to stare at the scar on his face, focusing instead on his broad shoulders and strong arms.

“What will we do at King’s Landing?” Sansa asked.

The Hound peeked at her, then back at the road. “I’ll find a place for you.”

Sansa looked at her hands. “What if we get caught?” she whispered.

“Caught?”

“We killed a man.” Sansa raised her eyes to Sandor. “Won’t the Sheriff—”

“There’s no Sheriff in King’s Landing,” said The Hound. “No police, no jail. No laws.”

“How do people get punished?”

The Hound laughed. Sansa’s naivete would have been charming if it wasn’t so dangerous. A woman who didn’t know how the West worked was a woman asking for trouble. The girl was so young and so, so innocent. “People don’t get punished in King’s Landing,” Sandor explained. “You either live or die. If you keep to yourself and mind your drink, you’ll live.”

“You didn’t keep to yourself when you came to our camp.”

Sandor looked at the red-headed beauty. She was naïve, but not stupid. “Aye,” he said. “And it almost got me killed.”

Silence fell. The wagon wheels creaked with every bump and Joff’s horse whinnied as a strong autumn wind blew across the plain. Though the journey had been tedious, Sansa couldn’t overlook the beauty of the countryside. The snow-capped mountains were like hands reaching to the heavens and the long grass swayed like a soft gold ocean. The air was crisp and fresh, better than London or New York or even the sea. She had heard stories of America since childhood—how the streets were paved with gold and women were free to smoke and drink in public. Though she had been disappointed to learn the streets were made of regular cobblestone, she remembered fondly taking her first step onto American soil. There was an overwhelming sense of hope. Anything and everything was possible.

Until Joff slipped that ring on her finger.

“Sing us a song, Little Bird,” said The Hound.

Sansa looked at him. She wracked her brain trying to think of one. Her thoughts strayed back to the campsite where Joff’s body lay. “I don’t feel like singing.”

“I didn’t feel like taking on an extra passenger,” Sandor snapped, “but we’re both making sacrifices. Sing.”

His command made Sansa recoil. She wondered if this was all a mistake, if The Hound wasn’t just another version of Joff with rougher hands and a rougher voice. Would he stop the wagon for a rest, only to rip Sansa’s dress off and force himself on her? Would he turn her on her belly as Joff did, gripping her hair and thrusting inside of her like a burning sword?

Sansa gulped, a cold sweat breaking over her body. “Redemption, ‘tis a boundless theme,” she sang, “thou boundless mind, our hearts inflame . . . with ardor from above . . .”

The young woman trembled, her voice shaking as tears spilled from her eyes. Her loins ached at the thought of being overpowered once again, screaming and crying and begging for mercy.

“With ardor from above . . .”

The Hound shifted and reached in his pocket for his handkerchief. He handed it to the weeping girl, his eyes on the prairie before them. Sansa wiped her tears and handed the token back. Sandor put up his hand and said, “Keep it. You’ll need it where we’re going.”

#sansan #sansan fic #sansan au #sansa and sandor #sansa and the hound #sansa x sandor #sandor clegane #sansa stark #the hound and the bird

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